Reminiscence- A collection of haibuns — Why do we write? Is it to satiate our soul, to express the inexpressible, or to present some stories that we know can resonate with if not all, but definitely a few of the readers. I remember vaguely, the day when holding my dad’s fingers, I visited this local bookstore…

That May Or May Not Have A Meaning — The beautiful sunset caressing the horizon, can you watch it all alone, without someone you love? looking each other in the eye, towards the sky, soaking in the ethereal beauty, just as the leaf, looks lovingly at the shiny dewdrops, albeit momentarily? If not on earth, where shall you find…

A Request From An Ailing Mother — Note: The following story that I’m going to write about, is something that I had heard a long time back from an acquaintance, a random person whom I met at a festival gathering. I could instantly connect to it because my family did go through the pangs of partition when…

A Childhood Hobby — I don’t remember when I actually started liking this activity. Maybe the curiosity to see where the rainwater falls from, and how the petrichor-infused smell tingles with all your senses, led me to the clouds. …

All That We Do — We traverse on and on, meandering clumsily through the sepia-tinted alleyways, amidst the soft rustle of the boisterous winds that keep caressing our senses, the wise old bamboo trees whispering with each other, acknowledging our presence, the faded hue of the horizon twinkling before our eyes, we clutch our souls, and…

Nature’s Eternal Magic — My footsteps carefully caressed the entirety of the gardens, surrounding this unimaginably beautiful place, my mind engulfed in the song that was relayed in the earbuds, my eyes canvassing the huge pine trees dotting the horizon, as cirruses and cumulonimbus journeyed through them, some of them stopping over their branch to rest, whilst some, have a…

A Lot of Firsts in Life — Her dreamy eyes stayed fixated towards the horizon. The sepia-tinted lights of the city swayed, waving at her, to join them as they sing the song of the dusk. A cool breeze played peekaboo with her senses, for a moment, before disappearing into thin air. Could she feel a tinge…

The Cycle Continues — As my old cycle bell, creaked in a broken voice, I meandered, meandered through the portal, this portal called my hometown, and suddenly, like a sudden sway of a magic wand, it transported me back, back to my childhood, my eyes, savouring the moments, moments from ago, that took birth, in places, in those nooks…

What Are You Seeking? — Are we those meandering rivers of rhythm, creating waves, or do we stay still where we flow, the pitcher of our soul has a fragrant depth, it spills, it spills, and the songs are born thereof. A whistle on our red lips, a hat on our heads, our feet tip-tapping onwards…