Scene: A young, scholarly priest walks past the banks of the holy Ganga, as a pale yellow evening settles. Visibly brooding, he takes no notice of the sights and greetings around him, and makes straight for home, where, laying the plain jute satchel of books atop a wooden desk, he pulls out a loosely bound one and begins to write, just as the early eastern skies begin to darken.
Tag: diary
Half agony, half hope
I know something of what the young soldier feels in the midst of battle; know something too, of the kind of hope a fortune teller can provide. In the grand chaos, I meditate before the silent cup...
Hopium
© Hopium, your smouldering leaveskeep me swayingfrom glasses half full, and otherwiseyour swirling, spiralling fumeskeep entrancingrevealing a world I know to be but liesWhat power, what nepentheis yours, Hopium, my friendthat even when I know you've only misled-I still follow you… blindfolding my weary eyes? ©
Scream
Someone must stay strong, for the rest to survive.
Home
There's a crack in the stained glass panes in the old, ancestral home. Her staircases of old wood still stand guard, weary yet awake, waiting for some semblance of lost time to run up towards the double-doored rooms, that now house only an essence of thick, perfumed English coats, gramophones, sitars, records, books, antiques and… Continue reading Home
On how I became a reader…
Dear reader, while going through some old folders, I found this little excerpt from an anecdote I'd shared in an old email, and decided to share here, as the final blog post for 2022. Hope to read, and contribute to some great blogging in 2023! "Though I began writing by the time I was in… Continue reading On how I became a reader…
Nimbus Fury
Dark clouds roll into the firmament, claiming a dark reign; pouring in their nimbus fury, a torrential bout of rain... © Isha Garg
Ishaisms 
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