Sheer curtains are a popular choice for window treatments in Dubai, offering a delicate and airy look that complements various interior styles. While sheer curtains are beautiful on their own, customizing them with embellishments can elevate their aesthetic appeal and add a personal touch to your living space. In this guide, we'll explore how you can customize sheer curtains with embellishments in Dubai to create stunning and unique window treatments. Choose Your Sheer Curtains Before you can customize your sheer curtains, you'll need to choose the right curtains for your space. Consider factors such as the size of your windows, the color scheme of your room, and the level of privacy you require. Sheer curtains come in a variety of fabrics, colors, and styles, so take your time to find the perfect ones for your home. Visit here: https://curtainscleaningdubai.com/sheer-curtain/ Select Your Embellishments Once you have your sheer curtains, it's time to select the embellishments that will enhance their beauty. In Dubai, you can find a wide range of embellishments, including beads, sequins, lace, embroidery, and tassels. Consider the overall aesthetic of your room and choose embellishments that complement your existing decor. Plan Your Design Before you start attaching embellishments to your sheer curtains, it's essential to plan your design carefully. You can sketch out your design on paper or use a design software to visualize how the finished curtains will look. Pay attention to the placement of embellishments and ensure that they are evenly spaced for a balanced and harmonious look. Gather Your Materials Once you have your design planned out, gather all the materials you'll need for the customization process. This includes your sheer curtains, embellishments, thread, needles, scissors, and any other tools or accessories you may require. Make sure you have enough of each embellishment to complete your design. Attach the Embellishments Now it's time to bring your design to life by attaching the embellishments to your sheer curtains. Start by laying your curtains flat on a clean, smooth surface and carefully pinning or marking the placement of each embellishment. Use a needle and thread to secure the embellishments to the fabric, making sure to stitch them securely for durability. Add Final Touches Once all the embellishments are attached, take a step back and assess your work. Make any final adjustments or additions as needed to ensure that your curtains look perfect. Once you're satisfied with the result, hang your customized sheer curtains in your windows and admire the transformation. Care and Maintenance To keep your customized sheer curtains looking their best, it's essential to take proper care of them. Follow the manufacturer's instructions for cleaning and maintenance, and avoid exposing them to direct sunlight for extended periods, as this can cause fading and damage to the fabric. Customizing sheer curtains with embellishments is a fantastic way to add personality and style to your home decor. By following these steps and unleashing your creativity, you can create stunning window treatments that will impress your guests and make you fall in love with your space all over again.

Sasi Krishnasamy is a spiritual guru and social activist who was born to Mr. Krishnasamy and Mrs. Nageshwari in Palani, Tamil Nadu (https://en.wikialpha.org/wiki/Sasi_krishnasamy). He also has one sister, Divya Siva Prakash (https://en.wikialpha.org/wiki/Sasi_krishnasamy). He is the founder of the Ayngaran Foundation, a non-profit organization that works for various social causes (https://en.wikialpha.org/wiki/Sasi_krishnasamy). He is married to Gokila Sasikrishna and has two children, Sowmiya Sasikrishna and Gowtham Sasikrishna (https://en.wikialpha.org/wiki/Sasi_krishnasamy). He teaches mindfulness and self-awareness to people from all walks of life (https://en.wikialpha.org/wiki/Sasi_krishnasamy)

Dear Father of mine. The love I have for you is a bittersweet love. In the beginning, a doting single father raised two kids. By all accounts a perfect father. You loved and supported me to be the person I am today. I will never forget how great you were. But somewhere somehow I missed something about you. Something so crucial that'll affect me until my last breath. It was my last 6 months of high school when you cast me out. Just one month after my 17th birthday when you discovered I had snuck before work to see my boyfriend one fateful Saturday morning. Work started at 9 am I left at 8. For 15 minutes I sat in my boyfriend's room talking before we both went in. At some point, my manager asked me if I could go to another store to help. I called you to let you know and you informed me you saw I wasn't at work at 8 am and my heart went through the floor, then I knew what was in store. The screaming match that ensued when I got home at 1:00 am kept me awake until 5:00 am knowing I still had to work at 9. This was my last day at your house. But nothing. Not the lying about where I was. Not the sneaking behind your back. Nothing but the fact that you thought, just thought, that I was with a boy was what made you cast me out. Still, I invited you to my graduation for you are still my father who I still love and respect, but I never saw you. I knew you were there with my sister. But because you saw the boy who had taken me in, you left before I ever saw you. Not a word. Not even a text. Still, I had hope. I keep turning over and over in my head the words you said about my mother. “How could someone ever choose drugs over their kids?” But I believe addiction to be harder to kick than prejudice. To make it worse. She had always, always tried in the 10 years we had no contact with her she always tried to talk. I can count on one hand the number of times we've talked since that Saturday. Once for the graduation. Once for my enlistment. One happy birthday. And once before I left for basic. I remember so vividly that last one. Because it's what gives me hope today three years later. You had told me all you needed was a little time to come around. Let the dust settle from my escape. Let you grasp your feelings. I told you then that the boy wasn't going anywhere. We'd been together a year by that conversation. We spoke about how I'd reconnected with Mom and how she seemed to be much better and I was hopeful for the relationship. You reminded me we'd done this song and dance before. Unfortunately January 1st, 2022 the day before I left for the second part of my training she took her own life. I was too drunk the night before partying with my best friend and boyfriend on New Year's Eve to answer her call. I never got to tell her I got married just 10 days before. Married in the back of a hair salon by the barber who'd only performed 1 wedding before mine. I didn't want you to know and out of fear she'd talk to you about it I didn't tell her the last time I saw her on Christmas Day. I haven't heard from you since. Didn't see you. Didn't call you. I gave up then. A part of my soul died whether I knew it or not. Yet in all this turmoil, my now husband by this time had stood solid. An ever-present wall for me to lean on. My anchor to reality. So I left. Off to Fort Sam Houston, I went. Luckily the army gave me the money and time off to fly home for her funeral. I decided to leave you and everything else during those months. My husband and I moved to San Antonio 1100 miles away. So here I am in Texas working as an EMT. I make enough money to provide for the family I want to build with the love of my life who's never wavered by my side. I'd be lying if I said there weren't hard feelings from him towards you. You never gave him a chance. I got his parent's blessing to marry him and you haven't even met him yet we've been married almost two years. Maybe it's hopeless. Maybe my brain is right. But my heart still beats for the chance you'll be there for the wedding ceremony my husband and I swear we'll have in the home we're set to buy in a few months. I still love you Dad, And somewhere in the bottom of my heart, I know that great father is still there. I'll be waiting at the altar for the day you can accept me for who I am. The photo attached was the last photo taken with my mom on December 15th 2022.

Hooray! End of the exam week! I was feeling blissfully happy that unwelcomed exams finished. As usual, we started dancing to our favorite songs with the girls as we have just finished 20-day exams. There was an announcement on the radio: we are going home for a holiday! It was such good news for all of us. The holiday was planned to be for a week or so. Nobody even thought that it would take months to come back to school. I grabbed my stuff, including clothes and my favorite book "Aleph" and then went to the amphitheater with my sister for waiting for our taxi to arrive. We spent a week at home and were getting ready to continue our studies. But then, some tragedic news... The virus that started to spread in Wuhan was also recorded in my country and for that reason, Uzbekistan has also declared a quarantine. Everybody was shocked. The government was encouraging people to stay at home, not to shake hands, and to wear masks. Daily products in stocks were being sold rapidly and more and more people who were facing poverty were having tragedic times. My family was frightened even though we had money to survive because that virus was taking the lives of people who had comorbidities. I have a grandpa, who had had two heart surgeries and it was predicted that those kinds of people would not recover from Covid-19. Knowing about that, my brother, who was studying for his Master's Degree in the field of Anesthesiology and Reanimatology in Tashkent, decided to come back home to look after him. He was considered the only one at home who could go out and buy items without being infected. Everything was going smoothly at home, we were having online lessons on Zoom and telegram and all my family members were safe and sound. But my brother, Bunyod, was thinking of working at the Central hospital for infected patients from Covid-19 in Tashkent. When he told his plan at the family gathering, my grandma started crying because she didn't want to send her son where everybody was suffering. She was afraid that her son might also get infected. He started to explain that it was his duty to serve the population when there is a disease, he has taken the Hippocratic Oath and was now feeling guilty because he was at home while hundreds of people were dying. However, my daddy who was in Dubai at that moment encouraged him to do what his heart was willing. Then my brother took the first flight to Tashkent and got an occupation there. He sent us a photo of him. He was in a disposable protective suit, covering all parts of his body, even his face. As soon as he got there, he began working with all his effort, doing his best for protecting human lives. He was in an area where some people were hopelessly waiting for their destiny, where others were crying, craving for their children and family. It was a dramatic scene, an unbearable situation for each of us. Not every doctor could do this, some of them were caring about themselves and their lives while some of them were sacrificing it. My brother was that kind of brave doctor. He didn't lose himself, grabbed his courage, and was ready to face any upcoming challenge. Unfortunately, while he was striving for human lives, my grandpa got infected at home. The virus had already taken the 70% of his lungs. Doctors in Urgench were telling us that he cannot handle this, it is absolutely hopeless to cure him. But my hero brother as a perfect child brought grandpa to his working place. Grandad was lacking air, oxygen, and his blood pressure was extremely low, he could not even speak as a result of the pain! Brother was always monitoring and recording his temperature, saturation, and the food he was eating. He was doing the same for all the patients! Most of the days, he had no sleep, and no balanced nutrition, but still, he was able to work with such potential. My father Pulat, who was in quarantine in Dubai, immediately found a way to come back and help his brother. He is not a doctor but is a responsible and golden child. He was infected by this virus twice in Dubai while working in an airport, helping people to go back to their homes. Even after that, he was still fearless and went to the hospital daily, providing medicine and injections for grandad even if he was not able to get inside the hospital. After so many healings, grandad started to recover, he was so thankful for all the kindness and prayed for them both. Almost a month later grandad recovered and was transferred to another hospital to continue the healing. The professors who told us that it was impossible were amused, I guess they still say it was just luck. Yet, there is the result of hard work, there is a possibility in impossibility, there is always hope and there are people who are courageous to face difficulties, who can sacrifice anything just because people are suffering. There is power in a promise, in a sware. There are real heroes in life. And that hero is my brother. His name is Dr. Bunyod.

Having a keen eye for real estate and working on a timeline of no more than two months, Mama was scrupulous and swift when choosing the right house. After a hard and footsore morning of self-guided showings, it was on Oakridge Drive where she found just the thing: a midcentury split level, set back from the road and nestled into a hillside, trimmed with wrought iron details and a bedroom balcony that overlooked the pool. The pool was really what caught Mama's attention, specifically the thicket of verdant elephant-ear plants that wrapped around the outdoor patio, intertwining with fat terra cotta pots of bright fuchsia bougainvillea, creating the feeling of a miniature jungle. It was there, fifty-six days later, with the faintest breath of spring in the air, she gave birth to five kittens. My parents instantly regretted telling me they were there, for when we made our pilgrimage to my grandparents' tidy house I skipped polite chat and bolted down the stairs, pressing my face against the sliding door in hopes of seeing the kittens, so desperate I caused a clatter and an obvious round white fog of my breath against the glass. Startled by the commotion, Mama deftly ushered her round and mewling children back under the elephant ears, her lustrous tabby fur slipping through the giant leaves and closing them behind her like a beaded curtain. As March gave way to April, I learned to control my volume, and as I calmed, I caught more glimpses of black and white fluff, tabby tails, and tufted orange ears. With every passing day, they grew bolder. Mama sat just at the edge of the little jungle one Sunday, watching as the five tussled in the late morning light, chasing pillbugs across the patio. Mama was starting to get that restless, primeval itch that made her turn to house hunting again, and the kittens had started to find meals on their own. As I watched the little clowder tumble in the sun, I overheard the adults in the room ruminating that it wouldn't be long before all of the cats had wandered off and we should probably consider sprinkling a box of mothballs in the bushes before the next set of pests moved in. My pleading eight-year-old eyes turned to each grown up in turn, looking for weakness of will that might somehow result in my acquisition of a pet before they aged out of my grandparents' garden. A firm no, an exasperated head shake, a “don't even ask..” But bless him, my father, well into his sixties at the time and perhaps not at the peak of his physical prime, stood up and slid the sliding glass door open, startling Mama cat who dove into the thicket, teenaged kittens in hot pursuit. Dad stood as a Midwesterner does, hands-on-hips, scrutinizing the situation and evaluating all possible escape routes. Without further prompting, he plunged into the elephant-ear thicket and a great cacophony of rustling and squalling carried into the house. Just as my mother began her protests in urgent, as I clenched my fists under my chin in trepidation, he emerged— mottled old hands bloody, Dockers khakis covered with mulch, and clutching a screaming, swatting calico kitten. I called her Wildflower.

Through the years, my sons teased me about my good posture and how, while they were growing, I wouldn't tolerate slouching. “Mom's fault,” I'd say with a smile. Although no genius, as my sons often point out, they are also just as quick to comment on how much I do know. They call me a walking encyclopedia of nonsensical trivia. Once again, I shrug and say, Mom's fault.” While my mom was never what was considered a strict disciplinarian, when it came to schoolwork, she was tough. I remember as soon as I could talk, she'd drill me every me every Saturday morning. Using two pages at a time of the dictionary, she would read each word, emphasizing on its pronunciation, encouraging me to try and spell it correctly. Back then, luckily, the dictionaries were small. Mom kept track of the words I misspelled in order for me to study them for the following Saturday. By the time I reached Kindergarten, I found it easy to read whole sentences. Soon, my “home education” expanded adding Math to my list of things to learn. After my spelling and reading lessons, Mom gave me wo sheets of paper with arithmetic problems to solve. Mom never confined her idea of teaching to just schoolwork. She believed in a healthy mind and healthy body. While I'd be pouring over homework, if Mom saw me slouching, she'd quietly walk behind me and gently t ouch my back. With one finger. Without one word spoken, I would immediately straighten to a more proper position. For about five minutes a day, three times each week, I would have to stand with my back against the wall. “Touch your heels to the wall. Now, your butt! Head up and back; shoulders back! Stomach in!” I know, I know. She sounded like a drill sergeant, but it kept my posture intact and my spine straight. Most of my friends learned to cook while their moms stood at their sides verbally instructing their every move. Mom's method differed completely. Handing me a recipe, she'd back away. Her reason was simple. Anyone can mimic; anyone can follow step-by-step instructions as each is given. It's more important to read and comprehend. As she often said, “Following a receipt teaches you to learn to follow any instructions.” However, she remained in the kitchen with me – just in case. Mom believed in teaching by example, not by using a bunch of words. Too often, my friends heard their moms say. “Do as I say, not as I do.” Never once did I hear that phrase from my mom. I also never heard the more familiar, “Because I said so.” Mom would often take me for long walks in the park, weather permitting. At times, we'd go for a train ride to the local zoo or museum. Once a month from June to September, mom and dad would pack a lunch and we would head to the nearby lake for a picnic. In addition to schoolwork, mom taught me to appreciate the beauty of a flower, the wonder of a rainbow, and the compassion needed for those less fortunate (like the WWII Veteran who sat legless on the street corner begging for a few cents to help him get by. Even tough money was tight, we never passed him by without Mom dropping a few cents in his little tin cup. She also taught me that although life is not perfect, we must strive for that goal and not be disappointed if we fail. Mom taught me the appreciation of demanding work. “After all,” she said, “the harder you work the more you appreciate the end result. If things came too easily, we would take those things for granted.” Yes, mom taught me many things: reading, spelling, love, and life. Now, here I am in my seventies. Mom passed away a number of years ago but even at my age, I am in good health. I still sit properly, and my back is straight. While I never went to college (as I said money was tight), my knowledge and education about what matters is exemplary. I am not afraid to tackle new projects and while I strive to succeed, I don't sulk if I fail. I just change my attitude and try again. My sons now, are grown with families of their own and emulate Mom's parenting as much as possible. I insisted on rearing my children the way Mom reared me, with compassion, understanding right from wrong, a thirst of knowledge, and fun in doing everything. I have been a good mother and teacher to my sons (they told me to say that), and I can see what wonderful husbands and fathers they are in every way (their wives tole me to say that!). Mom would be so proud of them. The reason for our successes in maintaining such happy homes, I feel is simple. It's Mom's Fault.

Dear the worst day of my life, To begin, I remember you like it was yesterday but the replay I do everyday feels like it's today. Do you remember the day I lost all hope, the day that life stopped mattering maybe the day that my life fell apart and broke me into five million pieces? No I didn't think so but I remember you, I most all remember the feeling like I was dying that I was drowning and sea salt was pouring in my lungs and that my chest was being pounded on with a hammer. I most of all remember feeling like I couldn't breathe. I think the worst part was knowing that everything was not going to be okay, that my life was going to change for the worst and nothing was going to get better no matter what! To start off, I got up and I was in a small room with my baby brother who was 10 at the time I was only 13, a newborn teenager not ready or known to this horrible news I will soon find out. I got ready for school like any other day in a group home. I left for school and went to each class like nothing. After school I got “home” and put out a small notebook to begin to write a Christmas list of people I need to give present to I wrote down my dad, mom, brother, one staff at the group home, my very best friend, my friend from school, my aunts and uncles, and cousins. Then after I wrote down the name and was about to start to see what they wanted for Christmas. One of the staff came and told me my “Favorite” aunt is coming to pick up me and my brother. I was so excited I haven't seen her for a little less than a month since I went to group home. But it was Thursday, to be point on it was December 5th 2019. I waited and waited and then the doorbell rang. I just got to my feet and walked to the door and there they were. I must have looked surprised. I wouldn't have guessed it wasn't just my aunt but also her husband who I'm not fond over, her daughter who is like an aunt to me for many reasons but most of all she is like 36 years old, and my dad. I didn't think anything of it. Except the fact of why Jerri was still in her work nurses scrubs for working at a daycare. But I didn't say anything about it. I asked if my aunts wanted to see my room. Jojo didn't want to see just was going to sign the paper to take me for the night. I walked auntie Jerri to my room and she put something under my pillow and told me I could look when I got back. I just thought it was money to be honest. Dad was crying in the car but I thought it was because he hadn't seen me and brother since they decided to take us til my mom could get better and my dad got some anger management class or maybe some therapy. But anyways we arrived at the park. This part is the moment I will replay and replay until I'm blue in the face. I asked if they would like to walk the trail but they told us we need to sit down and talk. I was confused when I asked questions I've never wanted to ask and never want to hear the answer that I got. “Was mom okay?” and Jerri answered with a shake of head no i sat at the bench. They told me something I didn't want to hear, something that I want to close my ears and start to sing a lullaby. They told me that my mom had died early this morning but I didn't feel tears so I just let myself scream like someone was trying to murder me and I was calling for help. I started to scream then the pain started, the sea salt poured into my chest, the hammer hitting my chest so hard I thought that every bone in my body was breaking. Was it supposed to physically hurt? It was just sadness nobody was hitting me nobody was hurting just the feeling that I just lost my mom. My best friend, my only likable parent, the only one I knew that I couldn't live without, died I would never see alive again. I never felt lost before till today I never felt so much pain before. I will ask myself this until I decide to become a mother and have a neutral labor. “Is losing a parent the most hurtful and painful thing to ever encounter?” It didn't make sense how she could have died… she was purposely going home from the hospital this morning. My life didn't make sense anymore. I was broken. I lost a part of me that I couldn't get back. I had to call the person that I knew I needed the most right now. I called my best friend and said something I never want to tell her not now or later. “ my mom died” After that day things started going fast I didn't let myself feel how could I? I knew if I started crying I wouldn't stop. Therefore me and my brother stayed in a group home and my dad became homeless with his new girlfriend. Life is not the same and never will be when I decide to have kids then won't have a grandma, my mom will never cry at my wedding, she'll never see me in high school, or see what college I go to. I will never have my mom back. My life as I know it will hurt and be painful forever, every time I feel that hole in my heart.

They are the reason why you even exist, Now try to think how you'll pay their love back? You may have left behind your childhood, But I'm sure they have the day-to-day track. They are your protection against your parent's slaps, They can't live if you go out of their sight. They are probably the first who bought you cotton candy, But did you ever think of giving them a bite? Your current assets, ethics are unrecognized gifts from them, They love you more than you'll ever know. So spend some time with them while you still can, Time really passes with a furious flow. They share their surname with you, They are the seeds of our identity. Most lovable people on earth they are, Every grandparent is a silver haired-golden hearted entity.

Mom was only fifteen when she met my dad – to be more specific, when she first saw him. He was doubled over gasping for air, lying in the street when she saw a crowd huddled over something. She walked over to see what the fuss was about and saw what she described as the handsomest boy she'd ever seen. Dad's hair was dark-blond, and his eyes were milk chocolate brown. Her heart melted as she watched him struggle to catch his breath. He had been playing hockey with his friends and his stick hit a slightly raised manhole cover, got stuck, and as he tried to skate by, jammed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him causing him to curl into a ball and lie on the ground. Mom cried out, “Don't let him lie in the street. He'll get hit by a car. Carry him to the sidewalk.” Dad's friends first looked at mom like she'd lost her mind but then realized she made her point. The carried dad the few feet to safety. She wouldn't leave his side as his breath began to normalize. Mom held his hand and talked almost non-stop to help him relax. It worked. His breath steadied and soon, he asked, “What's your name and where do you live?” Mom smiled. “Mary and actually, just around the corner.” Dad walked her home and asked if she'd like to hang out with him and his friends later that night. “We're only going to the candy store for some soda; it's nothing special.” To mom, it was more than special. He didn't have to ask her twice. As I said, mom was 15. Dad was 14 but neither cared. They were inseparable as the years passed. Dad eventually joined the Navy and when home on leave, married mom. To say they were happy is a mild statement. Dad was mom's world and dad idolized mom. Their love was obvious to anyone who saw them look at each other. One day, tragedy struck. A few days before dad's 65th birthday, he had a stroke which paralyzed his left side. With therapy, he gained the use of his legs, but his left arm remained useless. That didn't stop them from enjoying their lives together. With a modified steering wheel, he was once again able to drive and took mom on many vacations which included Montauk NY, Virginia Beach VA, and Baltimore MD. When dad turned 71, he stumbled and fell. It was determined that he experienced a TIA – mini stroke. While dad lay in the hospital, an astute nurse noticed something with dad that wasn't quite right. She prompted the doctor to order a few tests. The diagnosis was stage 4 colon cancer. The doctor told mom that dad had about 8 months to live. We were horrified. Trying to extend dad's life, we agreed to an ileostomy but when it was performed, it proved fruitless. Dad died six weeks after that procedure. Mom was devastated. Not too many years later, I noticed mom began forgetting things. It was subtle but the signs were there. She repeated herself a little too often; she'd forget where she put her purse; she'd call me two or three times a day but never remembered why, etc. Eventually, mom moved in with me. Her dementia was much worse but still tolerable. She could hold small conversations and create full sentences. One day as mom and I reminisced, I asked her to tell me something about dad. She looked horrified as she asked, “I was married?” How could she have forgotten dad? Did she know me? I asked her who I was and answered correctly. That was a relief, so I backtracked to help her remember dad. “Mom, do you remember that handsome young sailor from years ago?” Within seconds, her eyes glowed with love and remembrance. “Oh, yes, my Frankie!” “Mom, he was your husband.” She sat there for a few silent minutes then in a soft voice said, “That's right. I married my Frankie. My sailor. How I cried when he got sick and died.” That was the last full sentence mom said. The dementia took hold in a big way. Mom died not long after. I was reminded of an old Buck Owens song, “Together Again”. Thank you, Buck Owens for writing and performing a song that has become so very dear to me as I think of my parents holding hands and walking forever side by side. For my mom's funeral, I printed a photo of my parents the last time they were together and modified Owens' song to read: Together again her tears have stopped falling; Her long lonely nights are now at an end. The key to her heart he held in his hands And nothing else matters they're together again Together again her gray skies are gone; She's back in his arms now where she belongs. The love that they knew is living again, And nothing else matters they're together again.

A wonderful feeling of joy would come to me by opening the gray door of my grandparents' big house, which grew small as I grew big. We had to travel to my Grandparents house for about one hour, and I clearly remember that we had flown over this beautiful, green and full of life oak forest which was followed by a pink lake. The best part of the trip was guiding the taxi driver to the allies that would lead to their house. After opening the gray metallic door, I would look for my grandma. She would run outside of the house with a big smile on her face and would greet us with hugs and kisses with a big excitement and joy. The house I will forever have embedded in my mind is located in Tehran, Iran at the end of a blind alley. My Grandparents' house looks quiet and serene, surrounded by its own garden. The front door of the house is connected with the garden by a stone path made of limestone which is smooth to step on. Along both sides of the path were some pink and purple wildlings. The garden is bordered by a circle of different types of tall, green trees and beautiful, colorful flowers which made the garden smell amazing at all times. As far as I can recall red roses were in the garden at all times. The dew would shine on top of the red petals every morning. The first time I heard that roses bloom once or twice a year I was surprised. I remember I would spend the afternoons enjoying the coziness and happiness of the living room, “red room” as everyone calls it. Someone outside the family cannot guess which room it is. Because the room is no longer covered in red velvet wallpaper and a new life has been given to the furniture. They don't have small red roses on top of the milky background anymore. Instead, it is covered in a light blue velour. There is still evidence of red in the room. A medium-sized painting of red rose bush is hanging on a white plaster wall. The painting is in bright colors but somehow it is still dark. It is framed in dark wood. Every color in it is bold and it is painted with such precise lines that it almost looks like a photo. The lines are curved, yet sharply defined. I never saw the “red room” in its original state. I didn't like drinking any kind of tea but the only time that I would be the afternoons in the “red room”. My grandma would bring me a special one. It was lighter than the other ones. The best part about it was the sweets next to it. Carrot cake, banana bread, apple pie or petibor biscuits, didn't matter which one, they all tasted differently in the red room. They tasted wonderful. After having tea I would invite my dolls for a picnic. I would sit under a short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender, next to the swimming pool. The main element of the tea party was my small set of rose teapots and cups. They were similar to a set that grandma has. I would spend hours under the shadow of that tree. My grandma would make a big jar of lemonade with big pieces of ice, it was the colour of summer sun. It would steal the heat from my sole. Sometimes she would play with me while drinking the cold lemonade and she would tell me stories. These days when we fly to Tehran there are no signs of green forest or pink lake. I don't need to guide the taxi driver though the allies. He has the destination address on his phone. Still, sometimes I show them the way. They may think I'm weird but I don't care. I like to go through the allies as fast as possible and get to that grey door. These days grandma doesn't run out in the garden when we arrive. She observes me running through the gate and then garden with a warm smile on her face from a large window of the red room. Although the garden still has green plants, it is not as green as it one day was. Once in a while bushes of roses appear, and grandma asks someone to pick a few for the red room. Grandma doesn't pour tea anymore. So no one brings me a special one. I still drink tea in the red room but without sweets. Grandma forgets how many she had and it is not good for her so anyone who pours tea doesn't bring sweets with it. Grandma points at the dired short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender and tells me “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?” After having a bitter sip of the tea she points at the short tree again and asks, “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?”. I miss everything about the tea and chocolate cake in that room but I prefer drinking bitter tea with her in the red room to anywhere else. I enjoy listening to her stories over and over just like the old days in the garden. The roses are not always around, we should enjoy their company while they are still around.

I wonder if one can actually sense the beginning of his end. Death. Manifest to mankind yet veiled when it arrives. For three days my grandfather had complained of a tightness in his chest. The fourth day there were no complains. That night he passed away quietly in his sleep. I remember how he'd take my hand and place it on his chest, directly above his heart saying, “it's like someone's standing right here". The rhythmic beat would feel just fine. To this day I wonder what had made him go quiet the day before his demise. Had he known? Could he feel it? The soul slowly gliding out of his body leaving it stone cold or was he asleep all long? I wish he had known no fear. People say there are five stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally, acceptance. My grandmother had only known the fourth. The news had left her in tatters. She was torn from the inside. Every day she'd go visit grandfather's grave, shower it with rose petals and come back enveloped in a new layer of gloom. Talking to her only worsened her pain so we thought it would be better to just let her be. Time passed gradually. It is July 19th. My grandparents could've been celebrating their 56th anniversary just like they always did in the backyard with all twenty five of my cousins and their parents. We'd set up a long wooden table and decorate it with huge sunflowers that we plucked from Mrs.Faizan's garden who lived next door. She despised the action otherwise but allowed us just for the sake of her friend's anniversary. The women of the family would fill the table to its corners with delicacies brought from their homes. We'd sing songs and recall moments that would leave us laughing so hard that it felt our sides would split. The sun would leave us burnt by the end of the day but we couldn't care less for happiness would swallow every other feeling. I wonder if we will feel the same way we did back in those days. Someday, maybe. Today, replacing the table is the bed my grandparents once shared. My sister and I carefully bring out the mattress and set it over the wooden frame. Following it, we spread on the mattress the finest bed spread we own -blue Egyptian silk with yellow flowers marking the borders. I place two big pillows at an angle against the headboard. One of them has sunk inside due to excess use, the other one seems fine. Next, we place a comforter at the foot of the bed careful enough to straighten out every single wrinkle. The bed is placed in the exact middle of the backyard underneath the sky which resembles a canvas painted ink blue. Speckled throughout the blue eternity are innumerable stars. One of them is strangely big and bright. My grandmother swears it appeared the night her husband left her. I avert my gaze from the sky and look towards the door where my grandmother has just appeared. She looks small and fragile in her ankle length night gown which clings loosely to her bony frame. Her hair hangs in loose curls that are gently moving with the wind. Etched on her face is an expression unreadable. But I believe she's happy. That she has reached the final stage of grief. I walk towards her, grab hold of her arm, and lead her towards the bed. Carefully, she gets on top and lies down closing her eyes the instant her head hits the pillow. I notice her lips that have curled into a tiny smile. Out of the corner of her eye falls a small tear that surfs over her temple and gets absorbed into the cotton underneath. She sighs and rolls over. Tonight, on her 56th wedding anniversary, my grandmother wants to sleep under the brightest star.

Loving my son is like the purest of seas on a white, sun-dappled beach. Palmtrees sway calmly in the cool breeze in the backdrop. The warmth on that beach hugs you. Your toes tickle the silky soft sand, there where it meets the turquoise water. You gasp and your tummy registers butterflies - purely from enraptured happiness - because you see brightly coloured fishies and stingrays and sea turtles glide contently underneath the water's surface. You're in touch with nature, in the here-and-now. You feel peaceful and calm, you want for nothing and everthing you need is there, in that moment. The sun glistens on the water, sparkles richly like diamonds: God's Thousand Wonderful Winks. You turn around and the few people you love so dearly smile at you. They offer sunscreen, an umbrella, a seat, a cold drink and freshly prepared fruit (and, of course, some chocolate and a pizza). You breathe in and out, all stress and worries drifting off into nothingness. In the far distance, you hear music; your body slowly tunes into the beat, your hips wiggle along. You hear the leaves rattling rhythmically in the wind. You smile back at them. A single tear trails your cheek, your lips, and disappears down your neck. It's a tear of the happiness that the intense love you feel gives you. That is how I love my little boy, laden with pride, selflessness and extreme gratitude.

“Ayushi, could you wait back?” Mr. Bhati, our economics professor stops me from leaving the class for the period break. “We expect great things from you. Continue to work hard. I believe you can top the state and get the highest in economics this year.” ‘Sir, I will try my best.' I was the promise made eagerly, broken promptly. Dopamine, the pleasure hormone, is released not only after an achievement but also much earlier, in anticipation of it- A lesson I learned last week from Dr. Robert Sapolsky's lectures on neuroscience but one, my subconscious has always known. The reason this happens, Dr. Sapolsky explained, is that the dopamine release acts as a bait to encourage hard work towards success for more. I had chanced upon a shortcut- finding satisfaction in the multiple mini releases, never striving harder for better. I didn't last anywhere near the top. Instead, I was so nervous during the economics exams, I missed the last question. I wrote such elaborate first few answers that I felt short of time towards the end. ‘I knew everything but didn't keep track of time,' I repeat after being awarded the GMAT's penalty on not finishing a section. Twice. A stellar employee makes a major blunder in the second project she leads as an analyst. Yes, me. I crushed on my best friend for over four years, only to break up in a week fearful of the insecurities that started to pop up. He cares, he cares not. What if I start liking someone else? Will I be a cheat? Then and since, as I repetitively failed expectations, I also developed an acute phobia towards commitment. Almost chick, never chicken. Instead, the remains of an unfertilised piece of egg excreted monthly, promising potential, never promise! I didn't make it big. I didn't make it. Instead, I quit the job and made it back to my parent's house hoping to find something I was good at and happy to do. Two years and three jobs later, I am working with my sister to create a utilitarian art brand, still here, in my parent's house. We were starting to do well when COVID hit. Confused, scared with no clarity about the future. The extra hours and limited distractions struck at the rusting pendulum. Oscillating between the regrets of the past and ever-so dreadful ‘expectations' from the future, for once, I am struggling to gain a foothold in the present. Refreshing IG feed every hour no more transforms into an hourly wallow of self-pity looking at friends traveling or getting promoted. The world hit pause and now, most everyone is working from home, cooking, and reading. I fight temptation, delete IG to work, and work on myself. In those hours of uninterrupted introspection, I finally made the long-awaited tear-jerker of a ride 12 years back to when I was made to take accountancy, commerce, and Mr. Bhati's economics as my electives instead of biology, chemistry, and physics because father thought I wasn't dedicated enough to pursue medicine. I had not worked hard enough since. I don't know what contributed more to that prophecy. His words. My rebellion. Both. Sitting on the floor leaning on the wall closest to the router, I type a cover letter to what could have been an application to a med school until my ass hurts and my eyes burn. Desperate to compensate for the last decade, I spent the first few weeks of the lockdown learning to speak in French, cook, garden, write and invest. Days passed, became weeks. The initial enthusiasm started to wane because there was a lot of learning but as many results. I realized I was getting better at things I learned by doing like cooking, unlike those I learned passively about. I had to converse in French. I had to type, scribble, jot. Not just read books on it. Anything is easier read than done. Attempting to do everything, I wasn't doing anything well. I had to streamline my subjects. Call it greed, I chose to start with investing and designing. Impatient to recover all the past losses, I started out to make a few mistakes, costly ones but slowly I am learning to pick better quality companies. We are creating better designs for our art brand too, some that inspire for a happier present, others in the hope of a better future. Now, when someone asks me what I do for a living, I won't mumble that I am a Chartered Accountant and a CFA, distracting them with my academic qualification. As I think back to the still very empty bank account and the room I continue to inhabit in my parent's house, I now have hope. With every unrealized gain I make on the investments and with every positive feedback we get on our designs, I stand a little bit taller, my eyes smile a little bit wider. If tomorrow, I wake up to hear that quarantine has ended, I might not jump out of bed with excitement. After a long shower and a slow breakfast, when I step outside, it will be with equal amounts of hope and dread that the unknown brings. The world would have changed. I would have changed too. For the better.

Remembering twins One a boy the other a girl Returned to The Father.

Sitting on the stool in Gran's kitchen. The fire is popping and crackling in the stove, and I edge my stool slightly closer to the good, cosy warmth as Gran pushes another block of wood in through the little blue stove door. The old black kettle is sitting on the heat and whistling away, really whistling like kettles do in stories, and I look across at the wooden door of the pantry where I know the biscuit jar lives. It's on one of the side shelves where it has been as long as I can remember. It wouldn't be right if it was moved anywhere else. "Go down to the chook pen and see if there are eggs, darling," Gran says, moving to the pantry and pulling out the jar just as I knew she would. We call them chooks because we're country people--she is, at least, and I am one at heart. Gran is the only person who ever calls me darling; she wouldn't seem like Gran if she didn't. She tells me to take as many biscuits as I like, and then she pours out Grandad's tea into the cup that he always, always uses. I jump off my stool, taking two biscuits to put into my pockets, and I go out into the porch to put on my shoes. Then I open the door and skip out along the stone path, through the gate and race down as fast as I can to the pen. There are no eggs; it's the biggest disappointment in the world while it lasts. The air is cold and smells good, and as I make my way back to the warm house the rain drops begin to fall. Of course, I don't run now. I've got to stand and lift up my head to catch raindrops on my tongue. When I open the creaky door to the kitchen and go to take my place on the stool, Grandad sits in his chair drinking tea. He's come from his study; it's his special Grandad place. Sometimes I go in there and look at the old picture of his grandmother that sits on his study table, or the one of his curly haired mother on his shelf. The chair he sits on has always been his chair, as long as I remember. I don't know how, exactly, but it's just the right chair for him and if he sat on any other chair he wouldn't seem so much like Grandad. "Can I please have a cup of tea, Gran?" I ask innocently, because I want to be grown up like her; it's fun to try grown up drinks when you're only six years old. "You drink tea?" Gran asks, and she looks shocked. But then she agrees and goes to the cupboard, sliding back the glass door, and takes one of the teacups off a hook. It's one of the tiny ones. It's much too small for a big girl like me, but I don't say anything, because it's Gran who is giving it to me and I wouldn't ever dare be cross at Gran. Now I'm sitting and looking out the window, and I really am cross because I'm not allowed to go outside; Gran says I'll catch cold if I go out now. But she's gone out herself, to lock up the chooks. And as I sit here brooding, alone, the curtain rod somehow comes down by itself and falls on my head, and I'm just sure my day couldn't get worse. But then I remember where I am; I'm at Gran and Grandad's, and it's the best place in the entire world. Later we'll eat tea and then there'll be dessert, and probably Grandad will play at the old piano that has lived in the house since he was six years old, like me. I'll have to sit listening for ten minutes, but I don't care, because to me, he's a master pianist and the piano doesn't sound out of tune and old. Maybe I'll get to have a go on the old accordion. Everything in the house is so much older than me, but I like it that way. It means that everything is familiar and cosy, like the fireplace and the kettle and the wonderful house itself. Grandad says it's good to be old, and Gran is always telling me how good it is to be a little girl like me, able to dance and run and jump and twirl around and around. They're both right. I just think we're all the best as we are; old and young, and in between … it wouldn't feel quite the same way if anything was changed.