Mind is dead it seems. It doesn’t anymore direct me to pen down my thoughts. For days I’ve tried to place my thoughts on a page of Microsoft word. It has been a hard exercise. Oh yes, it isn’t just the empty mind; there is much more to it. The bustling noise behind is something devastating for a writer. Hey listen, I don’t claim to be a writer. I’m just writing away...
Yet again on the eve of my birthday; here I stand. This is the 20th time. Two long decades. It was a long wait friends. Long back, the age of 20 looked as a milestone I was dying to cross
For days I wanted to share with my friends, a few photographic collections from my visit to a ghat (river side), near Nigambodh Ghat in
It was a cold morning. The Yamuna looked pathetic with clutter of rubbish on its bank. Though I loved its beauty, its vastness and the surrounding green belt. The metro far above on a platform of the river looked a miracle, flying away in jet speed. It took my gaze to and fro between the two sides of the river every few minutes.
A blue colored boat lay lazily still on the riverside. So did I. On the steps I sat, staring away at the far length of the river.
The boatman lived just on the entrance of the lane near the steps. The blue door of his house attracted my attention. I was told it was decades old. Two decades old it was.
...The blue door of his house attracted my attention. I was told it was decades old. Two decades old it was.
I still see some hope for future Hope of returning to my land, my home. The door of my home in
The home that I want to return. My home which was burnt to ashes in 1995.
The past nostalgia is still churning itself inside me; the hope for future is burning all around me.
