Saturday nights


Saturday nights are always riddled with questions. Should we order in or cook? Should we watch a movie at home or go out for one?

We decided to head out. The first wave of Spring had hit the town. Everyone, as if in obeisance to the new season, shed their jackets, and marched the streets in soft cotton shirts. At City Tap House, the bartenders filled one glass after another with chilled beer and handed it to youngsters, who sipped and licked their lips now full of beer foam. Then, in unison, they looked up at the television right above the bartender. A college basketball game was on. We stood waiting for our beers, while the crowd around us, as if rehearsed, cheered and booed together. The Tap House extended beyond the four walls, into a space overlooking the streets of Philadelphia. There we stood, watching people talk; words had begun to slur for some. Empty beer glasses, stacked one on on top of the other, grew into small pillars. With it grew the night and the noise.

Should we stay back or head home? Should we grab dinner at a Thai place or a Greek one? Saturday nights are always riddled with questions.

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Where the creek flows


The bluish green Brandywine creek followed us for a while, before hiding behind a cluster of brown branches and trunks. Then there was just us, the hard paved road, and the quiet of the woods. In that almost meditative silence, we heard the wind howl, and birds sing. As if lured by these sounds, we walked towards them, not minding the steep slope, the wet ground, or the slim paths that grew slimmer. The woods now seemed thicker and chaotic, like a brown crayon scribbling by a child. Our shoes brushed fresh yellow buttercups, while our eyes grazed the flawless blue sky. When we returned after an hour-and-a-half walk, the bluish green creek still stood calmly waiting for us. 

Spring is here


When we started our walk at Valley Garden Park, Delaware, we hoped to catch sight of some stunning daffodils. What we came across along the way, was so much more. At every crossroad, we took a cue from Robert Frost, and chose the one less traveled. And weren’t we glad we did. For, through a mesh of white pine, oak and beech trees, we saw a herd of deer galloping by at a distance. Our trail rose and fell, with the ground alternating between a bed of dried leaves and a blanket of fresh green grass. When the sun shone brighter, we peeled off our jackets and beanies, and let our skin soak in the warmth. A pair of glossy frogs leapt into a thin stream of water, as we slowed down to see a splash of color — new born lavender crocuses, white snowdrops, and a thin line of graceful yellow daffodils at a far distance. For all the beauty that surrounded us, we said thank you in the best way we could — by giving a tight hug to a faintly greening tree.