creative writing
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I wish to hold your hands once againI don’t recollect how it feltIt felt softer than mine,That’s all I rememberThe last time I saw you,There were tears in your eyes;I averted my eyesLest I would’ve divulged my heartYoung loveIs there a thing as sweet as that?Nothing good conspired out of it,Yet I would do it
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Neon lights, fireworks New year lights up skies To think it’s just another Saturday Is depressing Probably hope is everything humans need New days, new months, new years To begin again Breaking the monotony of everyday After Every 365 days We make merry!
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The whiff of the afternoon breeze brought back memories of bygone days and distant places. Have you ever had that experience? The wind swept me away to a distant memory, an unremarkable Sunday in my life. I was eagerly waiting for my dad to get home with ‘payasam’ (South Indian dessert) which he had promised
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“Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world. I mean everybody- no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside. Inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds…Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.” (Neil Gaiman, The
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Post-pandemic, the social media world saw a trend of trad wife influencers getting popular. Suddenly, we started seeing too many trad wives on screen. Trad wives stand for traditional wives. These influencers are claiming that they are embracing their true gender roles and choosing to be stay-at-home wives and moms. These influencers tend to portray
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The evening sky has always had an enchanting hold on me as it invokes a strange blend of emotions in my mind. Emotions, that are ineffable and which often fill my heart with unreasoned sadness. The sky had a camouflage of greyish blue and red as the last rays of the sun kissed the earth. The gentle
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“Now all you can do is wait. It must be hard for you, but there is a right time for everything. Like the ebb and flow of tides. No one can do anything to change them. When it is time to wait, you must wait.” (The Wind up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami)
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The car rides back to the airport Are usually silentExcept for the occasional sighs of my father.My mother’s wrinkly fingers would slightly touch mine,Huddled together in the backseat.It’s an hour’s journey ,As if to fill the silence,My uncle curses potholes and reckless drivers.I turn to the window,Hiding my face from those around me.Lest they see
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We sat out on the porch, Overlooking the mighty Nelliyampathi, Braiding each other’s hair, As the evening sun was dimming, And the flickering lampposts grazed their yellow lights on the green paddy fields on either side of the pathway in front of us. The camphor scent from Ammama’s* pooja room Brimmed in the air around
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The bastard form of mass culture is humiliated repetition, always new books , new programmes, new films, new items but always the same meaning” Barthes on mass culture. Is it just the bane of mass culture? Do we ever have anything new? Anxiety of influence probably disturbs every creator because how could he or she
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