Swings of a rhapsodic mind

It was one perfectly imperfect monsoon day, the grim clouds hovered around my hostel dorm making it look haunted just like those depicted in Victorian novels. It was dark and the air smelled of parched land drenched in rain water. I was looking out of the window unable to believe that it was not yet evening but how  deceivingly it looked like midnight. I was longing for that hot cup of black tea which was made available to us each evening in the dining area but such weather made it impossible for us to even step outside. Rains for us were always special, first it brought solace in the hot humid afternoons and next, it practically meant a day off from our sports hours which were tedious and tiring. Those were the days when we had no access to cellphones, so such rainy days were spent in reading books, writing letters and having endless conversations with friends. I really loved those days when I could spend longer hours reading gripping Assamese novels which was a new experience ...

Hey, It's been long since I had something to narrate. So, here it is. She is the only child of her parents. I have known her close enough to speak about her like it were my own story. I have seen those parts of her locked up soul which to the world were never exposed. The dust filled corners of her life is what she in actual is. She was in her second standard, those were the days of land phones and people had to depend on that machine to send all sort of information. Her school got over that particular day but she couldn't spot the familiar Bajaj scooter which was both her and her father's favourite. She kept herself busy with her sketchbook but it was almost more than an hour but her father was no where to be seen. She tried to ring home but her land phone perhaps was dead. Her cheeks suddenly became blood red, she was surging in disappointment coupled by embarrassment. How could her father not turn up! She silently pushed open the gates of her school and in o...

The setting sun rays of the evening sky gleam at my face I hug my pepper sprayed coffee mug while I sit in the veranda A lot many things have changed I prefer silence over loud music Solitude over people Green tea over ice cream Hair buns over plaits And yes, me over the rest of the world A mild egoist, am I? When did my priorities shift? Well, the Neem tree of my garden knows it all I have burried my secrets underneath it's bark. And while things would change It won't I hope it won't...