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 and grabbed a comic book, which, if my memory serves me right, was the beginning of my journey to the wonderful world of books. And then it kept expanding through various writers and is still expanding.
Publishing a book isn't something that I expected to be accomplished so soon, but…
The entire world seems to caress me by in a whim, ain’t it? those lines of green crops, that chance encounter with an unknown stream, my eyes lap it all, feeding whatever the journey beholds, before that baby crying in the next berth, breaking the jinx, sound of that hawker selling piping hot tea and snacks, someone selling a book or hand-made wooden toys, a person waking up from sleep whilst another going to sleep, in the cradle of the train’s gentle movement singing a soft lullaby, I wonder if the chaotic universe inside that moving one-directional train, is no…
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” ~Haruki Murakami
We’re all journeying through some tough and unprecedented times. Even a year and a half before, a pandemic was something that was written in our history books. Starting with the Spanish flu, the Black Death, or the Plague of Justinian, we…
In those nights of sadness, when even the leaves do not flutter,
in that humid moment of the night, when the winds do not hit your skin,
you feel restless, trying hard to calm your nerves,
trying so hard to brush those worrying specks of dust off your soul,
but they still cling onto you, more and more.
Then, as if some magic wand casts a spell, thoughts, sudden happy thoughts start weaving stories, stories of yesteryears, moments that are left behind, stored in the hippocampus of your brain, waiting to get triggered in moments such as these, moments when…
The Old Man :
Both of his wrinkled veins-laden hands helped in thrusting him forward as he tried to get up from his sofa. Sending the ages-old springs in it into action followed by a twang sound. And there he was, looking out to the horizon. An orangish hue welcomed his tired eyes. A slight commotion of light entered his dilapidated room caressed by specks of dust spiraling the borders. His eyes circumnavigated the perimeter starting from the gramophone which played a melancholic tune since eternity: that clay puppet dressed as a ballet dancer, that piano accumulating tons of cosmic…
Rhododendrons wave at you,
pine tree leaves calmly whistle,
do come back, that mountain road,
we would be waiting.
Dodoitsu is a Japanese form of poetry. It has 26 syllables: 7 in the first, second and third lines, and 5 in the last line. (7/7/7/5)
I had the privilege to read quite a few very beautiful pieces written by some amazing writers across Medium. Listing them below, and they are not in any particular order:
The news, it kept flooding in, like those winds, that find a way,
to meander through the small hole on the broken window.
There I was, all alone, thousands of miles away from mom’s smile,
away from the familiarness of dad’s voice, calling my name,
in an unknown land, amidst everything that was going on.
I couldn’t venture out, walk beside that known tree,
that swooshed its leaves as I leaned on its bark,
I couldn’t meet that old man, who smiled from his window,
waving, whenever I crossed him on my trails,
how is he, now? …
I went for an evening walk the other day and bought an earthen pot of milk tea from one of the vendors. As I sat for a moment drinking, I could see him ferrying his tea in the near vicinity. I wondered how difficult it must have been to survive in these uncertain times, making all ends meet. Just then, out of nowhere, a thought clouded my mind.
What if there are other worlds of which he’s part of. What if he’s not a tea vendor there. What if he doesn’t have to worry too much about the daily grind…
Oh, the sweet pangs of memories, those fond memories,
that keep flooding the tipsy nerves of my brain,
those fragmented nuances, from across borders,
where my little feet found the crispy yellow leaves,
to play upon, where the century-old brick structures,
caressed me as I leaned, laughing my heart out,
do you feel the little nudges, the momentary transportation,
your brain does, in moments, that you fail to fathom?
Wandering through those sepia-tinted narrow alleyways, of a cold and windy city far, far away from the grasps of my hometown, My hazy eyes, my dizzy brain, keeps trying…
Loves mountains, sea waves, old buildings, petrichor, sound of night crickets, haiku, kintsukuroi , books, dogs, silences and also cacophonies!:)