Tuesday, 26 January 2016

... hills are sleeping; I will remember to carry cloth bags...

walking up your curved paths,
pebbles, shells, marbles, and
occasionally crabs--- as if from
another world or bygone days---
they came between my steps
like hidden eras of your existence;
like synopsis of your stories
coming between my conscious and
subconscious beliefs;
and you gave me pinkish white buds
and lush green grass to walk
and wake up to the day;
it’s winter now,
you are brooding in silence
and you evoke awe in me;
your silence and unfriendly paths
evoke some distant truths, distant fears;
in an art shop i buy your past colours---
till you emerge as my friend,
waiting for rain clouds beyond the summer---
i carry your colours and a new canvass,
i carry them in a plastic bag,
i regret carrying a plastic bag
because your reddish, barren,
silent paths still haunt me
even inside my room with some potted greens
and i feel lonely and scared, of some distant
eternal winter…
 Visit dVerse Poets Pub for Ecopoetry

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

beyond words

it is hard to express
when it comes to things so close to you,
like silence,
 it stays so close to you;
words may fall apart
when silence takes all the tears,unshed,
and all those things you can’t explain
and keeps it somewhere deep,
giving you space to smile, and laugh;
simply because you are not anywhere near
the people around you;
simply because you are dyslexic for words
to explain yourself;
simply because you are blind to see beyond the masks
and so silence stays close, flows around
and inside, words fail to express,
but it is there in every second,
in-between every pair of heartbeats
and so hard to explain...

Tuesday, 19 January 2016

nothing more, nothing less

his eyes slightly moist,
mine uneasy
as he poured the decoction,
the wind chime  moved, danced
to a slow silvery tune,
my feverish throat soothed
with every sip of the decoction;
a smile in his eyes,
warm, glowing, deep---
the elixir to all woes!

Sunday, 17 January 2016

Spotlight on 'Vengeance A WRIMO INDIA Anthology' at The Book Club

Spot light on the Anthology at The Book Club

Designed by Neil D'Silva 

Vengeance -A Sting in Every Tale 
A WRIMO INDIA anthology
Edited by
Sonia Rao 
All proceeds from the sale of this anthology will be donated to NaNoWriMo

Designed by Sujata Patnaik 

A reply to a perceived injustice can take many forms one of which is vengeance. An eye for an eye can only end up making the whole world blind, is what Mahatma Gandhi once said. And it seems to be coming quite true, if latest events world-wide are an indication.

Is there any hope or are we hurtling towards extinction?

Hopefully, the stories will explore some of these questions. But that is on the macro level. It might be easy to look at things objectively, in black and white, when it is other nations involved. Or even other people. We are able to be more forgiving of transgressions when they don’t involve us personally.

But how would one react if they found themselves in the maelstrom of situations that do fall somewhere in the grey area of life? With no definite black and white answers?

How would a jilted lover react in face of infidelity? Or how would a friend avenge the murder of her best friend? Or, is it fair to be punished for a crime that you were not brave enough to prevent?

These and many more questions connected to vengeance have been grappled with in this anthology.
created by Archana Sarat


Bus number 131 whirred away, pulling its own weight unwillingly. It was one of the many buses to pass through the Relief road, a busy road in the old part of Ahmedabad. Shazia had an option, the crowed 88 or the overcrowded 131. She preferred to be 30 minutes before time to board 131. Her choice was motivated by her love for the palindromic 1-3-1. Her undying infatuation with prime numbers was inexplicable. Nineteen year old Shazia loved numbers, and to be more precise, she adored Mathematics in all its form. She also loved the rules, the principles, the working theorems, the equations which tried to make sense of the majestic menagerie of numbers. She was fascinated even by the mere shape of numbers. She did not remember when or even how her romance with Maths began. But in her earliest memories, she preferred practicing her numbers over the alphabet, she remembered that she recited tables better than her nursery rhymes. She was short and a bit stocky. Also, a couple of shades darker than was acceptable in the marriage market. However, her looks never bothered her, nor did she ever yearn for fairer skin, or thinner body. What she craved was a disheveled mass of hair, for some uncanny resemblance to Einstein, the only pop icon modern science managed to have produced. But her mother plaited her hair, dashing her hopes to ground. She also longed for a pair of spectacles with glasses so thick that it blurred her eyeballs, indicating the wearer’s brilliance. But she, despite getting checked for vision from her mother’s ophthalmologist, was denied the hallowed implement. Thrice. Shazia valued her bus ride a lot. She had to convince Papa to allow her to commute to her college on her own. She had concealed her indignation about needing her father's permission for every little trifle, even after being categorised as an adult by the Government of India. Papa consented only after he was told that Noor too would start using the bus if Shazia were to give her company.

Buy @


The editor of the Anthology, Sonia Rao (writer-editor-awardwinningblogger) is the NaNoWriMo Municipal Liaison for All-India region. The stories which are part of the anthology are written by Wrimos homed in to Asia::India region. Most of them are also published writers of short fiction and novels.She blogs @ https://soniaraowrites.wordpress.com/ 

Find out more about Wrimo India @
Wrimo India on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/wrimosindia 
NaNoWriMo:  http://nanowrimo.org/

Thursday, 14 January 2016

soup for dreams

 when the sky blooms with the stars above,
 i love
 to watch, in darkness, the stars shining
 everything with fragrant songs unknown;
 on the moon
they say are giant scars, wounds unknown;
crossing through barbed wires of egos
to the realms of love: with songs,
 i love sleeping on the moon