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”
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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?
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.
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.
Hiraeth is a Welsh word that refers to the longing for a home that no longer exists.
Poetry can be loosely defined as language in its most distilled and powerful form. It can be in any of the 6500 languages of the world, and is a really powerful form of expression.
As a girl child growing up in India, I have had an insider’s experience of the conflicting double standards enveloping the gender-based bias in my country.
