A Mélange of memoirs, fiction, short stories, verses, book reviews and uncorked angst.
“The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” ~Stephen King In the darkness intervening the 25th and 26th of February, the Indian Air Force executed what is now known as the Balakot Strike, also alluded to…
Disquieted and quietened we stand, the pair of us at the brink of the Internet, conjoined and disjointed at the splice of consciousness and a unique resource locator. Beguiled enough to have waited for ages, we have figured it’s time…
The blizzard sits in the mountains, the earthquake in the grass, Shall I wear the deathly wind, or kiss the snake in the grass?
Afterwards, I shall be a mote swirling at your window, Without a breath, or a heartbeat, ringing at your window. Noon has stumbled through the half-wicked buildings, Like a blemish upon the wooers singing at your window. Withering are the…
Bruce hadn’t achieved much in his life. There was one thing, however, he could do: he could be the first in the history of the world to climb one particular peak of the local mountain range. Reaching the top of this peak had been an insurmountable problem for many who had attempted it. Although few had died in the attempt, no one had arrived where apparently “no human had ever trod before”.
It wasn’t the most earth-shattering thing to do, but Bruce would attempt it come what may. At least to himself he would achieve something of note: a legend in his own mind.
He set out.
After many strenuous days, after falling rocks and slippery shingle slides, after warm days and freezing nights, after scratches and insect bites, after encountering inquisitive tourist parties and aspiring solo mountaineers, he had only a few feet left to go. He reached up…
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Each night I bleed a part of my soul to her beauty, Silken words awaken to fill up the hole to her beauty. A lone moon is treading forth the liminal dust of evening, The dying sun has hitched a…
Old lesions fester and seep in the cavern of tonight, Dark thoughts gather and weep in the cavern of tonight. A high wind is swaying the maimed tree of deodar, The parched lips of tippler look for tavern of tonight.…
(Click here for Part I) It is a bit unusual for rains to strike Mumbai in the beginning of November but what surprised me more was the rumbling of clouds. I wasn’t sure when I had dozed off yesterday in…
As I lie here on the dewan pushed against the window, gazing absently into the impossibly yellow canopy of the Amaltas tree, my thoughts race back once more to the field of mustard I visited on a mellow winter afternoon,…
Just as I thought I was done with the ash-berries tossed at me by the departing year, suturing up my tattered ego with a ghazal in the reigning obscurity, Mr D. P. Dash ruffled the quiet of my languid existence.…
The old year shrivels like a dog-eared calendar in the ash, Days fuse into dust, hope into hungry tinder, in the ash. For a decade of scribbling my heart out on Internet, The façade has imploded in all its splendour…
My muse is a furious fugitive from a foreign galaxy, not unlike the ‘intergalactic interloper ’Oumuamua’, who having orbited the fuzzy nebula of my brain is now poised for an exodus to unknown dark matters. In the years now a…
