“Chance encounters are what keep us going.” I say. “Hmm?” “Murakami writes in Kafka on the Shore. Don’t you think that’s how we are supposed to live through our lives? No one really focuses on the real puzzles of our age. We are always looking to converse. Sometimes, Memories and sometimes people?”
All of these protests come in the midst of our comprehensive examinations, and if we are ready to assemble in the auditorium at these odd hours, our actions can very well speak for themselves. If we were to remain silent, we would be guilty of complicity. We will not simply bandage the wounds that this unjust fees hike would bring beneath the wheels of injustice, we will drive a spoke into the wheel itself.
As the city lights shine brightly in the evening, creating a splatter of busyness in the capital, the Red-lights supposedly dance to the tunes of the rich and the tired, sad expressions of the workers hide behind the glamour of the overdone-makeup. My name is Arham, by the way.
Read to find a poignant story that deals with the life of an orphan who is best friends with a transgender sex worker and how everything in reality, is An Overdone Makeup.
It was strange, being here again after so long. Despite how long we’d been away, we still remembered everything about the place; the pink hibiscuses planted in the front yard, the soft tinkling of the wind chimes that reminded us of the summer afternoons. The crimson paint had faded since we had last seen it, but we still recognised it.
Do read this heart-touching story that deals with adoption.
What I once treasured, is now a memory, a shadow lingering in the depths of my mind. It’s a strange thing to lose something which you once had, like a limb torn from your body, without getting a chance to save it.
We must always welcome the end of all things. For sometimes, knowing nothing lasts forever, is the only way we can learn to fall in love with all the moments and all the people that are meant to take our breath away. We are all birds trapped inside an invisible cage. Some of us discover our wings, while others search forever for the needless key.
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How is it that just one thought can bring long buried emotions and stir what we thought was settled? People often say that leave things be and not walk down the lanes of past. But what else is there to do when the only way forward is tracing the way back. Perhaps, though it is just selfishness to return, to make others feel what was better for them to forget. Ever wondered that all the pain you feel, throbbing deep inside, are just mere thoughts. Thoughts, that are just mere figments of your mind. Some memories never leave your bones. They’re like salt in the sea, they become part of you and you carry them.
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Excerpt: For a long time, I have refrained from using this typical template of text preceded by a motivational quote, but couldn’t help it this time. Upon reading this entire post, you’ll realise, I somehow tweaked something to, well give your eyes some added strain. If you think this is a philosophical rant, then you’ll be a bit disappointed. Otherwise? Well go ahead and give it a good read. Do share, though!
The Mysore Palace, of the Wodeyars, was painted in the most florescent colors. The pallet artists then used to create it might make Picasso shed a tear one time. It smiled rays of colors from every end of the spectrum in splendid beauty. Its domes reflected the ornate red as the tungsten in the bulb bent to acknowledge the paler beauty that was hidden to the naked eye. When dawn was on the horizon, the palace sat in its glory, shining like a nebula amongst the darkness. Thomas Edison’s last words were, “It’s beautiful over there. I don’t know where there is, but I believe it’s somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful.” Looking at the palace all lit up, I spoke out loud, “It is here. And it is beautiful.”
Do read and share the second post in the ‘In My City’ series of The Blue Facade.
Excerpt: You’ve always been a kooky, flaky odd-ball proudly living in your own world, a world that we all innately want to be privy of, but are secretly bounded by “societal restraints”. Your third-wave hippie nature has all of us swoon heads over heels, over your swanky outfits that range from maternity pants to shop-lift water lemons to running wildly and freely. Run, Phoebe, Run (Get the Forrest Gump, reference…)
An Open Letter to Phoebe Buffay
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Excerpt: If mumma was the drawing in the empty colour book, my life was, you were the crayons.
Let him love you a bit more before you are not little anymore. Happy Father’s Day! Tell your father how special he is!
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Most of our childhood is stored not in photos but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, texture of carpets, the fistfights and the broken swings and in the muddled grounds that hide the footprints, that once stamped on it. Society is always trying to kick you out of childhood. Once you are gone, there is no going back, so you have to hold on as long as you can. And looking back is how you start.
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Life’s become a random string of beads. A chaotic sequence that is sparkling sometimes, and dull and ostentatious most of the time. Standing at the Assi Ghats, I take a moment to recall what drove me here. I stand at the tip of the ghats, looking at a reflection, one I cannot call my own. What am I running from?
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