Head Image

The Waltz

A step ahead,
A step behind,
Your hand in mine,
We waltz to time.

Turquoise Transcendence



The sand crunched in protest under his feet as he walked. The sun beat cruelly on his brow, calling forth new beads of sweat to replace those rolling down his cheeks and into his shirt. The dry wind smothered his clean shaved face with a veritable tempest of dust and sand that precipitated on the sweat, serving to dull and age the man’s visage.

Tempest

A drop of rain comes trickling down
The mist upon my window pane;
As with every falling drop
Come pouring down a thousand thoughts,
That constellate before my eyes
And set my mind aflame.

Muffled

Eight year old Myra
Was an extraordinary girl;
She’d recite all the alphabets
While giving her hair a twirl.

But, Eight year old Myra
Was quite naughty as well;
She’d go door to door, and run
After pressing on the bell.

Flamenco at the Fulcrum











Mumbai, the City of Dreams, yet, the City that Never Sleeps. One adamant soul however, lay deep in the clutches of Morpheus.

Aarav Mehta, student extraordinaire, the Golden Son. Not much to look at, but a boy with an evidently bright future. He had secured admission at a prestigious college in Delhi in his first attempt and had spared no time in establishing himself to be one of the top minds in the institution. Back home after 3 straight months of toil, he intended to spend every ten days of his break curled up in bed, taking a well-deserved rest.

Dreamless

Snugly blanketed, save her head,
Peeking out like a rabbit from her burrow,
Her hair falling carelessly onto her face,
Rejoicing at the allowance of such trespass.
The curtain-filtered aisle-lamp,
Lights her face with faery glow;
Her eyes tightly closed.