She began to crawl and she began to cruise
and she learned to utter ‘yes’ and ‘no’,
But no one remembers just when that baby girl
actually began to tiptoe. Continue reading “Tiptoe”
Sometimes, I write about how much I don’t want to write. Sometimes, I am unable to write because I have just finished a beautiful book. Sometimes, it’s just the good old writer’s block. Confused?
In a world where female athletes are comfortably mocked on their lack of femininity and girls are expected to ‘look like girls’, it’s necessary to emphasise how women, even today, face an illusion of choice.
This poem is the byproduct of anger against the burning of over 30 schools in the Kashmir valley amidst civil unrest. It is disturbing to see how low humanity can stoop and what horrors it can bring forth.
This poem is a translation of a poem I wrote long back. The original title was बीता हुआ जीवन and it is the voice of a person who is about to die and is evaluating his life in his final moments.
All the good stories are out there waiting to be told in a fresh, wild way.
I didn’t say that; it was Ray Bradbury, but I could not have agreed more. Continue reading “How to write good fiction?”
Flipping through the pages of yet another piece of fiction, I had an epiphany. There was something wrong. The book was well-paced. Neat plot. Then what was it? After a few moments of silence, I got the answer.
As I stepped out of the building, the evening sun washed me over as if it was trying to have a final word before it leaves, followed by another familiar feeling. It was the petrichor. The wondrous fragrance of the first rain of the season.
