Undesirable Summer Mornings

Light is one such energy that drives life on earth. Essential for plants, animals, human movement, creating sustainable energy. May consists few of the brightest sunny days of the year. Each year I remember these May days for its blasting summer heat and light. This picture was taken at 6 am sharp. I woke up

Wings Made of Margarita

Have you ever seen newly done nail extensions on someone ? It was a scorching day and the sun had bloomed right on our heads. The city was burning and air conditioners were screaming for mercy of their 24h services. She walked into the coffee shop at the end of the alley between our apartments-

Moving Across an Autumn Forest and My Straw Hat.

A lil murmur of the stream and crunchy sound between the heap of leaves in the forest… made a shaky quiver. A hat spun with straws and his mustard shirt seemed more of the colour- ochre. It was definitely full of stains and paints; mud and scratches. Reluctant, hesitant and with wonder in his big

A Night Darker than Her Soul.

Clicking photographs was one such thing she ‘loved’ to do. It was her passion and she made a living out if it. This was probably the only blessing in her life. During peak seasons her days went super busy; clicking pictures for both local and city newspaper. Apart from her work in weekends, if at

● CLOUD ABODE with Wordsworth Tagore and More Thoughts ●

I had taken this picture last week while walking by a tea garden although I cannot remember what was so special about this scene that made me click it. Past couple of days have been extra hot. May be that is the reason I am writing on “clouds” tonight. I recollect a lesson from a

Watching Trickle

When the moon shines brighter less, And bells from a distant temple rings tra la la- la la. Massive jumbo nimbus sails, The frogs from our garden croaks ribbit ribbit ribbit. And that’s when the morning heat bails, Up; up above the world so high flying flying in the sky. I sit by the window

Back to Nature and Love.

It is 3 o clock in the morning and as I leaf through the pages of History of American Literature late at night barely reading, rather gawking at the pages blankly I can hear the crickets stridulating. The crickets’s synchronous chirping is making a cacophony like tune, although not so disturbing when it sparks certain