Smothering Silence

 Perhaps the silence scattered in our minds, stuffed in our stories, layering our reality,  sneakily growing on the pretext for peace is lost on us.  It remains forgotten until we're arrested by it. Sometimes, in the happiest, warmest, truest moments,  in the company of those we love dearly It transforms into an unspeakable grief. Now, this is why I stress on love: It acquaints us with the truths we thought we'd never get to know but have known all the while. That one fine evening when my silence arrested me, It was your tenderness that made me utter- "I should've said it long ago, but I didn't know what to say." The grief didn't remain unspeakable, after all. I held your hand.

 Our animosity towards God is reflected in every distressing possession we have sacralized. every piece of land we split in two every door we latched to keep someone every unmindful attempt of being. Our misgivings and that cynical terror, each one, each time is a violent attempt  to ravage his idea. His effortless tyranny we say  is a way to speak to us,  As if he's begging us to say his grace, Rub our hands into rivers, till they melt Beat our backs, till they break Sing songs till our parched throats get drenched in blood. His barbaric ways- tests of time, we think are his favourite methods of communication. With our  coward beating hearts,  severe reluctance to take a chance, We refuse to even touch  that it might just all be made up. Our cracked understanding of concepts, Disgust for a shared bite, uninterrupted convenience and piercing silences, All dance upon the rubble of his home While we light up a candle, ring some bells and join our hands f...

 The depth of love letters written by an indecisive man to his mental mother, a prayer. The depth of his tears, the uninspired life thriving on the probability of hope, a river. The depth of an unrequited love story that couldn't surpass the law of statistics, a rotten fruit. The depth of human mind to feel millions of things as if they are its own While nothing in the world ever is.

  Between romance and revolution a city runs. Delhi has always been a city that  has accommodated various cultures, interests and tastes. More importantly, it has matched my idea of romance better than any other city I've been to. I've grown up to realise that it is more of a colour palette than a city.  Delhi’s sense of royalty hasn't ceased to exist. It is still served in plates by small vendors, it glistens in its colours and the entire shape of the city itself. Delhi carries itself magnificently, acing the tests of time. But it belongs not only to the ones furthering its richness also to every person who has loved flavour, fervour, fables and freedom.  As someone who had never visited Delhi before she came there for higher studies and has now spent three successful years there, I can totally attest to the claim that Delhi embraces you each time you knock on its door.  The four different directions are a celebration in themselves.Be it the loud and vibrant st...

Carrying the taste of home to an outland, one deigns to keep a part of oneself devoted to one’s roots. But is it enough? Bhatt ki chidqwani, a prominet dish eaten mostly in Uttarakhand. The air in the house would be filled with the sweet aroma of boiling soybeans every Monday, usually in summers. As Manjula Joshi remembers it, it was a frequent occurrence till a few years ago, when her children hadn’t yet left home for work and studies.  The sweetness of the aroma still fills the house, but not as frequently.   When Manjula wed Jiwan Joshi, she had to leave behind the beautiful hilly village of Lohaghat. Located at an altitude of 1754 meters, Lohaghat is a serene village in the Champawat district of Uttarakhand. The beauty of the place remains unmatched for her even now, and her keenness to bring her culture to an outland and assimilate both could never fade away with time.  One of the strongest thread that weaves both cultures together, according to Manjula, is the ...

  It's hard to find "grass and straw" sometimes    From the shore of Santana Beach, Mahabalipuram. What could compliment the echoes of a grand sea, cold sand and sweet, cold breeze better than a plate of sizzling, crusty crabs? The aroma that dances its way to your nostrils and makes you crave it a little more every time can have a very different effect on someone else. As somebody whose  toes curl up every time one offers a graphic description of a dish made of flesh, I can never identify with the sheer happiness of having a plate of crustaceans or tender squid or fish in front of me.  The thing about vegetarianism I have discerned is that no matter how much you're after saving the environment or adhering to your religious and spiritual beliefs, you'll always end up eating alone and being persuaded by innumerable people to quit your adamant belief. “Once, just once, try it.” My inbox after dining out is usually flooded with the messages from friends adamant abo...