Just b-e-l-i-e-v-e!

The heart of earth does bear the pain of giving birth to a Rock. But with the passage of time she gives the tremors and let the rock sheds some of its weight. Only the Earth knows In her heart Why she shakes.

I have strange notions About love, Those that might seem Offensive. But I love Dawn, dusk, night And wolf and Satan At different times With different Intensities. ------ We have not changed A bit. From caves, stones And fire, We have moved to Guilt, ego and Aspirations. ---- We are Not Lovers. We are wheels Spinning Of Fate, Who meet in every Lifetime To seem Familiar To each other. --- The winter missed Drizzling nights, The Rain longed for The stillness of Summer afternoons. The vicious circle Of longing Never stops for Anyone alive. ---- That we learn to Fight with our Scariest fears Once more ; I dream of c ities turning to Mad Jungles. --- For some reason I climbed up to the Mountain. I took the river's way, down. Just born Yet Deceptive, Like grown up rivers. That way never found the sea.

I found a mirror in his drawer. It was a round mirror with a very antique design. A very spectacular mirror indeed. I imagined him being inspired from mirror and writing timeless poetry which had been published in many reputed journals. And there was a paper under paperweight. It was a poem. But as I finished reading it, I was blank. It was about me - his wife. Or perhaps, he never imagined me his wife. The poem was was very piercing . I couldn't believe it was on me. That moment was poetic. I broke his mirror. So that he would know wounds are real, not mere words.

The old house situated in the heart of city becomes unusually active on festivals. You would know, if you have ever noticed him stealing glances at mirror shyly on such days. Today is Makar Sakranti and Prerna is busy in making maithi pakoras in breakfast. She serves everyone til papdi with pakoras and tea. Children leave the house after breakfast. The two sons will be enjoying with their friends. Prerna and Mahesh are at home but busy with their mobiles and tvs, they almost forget that today is a festival. The old house, in spite of wearing his best and favorite dress, remain unnoticed. The loud volume from nearby decks challenge his hearing capacity. But he enjoys the noisy morning. Children run in the street. Young boys laugh, crack dirty jokes and fight verbally with their components from terrace. Every once in a while people roar 'Katya re' (we have cut it) when somebody's kite is cut by another group. On hearing the noise, he is lost in a reverie when he

"Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat it three times." "Where I am? Please tell me." Sneha was panicked. The lady doctor told with a calm distance, "You are in hospital." "What happened?" now she was shocked. The silence was prolonged. But then the words seeped into her brain. "You tried to commit suicide." On hearing the truth Sneha became numb with shock.  "No I can't do that." She repeated it to herself. "Sneha you jumped from three storey building but guess it was your lucky day. You got saved. But..." The doctor hesitated for a second, as how to explain her the rarity of her problem. Still she  continued, "... but... Sneha a nerve in frontal lobe of your brain has been severely damaged which means you will be having problems in thinking, moods, problem solving and alike. This also may affect your capacity to accept a situation in real world. And that means you are going to have a hard time accepting th

She had left house. It was a long reared dream to live a secluded life in Himalayas. Was it a calling? How else it would be, if it wasn't. She knew one day she would have to leave. And then came a day when nothing mattered. One by one all the ties got loose. She drifted away from everyone - her parents, her siblings, her in-laws, her husband, her daughter - this was the most difficult part, though. But didn't Siddhartha left his wife and child to the the darkness of eternal night. She forgave him. He was Called. Lost in meditation, she forgets who she was and where she came from. But as soon as she opens her eyes, she hears the voice of Yashi, her daughter. As she lives the macro- seconds, seconds, minutes, hours, days of her dream in the enchanting serenity of nature, she misses the smiles, laughter and tears of her daughter more and more. One day, sitting under that grand tree, she is enlightened to the fact, "I am a mother, prior to 'who am I really'." And

"Yes, we have arrived." Before she could hear anything, the phone from other side was hung down. It was a heavenly town of Uttarakhand, Auli. How she always wanted to go to Uttarakhand. How she always wanted a vacation, a break from monotony. How she wanted to go to a place and stay for some days just to feel the Life. As he would say, "Like with people, to fall in love with a place, you need to spend time." And they were finally there. But the doctor had said a very strange thing. "Go to a hill station but try to stay in the house." So, it was not a vacation but a compulsion, to regain health. "What has really happened to your husband?" somebody had asked her in the resort. She was in a fix for a moment. Even the doctors could not figure out what made him so frail and lost. And that is why they referred him to stay at hill station, she thought. But the disease, she knew, was somewhere in the house. A disease you can not always name. Perhaps it

"Call me Nadia" "Nadia... Hmm Carefree!" he says with a playful smile. "Careful", corrects Nadia with an impressive confidence that penetrated his heart deeply. Nadia seemed to him like a radiant sun. Whenever she smiled, he lost his breath. He was captivated by her daring confidence and 'carefree' laugh. ---- I am sorry. I will have to stop since there is no Nadia here. I love this name. And I was just imagining about her. Here is another part which I wrote and it seemed to be a more authentic part although which is not so romantic like her name. ---- Call me Nadia in this story. Do not over do the story. He never ill treated me or called me names. We always remained on the verge of being good friends. Though I urge you to write in the end : She dies of hunger, a hunger for simple and deep conversations. Yours, .... I found this mail today. I have been thinking about her lately. An impressive intellect who eventually reduced

It was New Year's party. In embellished beige color saree Amrita looked b reathtaking beauty. Even Shekhar couldn't help but steal glances at her. Out of envy, Amrita's friends kept gossiping about her looks, her fashion-sense and her relationship with her husband. Nothing mattered to Amrita, she wanted to run away from this glitter-show. However, after midnight they reached home. "Don't look at me that way.", gasped Amrita, while changing her clothes. "Why!" "I feel Not comfortable." "I am your husband goddammit." "So..?" "Stop that bullshit of your feminism okay... And stop meeting with your writer friends... I hate that group of yours..." "hmmm... I get it..." ... and till late in the bed, she keeps making up a story in her mind. She fixes its title, 'Call me by my name'. And it was about a woman who only felt comfortable looking in the mirror, with the one, who looke