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.

The Pink Notebook

I was at Crossword the other day, window-shopping with my Mom. We were bored of sitting at home and Crossword was pretty much the only place where my Mom and I could both enjoy a good hour or two of staring at things we have no intention of buying. I had a quick glance through the latest titles, completely ignoring the Non-Fiction and Chetan Bhagat sections and made my way deeper into the store. By and by I reached the stationery section.

Crimson Streak

How can I be happy when

Each thought I have is brushed away
By the flitting of a gentle nymph?