Your grief rots the decades old paint and the lakhri no one bothered to replace. Even across the road, it reeks of death.
Echoes of your voice ring in my ears / As the world turns scarlet in front of my eyes
like a caterpillar cocooned into its shell undergoing metamorphosis—growing up sneaks up to you whether you want it or not
It said, my body was no longer needed. / “This is the age of freedom. Let me go, and explore.”
There is more squash in the book than most readers will take a liking to, but the game sometimes works as a metaphor for the bigger picture.
Love is the enormous mango tree growing directly from an ancient grave, so old that no headstone remains at all.
I write this column with some hesitation, since many may regard it a bit preachy or elitist.
The bond between us was unusual; Abbu and I. It was rather whimsical, like magic. For we were never vocal about how much we meant to each other. I never ran up to him as soon as I heard his footsteps coming home; neither did I ever lean against his chest for a warm embrace like most girls do. It was only the kindly, occasional pats on my head and that was all; enough to make me feel like the luckiest girl alive: a daddy’s girl.
Gamers operate on a different league of insanity when their monitors suddenly go dark in front of their eyes.
Your grief rots the decades old paint and the lakhri no one bothered to replace. Even across the road, it reeks of death.
Echoes of your voice ring in my ears / As the world turns scarlet in front of my eyes
like a caterpillar cocooned into its shell undergoing metamorphosis—growing up sneaks up to you whether you want it or not
It said, my body was no longer needed. / “This is the age of freedom. Let me go, and explore.”
There is more squash in the book than most readers will take a liking to, but the game sometimes works as a metaphor for the bigger picture.
Love is the enormous mango tree growing directly from an ancient grave, so old that no headstone remains at all.
I write this column with some hesitation, since many may regard it a bit preachy or elitist.
The bond between us was unusual; Abbu and I. It was rather whimsical, like magic. For we were never vocal about how much we meant to each other. I never ran up to him as soon as I heard his footsteps coming home; neither did I ever lean against his chest for a warm embrace like most girls do. It was only the kindly, occasional pats on my head and that was all; enough to make me feel like the luckiest girl alive: a daddy’s girl.
Gamers operate on a different league of insanity when their monitors suddenly go dark in front of their eyes.
There is of course no way to reduce this pain at that very moment and the void created by the passing of a dear one can never be filled. Yet, life must go on and we have to move on.
