A Million Hopes

A million babies come out every second. A million souls exit every second. Between these two millions, there are millions of millions breathing with some hope or the other. Some want to bite a pizza, while some risk their lives to deliver that pizza on time. Some want their sons to carry on their family business, while the sons want to get out and study abroad. Some want to restore an irresponsible president, and some want to bomb in opposition. A country has become a playground, and some in it want to cross the blue sea and escape the madness, while others in it want to survive under their beds until the bombing goes silent. There is hope hiding in every beating heart, that their needs would find closure before the heart stops beating. While respecting every hope, let us also make sure ours do not get in the way of others. Or at least, let us hope to make sure.

The Prodigal Writer

Ancient‘ may mean a lot. Nokia 1100, Yahoo and Barack Obama after this November. But presently, to me, my writing here has become ancient. My followers I am proud of are not finding new words on my site, thanks to my weakening will. Some poem I wrote a long while back is receiving likes from people who had by mistake stumbled upon it.

I know for a fact my will is shaking at the knees, ready to buckle down anytime. And this is why I made it a point to type today. This random collection of words may not make meaning to you, but finding the time, and the elusive creativity, to open WordPress with a purpose is meaningful and gratifying to me.

I may sleep today without the guilt that blankets me every day I don’t write. Nevertheless, I must mention, my eyes always close upon a mental promise to write something the next day. But tonight is different; the will has resurrected and the blanket has been shredded.

My writing is no longer ancient. Let’s call it contemporary cult.

Thanks for being a loyal reader; I don’t know why I am saying this, but I want this to be a post from my heart.


If you abandon your book as clumsy after the first draft, then that is the clumsiness on your part. Your tenth draft is what is going to hit the stores.

~ Original

Further, I would like to nominate the below 3:

  1. Fathima
  2. Urvashi-Maru
  3. Megan

Rules of the challenge:

1.Three quote for three days.
2.Three nominees each day(no repetition).
3.Thank the person who nominated you.
4.Inform the nominees.

Three Days, Three Quotes Challenge # Day 1

Living for the crowd and moving with it feels ephemerally great but is gloriously stupid.

Live your life like only you can. 

~ Original

Thank you for nominating me, Second time blogger!

Further, I would like to nominate the below 3:

  1. Confabler
  2. Shreeka
  3. Mahi

Rules of the challenge:

1.Three quote for three days.
2.Three nominees each day(no repetition).
3.Thank the person who nominated you.
4.Inform the nominees.

A Humble Sonnet

Your finger to me is that of a throned queen,
And its gesture is a law I want to act thus.
My words of praise may flattery mean
To outside beings but never to us.

Your goodness is high when I think of it;
Faults of you are never in my view.
Though you may fault sometimes a bit,
Your goodness is what I still see in lieu.

When do you plan to give me yourself?
in marriage of faith for the crowd by jove.
For you are already my wedded self,
Since I met your eyes and said my love.

This poem may go on for ever and ever,
‘Cause unending are words given me by you.
It’s time I put a dot to it and sever,
As now I don’t want to play with words, but you.

The Tree at the Backyard

Flash Fiction #06:

There was a tree in the backyard of my grandmother’s house. As children, my little sister and I used to pull our grandmother out of the house to sit under the tree, all the way imploring her to entertain us with her fables. In shine, its many gnarled branches and crowded leaves gave us shade for our play. After rain, I used to climb the bough and shake a branch laden with the red flowers; my sister, standing underneath, would get wet with petals and rain-beads.

It was a part of our childhood, and our grandmother. After her death, the house was razed and the land was sold. The proceeds obtained were divided equally among my father and his brothers – each living in one corner of the world. Now, after returning from college, exhausted, I sit on a wooden chair with my legs stretched on a short wooden table before me; both made from that tree.

A Breakthrough Love

With blood gushing from my torn knees and a heaviness weighing on my weak head I walked, falling and getting up, to nowhere. It was all the same to me, wherever I turned. The loose grains of sand were everywhere; under my feet… on my face… sticking to my wound by the adhesiveness of my thick blood. I walked, leaving a trail of dark patches behind me made brighter by the burning disc above. This was the imagery of my life until you showed yourself as a small oasis with limpid water and lush-green vegetation.

I survived thereon.