“Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.” ― Neil Gaiman
I had a neighbor who used to write, and paint, and read a lot. His bright house looked like a museum, decorated with his own paintings, and words collected from his own wise life. His wife was a great cook who loved feeding me some soul-stirring food from her kitchen. To me, they were the live examples of creative people full of life and optimism. I frequently presented them as example when friends called creativity “dark” and “lonely.” Continue reading “Optimism in Creativity”
It was evening, and not winter anymore.
A duck swam alone to her direction,
making ripples on her
and the world waited
like a patient student
just to watch her. Continue reading “Mindful”
I remember who I am.
And every time I see grief
I’m reminded of poetry
of the ocean, lying in peace,
smooth and blue. Continue reading “Keen”
“Life is not a plot; it’s in the details.” ― Vanishing Acts
He is reading my analysis for twenty minutes now, stretching his legs upward on the edge of the table. Outside his glass wall, some of my close friends are waiting for me to go for a tea break. I get bored when people read my stuff silently. I get annoyed when my friends take tea breaks without me. But I can’t ask him anything now. This is the analysis I made after working ten hours a day. This is the analysis that kept me away from food, shower, and even my most favorite TV shows. I worked on every minute detail before calling it an analysis. After another ten silent minutes, he looks at me with a smile, saying, “It’s a great analysis- you covered everything. But can you make it short?” Continue reading “In Short”
Two feet standing on the hill.
A road zigzagging its way
up to a destination, a hopeful
morning smiling to all greens
after a week of rain.
Well, you got the whole day-
greens everywhere invite you to them. Continue reading “Hillside”
When you pronounce the word Future,
I look at the fluttering of your eyelids.
Like traveler birds, they sit restless,
waiting for next season to fly away. Continue reading “Grounded”
Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth. ― Khaled Hosseini
It was one lazy Sunday afternoon. My husband decided to do cooking and laundry to give me a break from those mundane weekend activities. Alone in a corner, I was reading the first story from Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Unaccustomed Earth” and I was sobbing.
There was a part about mother-daughter relationship that made me speculate about a time in future when my mother won’t be around. Continue reading “Fictions and Feelings”
Your thin life, waking
up in morning,
to appreciate the glowing
day, brief and so beautiful. Continue reading “Enlightened”
This pain is momentary,
it will fade like
scar on your skin,
like snowballs in April sun. Continue reading “Dreams”
I grew up having home cooked meal four times a day. A meal together was celebratory.
During many festivals in a year, people from extended family came together and made different kind of food. I hardly remember what we celebrated in those festivals. But I can never forget what each family cooked and what we ate. Continue reading “Cooked”