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A murder of crows sits atop the smouldering block of concrete. Is it sewage tank? Is it a marker? No one around the gawking birds seems to care too much. I spill a drop of water on the surface only to see it instantly evaporated into thin air. I could hear a buzz; it might just have sizzled.

The Women of Kumaon : Of Soil & Smiles

A balance seems to lack in the metropolitan culture in contrast. No matter how deep you look, souls are never visible from behind the veils of social reactions. Where would Maslow identify us in the pyramid of hierarchy?

Kumaoni : The Secrets of Jam Making

While fingers are painted red in the processing unit below, the air around the entire building – top to bottom – is engulfed in a whiff of intense sweetness. It feels like the secrets of the jelly have been revealed. But there is more to it than you understand just yet.

The Women of Kumaon

In a land where livelihoods are bare minimum and ambition is based on happiness rather than achievement, women find joining hands a sacred way to get by. Dearth is ample, but contentment flows in rivers. Self help groups, thus, become a great channel to imbibe values, yes, but also to make life a little more comfortable by knowing that they’re not alone.

The Sound of Love

The roundness of raindrops is forming into puddles as I bring in its constituents under my sticky high tops. “pch-pch-pch-pch” I go owning my clumsy demeanor, messy atttire, and naive confidence in being the one to restore order in my creator’s world.

Open Letter : System Of a Down

In the backdrop of guitar you drum ground realities that resonate with the thumping of every troubled mind. In the dynamic crescendo of your voice you blanket the hours of fine-tuning put in to be heard. Maybe this is how art can revolutionise: in a world not ready to listen, it creates vibrations that make one’s blood pump; the simplest creation condemns what exists, and gives hope to what could.

10 Things A Global Pandemic Taught Me

At the end of every accomplishment I feel renewed, at every failure I have gained an experience to live with. On days when there seems no purpose to life within this apocalyptic big picture, my tiny goals give me a reason to get out of bed.

Open Letter : The Truman Show

You taught me, Mr. Burbank, that it’s never normal, because every step forward is a process of ongoing transience. You taught me that even when I think I’ve hit a wall, a second later a whole new world shall be waiting to lay at my feet on the other side, if only I don’t settle.

In Retrospect : Metropolitan Aspirations

A silence hardly noticeable, almost cherished, in the ever growing city that now races through my veins. The city of Delhi. Suddenly somehow, the tedium of walking this uphill journey of metropolitan progress seems far less pleasing than the tranquil mosaic of nothingness.

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