Short story - Only for a few moments till she stepped outside. To become a part of the dark evening.
She stopped on seeing them. Her eyes filled with fear. `Oh, no, you won't take him away,' she screamed. She tried to drag me away from their presence.
Mere naina saavan bhaadon, phir bhi mera man pyaasa. This Kishore Kumar song was a favorite with Pralhad for the last many decades.
He was in his white T-shirt and blue jeans smiling at them with their luggage. She looked at him with all her love.
Through the flickering white of semi-closed lids,
I glimpsed, the journey of a man becoming a child again.
Plead you may, for I am not an angel,
Wishes are mere cry, what’s in it for the stone hearted
I stand on the stage without a trick at hand
Dreading the frenzy of the audience,
I reassure, this interlude is a crossing
and not a chasm.
The fear is of connection
and not the fall.
That just about sums it all up in a few words. Life in the Kolkata Metro beats even “Life of Pi” by a long shot when it comes to popularity ratings. The Jamiroquai number is quite apt to sum up my feelings about it,......“I’m going deeper underground…there’s too much panic in this town.”
There are millions of classics and billions of characters and each has something or other for the readers to expect, experience and expedite their eternal expedition to chasing dreams.
We do not have a right to know how Shahrukh and Hrithik lead their lives behind closed doors (sorry Stardust, I do not approve of your methods!).
Imagine a train journey without a couple of books and magazines purchased from those rickety bookstalls on the platform. Now ask yourself again if the Internet can replace the written word. Isn’t the answer obvious?
The subject matter of art — life in all its multiform –is mastered and presented by the artist in a specific form of reproduction cited as artistic images.
The very onset of Indian languages is linked to translation. India’s literature aesthetics, civilization, ethics are all based greatly on translations, especially the Ramayana, the Mahabharata and the Bhagabad.
The distress phone call from Mrs Joshi in the middle of the night was nothing unusual. Could he come over to examine a little boy suffering from acute high fever?
I see you sister all grown up, Folding his linen polishing his silver, Sewing his buttons ironing his pants, But why are your sleeves wet sister?
In the dim light of a melting candle, it's really wonderful to meditate, Meditate in the name of God.
This was the Buick Roadmaster of wagons, carrying mail like the Pony Express.
Our imaginary Conestoga wagon wedded to a Sherman tank, our Pegasus, our Streamliner
worthy of the Empire Builder,
It is true that making a film from a book is a tedious enterprise as it’s difficult to capture the essence of a novel in about two hours. But then it is not an impossible task as films like The Godfather and Pather Panchali have shown.
I watched as she walked away, Till I could see her no more
But she left behind some thoughts, And my teddy on the floor
That day the snow melted, Both inside and out
That day I finally realized, What childhood is all about
Life taught me a lesson
That I teach you, my child today
You don’t go in search of opportunities
Opportunities, they come your way
Mirza Ghalib did rightly extol,
The world is the body, Delhi its soul
Welcome to Delhi-City of your dreams
Elegant, diverse, cultured and suprem
Now I have an answer. An answer about which I am convinced.
All these things have a STORY behind them.
The air like papier-mâché heavily beautiful
torn music chunks sticky
catch in open passages
send aromatic messages.
The interplay between cinema and literature is as old as the medium of celluloid.
The works of Boticelli, Michaelangelo, Raphael or Titian enrapture the spirit and have capacities to heal moribund souls.
In this chatter of individualistic souls
Let us think of something together
Let’s walk on the embankment
Wastefulness is a virtue not a sin, and wasting must be carried out religiously
Messages carried from the ocean depths of your heart, very calm in the core, yet simple small ripples.
I pull out my caring Face from my bag, wide, round, with almond pink tourmaline eyes, and place it on.
He came to an abrupt stop, touched the skin of his sister's cheek and then I saw a tear falling down from his face.
The ticket made me feel secure till I reached the station. Then came the shocking news.
A touching short story by Ramendra Kumar set in a circus about how animals respond to compassion and cruelty.
They had both acted out of an intense desire to do the best for a student and his future, so what if the boy wasn’t actually their student. That was their mission in life as teachers.
A Teacher's Day special memoir based on a real life incident.
Ready to move beneath six feet of earth, the gateway to the eternal soul
for a fresh start of novel life.
Only two of you staying in the house. Then why sleep in separate rooms? He asked straight away.
We cling to the shreds of glory that our ancestors left us and to the half-lit memories of our history alive in somebody else's mind.
Where endless tears turn to mindless laughter across the borders of sanity.
My vision cleared suddenly, and I could clearly see the deep furrows fording her forehead.
Her eyes searched every approaching form carefully until she was sure it wasn't him.
The house lay veiled in a thick cloud of secrecy. Despite their best efforts, Ashok and his friends never saw its inmates.
The passionate love at the time of marriage -- my friends foretold that this marriage would go to the rocks, that I was crazy to go for the wild Pragya -- soon petered off.
They remained close, almost indistinguishable, so similar were their interests and attitude, yet they fought, sometimes bitterly, like two rivals trying to score debating points.
Man had always been a lonely being. Now he could read every one, every one of his children like a book.
"6th," he was quick to respond and then to help me further, he retorted, "Tommorow is 7th, Lolo bhaiya's birthday."
Don’t we all crave for happiness? So, says my florist brain, why care about flowers, which are anyway going to end up into the waste bin?
The rider and horse, on a battlefield, had to have a companionship on which the lives of both were firmly dependent.
His body will be recovered by the government, and his death assigned in dusty files to a heart attack.
This is the age of the new media and the internet has come to occupy the center stage.
Nehru decided to play mother to the child. He walked, close to where the child lay, bent, picked the baby in his arms and rocked it gently.
He is a jailbird who if killed while on duty will not be memorized as a martyr.
It was always around the time of this grand festival, where the ten-headed Rakshasa king would be burnt in majestic effigy.
All the poets coming from these seven lands sing of the same hopes and similar woes.
“It had been a beautiful day.” He thought dispassionately. “The first day of the rains…”
The day had begun with dark overcast skies that gave way...
Paddy was busy reading the note attached to the box. It simply said "From America, With Love." But there was..
"At least we can light a candle for hope, and try once again for a better world."
The light shone brilliantly, cutting across the storm-darkened night. He blinked at its intensity. The fisherman’s lantern!
Though he was only a peon, there was nothing about the work at the office that he did not know.
Shiladitya sat utterly dejected at his failed affair with Rubina. Those 30 days were great
Jaggu threw himself on the hapless victim, trying valiantly to cover him with his body. The men were losing patience.
In a well furnished nursing home
Germinated a seed,
A girl child was born
Like an unwanted weed,
In the distant sky where the rainbows meet the white clouds, a flower beautiful as a cloudless night is born.
A smile from you can bring tons of moonlight into my world... A beautiful poem by Padmaja Ramesh
Something stirred deep within. He felt the first note of a new song. His heart was pumping a little faster now.
Yudhishthir asked, “Tell me, O mongoose, who are you that speaks the human language in a human voice? How did you get this beautiful body with its golden colour?"
She did not feel like telling her husband. It did not seem strange that the thought of telling him did not occur to her.
She couldn’t have known why — it was...
On entering the gate, I heard a muffled cry. No, it was not emanating from the bushes around. It seemed to be coming from the depths of the past, from times that now belong to history.
It was more than a year back when I first met her while surfing on the net. Our first few words of exchange
Having lost both worlds in the game of love,
There goes a lonesome man, ending his night of grief.
Wearing their gown I was led into a room with a terrifying array of instruments. A needle pricked my arm, then a blessed blackness descended..
The inspector let out a loud yell. "Catch him!" He cried. "That guy is a criminal who has escaped from jail!"
She thoughtlessly slipped the polythene parcel of minced meat in the khaki paper bag-the bag held by her long and slim hands...
My experience of Harvard University, twenty years ago, where I went as an undergraduate is defined by my time with Alec.
"I believe in unconditional love and equality. Jesus Christ exemplified these qualities."
~ Jack Canfield
An open ended short story set in Kanya Kumari. Read how to write the Open Ended Story in Writer's Scratchpad.
There appeared to be a subtle but fierce competition inside the bus to share a seat with her and enjoy her garrulous company.
