A year’s contemplation!

A year’s contemplation!

A year is a funny thing. It is like a checkpoint in our life which we accomplish in a particular frame of time.

Every year is different. There is not even a single similarity in the 70, 80, 90 or 100 years that you live. Everything is different.

This year though rung indifferently as well. For me, at least. The year- 2018.

To the people who know me well, know that I don’t like parties. I don’t like the concept of drinking over and dancing at a random place amidst loud music.  On 31st December 2017 and 1st January 2018, I was at one such party.

2018 has been the year of giving in. I don’t think I’ve received much of what I’ve given to the universe in this year.

There are countless memories that I’ve made. There have been a lot of lows and highs too.

But the most legitimate thing that existed in 2018 is uncertainty. The transition of 2018 from being engaged into many things to being jobless, studying, sulking and going through all of this has been different.

I will not say that this hasn’t happened to me in the past. It certainly has. The feeling of uncertainty has been an occasional visitor. But previously, it didn’t matter. Life went on and brought me some amazing experiences. Maybe, now too, life will go on.   

As we grow older, we learn. Learning is a continuous process. Learning how to face challenges is one of the hardest things but we learn it anyway.

I haven’t penned down my reflection of every year but Colleen Ballinger’s YouTube video gave me the inspiration to do so.

This insight into my life is filled with ambiguity and generic-ness and might not interest every one of you, but I hope at some point you (the reader) relate to it.

2018 was hard. 2019 will be harder. 2020 will be the hardest. You never know.

But all these years, you still keep standing. Having faith and hope in your heart, accepting the change and finally being happy.

Contemplating about all the things that have happened in the past 365 days, makes me feel a lot better.  

Breathing and thinking that everything will be alright.

Lastly, I wish all the readers a very happy new year.   




The Folks of Liberty!

The Folks of Liberty!

I was only partially conscious when the stench of the prison ground hit my nose and infiltrated my breath. My hands were released from the cuffs but the wrists still ached from the clinch of the metals. How long had I even been lying in here? Last I remember I was being manhandled by some people in the heaviest armours I had ever seen. How did I pass out? I had no idea. I looked around at the four walls. There was no way in or out of them. Then I looked up. I had been thrown into the prison, quite literally.

My eyes narrowed even more while looking towards the only window in the prison cell. A ray of light in the darkest rooms like a ray of hope in the dark times. But, this time, it was rather discomforting. The light highlighted the wounds on my body which were even unknown to me. With a million thoughts crossing my mind, I was beginning to have a mild headache. The cold floor on which I lay, was rather soothing.

I did remember why I’d ended up here. As much as that reason angered me, it also made me laugh. This was the fourth time I’d wanted to laugh hysterically but my jaws hurt from trying to laugh.

The coldness of the weather reminded of how I and my tribe stayed together even in the hard times of winters. Our hamlet was widely famous for its unity and prosperity. Those content days were far better than the recent ones. The unity was nowhere to be seen in this fallout. The people who were once together, now quenched each other’s blood. This transition was a little too sudden. But what was needed, was needed and now to a larger extent.

Over generations, somehow everyone had come to think that the opposite of order, was chaos. I and a thousand others had found out that it was actually freedom. The others, still in order, let their mouths stay shut. I didn’t. And now here I am, lying in a hundred pieces. If only I had kept my mouth shut, it wouldn’t have been broken right now. But something told me it was going to be worth it.

I was a part of a huge civilization that functioned on the dominance of power, like any other. It had its own peace and conflicts at times. It was neither a very ideal civilization nor a bad one. Thing was, the dominance of our rulers had begun growing, lately. An increase of taxations, reduction of certain actions in the name of laws… the suppression made people revolt, following which, the government agreed to have a peaceful discussion. They gave the people two choices:

To either live by their rules and keep their homes in the kingdom or leave from the kingdom in peace with some portion of food to ensure their survival for a few days. Choosing the second option meant leaving the houses and the life of a kingdom to wander until we settled. We chose it. Well, some of us did. That day, the kingdom saw an exodus of more than a thousand families.

With only a few days’ rations in hand, we marched forward. We were just some folks who were looking for liberty and we knew that at this very moment we felt free. We were no longer accountable to anyone, nor were we expected to do only a particular kind of work. For days we walked towards the horizon, we followed the sun and marched ahead. Celebrations were prominent at first. Every night was a festive affair. However, as they say, good times do not last. We were walking endlessly, with no direction in mind and that was the biggest mistake that we all had made.

I was hardly 20 years of age when this had happened. And at that age, during this event, I learnt some things.

Money was an illusionary concept. It was something that governments had introduced to us to keep us in control, to work for them.

When we were running out of ration, we settled in an empty grassland situated beside a forest. The physically stronger people chopped woods and the fast ones hunted and brought meat. We cooked it. Every person got an equal share of food and what did they have to pay for it? Nothing.

The woods were then further cut and houses were built. Everyone got their houses in that empty grassland. What did we pay for it? Nothing.

The lack of resources and the abolition of suppressive order had brought us in harmony. We realised our needs for each other and everything was built on the foundation of being helpful. We were free of rule and rulers. We were going to be together, we were going to be free. Helping each other in this initial stage of attaining liberty was an overwhelming experience.

But, Help, Assistance, and Cooperation, these terms only hold value when both the parties understand its true meaning. If one party feels that a task is a burden rather than an obligation, then the differences arise.

And since the ‘change’ was not accepted equally by everyone, feud founds its place. It started with minor issues. When the woodcutter returned home tired but was mocked for getting the lesser quantity of timber.

And as the issues increased so did the brawls. It had indeed become a daily ritual. However, Ruhan and his group of wise men meddled in between and helped in resolving the problem, thus maintaining the harmony.

Ruhan, the eldest of them all, to get rid of these daily trivial issues, made a decision. Since he was the eldest and the wisest, everyone agreed to him. He said that no woodcutters and hunters would work for free from that day on. Now that people had settled, they were to pay them something in return. A part of food or clothes. That day I had my first hysterical laugh. Some eyes looked at me with a fit of slight anger in them. I ignored.

The intra-community disputes began decreasing but what went unnoticed was Ruhan’s superiority. People blindly followed his decisions and accepted the solutions that he provided.

I was beginning to have a Déjà vu and this time it was for real.

Soon, he allotted some people to look after the trades and the houses. They eventually started getting addressed as ‘Ruhan’s men’. A month later, he had them dig up a few pits and wooden grills attached to them. He told his men to use them like prisons. He thought this would instil fear in the people and they’d stay in the discipline. Of course, some didn’t. People wronged. Trials were held out. People were found guilty and thrown in prison.

One day, Ruhan was found dead. People came to the conclusion that he died of old age, but the ones close to him didn’t agree. They suspected foul play. Then came Mahidi. Physically, the strongest man in our little settlement. “We need a new leader,” he announced. “I’m happy to take the place.”

Some of us raised questions as to why him. His sister then stepped up and spoke to the people, “You need someone fitter and stronger to watch over you. Ruhan was wise but fragile. His death is no surprise. My brother is strong. As for wisdom, I’ll work for the welfare of you beside him.”

And so, Mahidi and his sister became our new rulers. The first thing they did was convince people to give them and their men some of their food as they left their work and houses to work for the people. The taxes were imposed. I laughed my heart out that day.

I had been an onlooker all this while. Over the years things kept changing, and I just observed. I was not someone who would become a rebel and influence people with my thoughts about freedom. But to some extent, I did.

I had a habit of noting down minute details of the changes happening in the society, in my journal. This was something I had inherited from my father, capturing every detail and transforming them into words.

A few days later, after the new rulers had set their foot, robberies started taking place. Every day, a few things would go missing from people’s houses. Sometimes they were valuables, other times it was eatables. One such robbery happened at my house. I lost my mother’s jewels, some vegetables and surprisingly, my journal.

I wasn’t worried about it much because no one would ever try to peek into an old rugged book written with shabby handwriting.

The next day, I was called out to the ruler’s abode and confronted. I had no idea what all of this was about until I saw my book lying on the side table of Mahidi. So, these were the people who were hiring robbers to steal things.

The only thing I could sense was that the rulers felt threatened. By me. By my words. This was the third time that I laughed hysterically.

The next moment I found myself partially conscious on the cold floor of the prison.

They’d even felt threatened enough by my laughter that they broke my jaw before throwing me in this pit.

How would I not have laughed? The order was a funny thing. All the while living the kingdom, we kept thinking it was keeping us suppressed and bound. To an extent, it was. All of us wanted freedom from that. We got it. But the freedom was not only from suppression, but it was also from being kept in check.

A society can never last without order. Not until it is rid of indiscipline. Because the ones causing it would always have to be kept in check. And the strong will always misuse the truth of it.

Following the trend of human society, we come to know, that only the dominant of the fittest shall rule.

The spare piece of parchment that I always carried in my robes has finally come to use. This might just be my last entry in the journal, for I do not know what Mahidi and his sister will do of me. For now, I’ll sleep.



Collaborated/co-authored with 
Vatsal Thakore
Blog link: theinceptedpath.wordpress.com



His old brown coat mixed well with the surroundings as he entered the park. The brown trunks of the trees camouflaged the man who never wanted to be seen, anyway. He always found the hour of settling dusk as the most peaceful one. People returning home from their hectic days. Children winding up the playfulness of the park. The elderlies taking them back home. But among those, there were certain he always had his observing eyes for. The ones for whom dusk was the beginning of being in the park.

Today when he settled on a wooden bench, he saw a boy quietly sitting in the darkest corner of the park. ‘Must be a teenager waiting to meet his friends,’ he thought. But there was nobody to be seen around. Nor the boy had an electronic gadget in his hand, unlike many other boys of his age. From the boy’s expression, he could make out that he was sulking.

‘But what has this young lad got to be sad about,’ he wondered. ‘Maybe he scored fewer marks in mathematics, but students these days hardly care about their grades. Maybe his mom scolded him. Maybe he has had a fight with his teenage girlfriend or a crush. Just maybe, he has no friends, been a victim of bullying in his school and needs someone to talk to. Maybe.’

Shifting his gaze, he produced a tobacco pipe from his coat pocket, put it in his mouth and lit it. The first whiff of its smoke made him oblivious to the presence of the boy for a while. At that moment, the park keeper walked past him towards the centre of the sitting area and turned on the last of the lights that were left to be turned on. As faintly as they lit, hardly making much of a difference, they might’ve mattered to the lonely keeper who had to spend his fifteen minutes of each day, walking the perimeter of the park, turning on the lights of every segment. ‘He has a strange look on his face’, the man thought. ‘Peaceful. He looks peaceful. How? Bit of a masochist if you ask me. Who stays peaceful at a job like this, being alone in this dark?’

As the darkness was rising overhead, the park gradually got deserted. This time, he kept the tobacco pipe aside and lit a cigarette. He was not sitting any far from the gate when he realised that a car had screeched to halt and a young woman had walked out of it. With her long strides, she had already entered the park within seconds and started running. He smirked at the irony of her visit. ‘If you wanted to exercise so diligently, shouldn’t you have walked from your home which is four blocks away from the park?’ His generation was so different from these youngsters who were only fooling themselves with this fraudulent act.  

For a moment he only kept staring on the now empty path. He desperately wished to find someone new in the park just so he could have something to shift his attention to. On eventually failing, he heard his worst thought, ‘Was it worth?’

It’s impossible to not have this thought in contemplation, in loneliness. A man can sit by himself and try not to wander to the same dark places of his mind; he can sit and keep observing the surroundings, the people around him, but for how long? There comes a moment when eventually the consciousness loses the battle and gives in to the one question that’d keep haunting it. In this man’s case, ‘Was it worth?’

However, he’d certainly find solace in these dark alleys of the park on a wintery night. The temperature was dropping but he still sat there, on the cold wooden bench. He usually walks around or two around the park and then settles down, but today, he realised that he has aged. His frozen knees couldn’t tread further. His breaths grew deeper and he now thought he shouldn’t have smoked up. Remembering the things that he shouldn’t have done, the list went endlessly.

‘Years ago, when I’d started losing more than I could bear, it was my choice to hold on to the few remaining ones. Loneliness scared me. But trying to lace my fingers with a closed fist scared me even more. So when everything began being unreciprocated and I decided to snip every thread, it was my choice. Yet now I’m contemplating, thinking if I should’ve held on, no matter how fake they became, just for the sake of company. Months have passed and I still see them when I sit here every day in this empty park. I see the disturbed teenage boy, presumably stressed over his broken relations; the park keeper, trying to find the little forceful positivity in his dead-end job and the lady, too keen on pretending to be fit. I’ve told myself over and over again that they’re not there. It’s just me seeing what I once was. Someone disturbed over a relationship, someone trying to stay positive in the meaningless job and someone as keen as a young girl finding joy in physical exertions.

I can say that in my head every day and yet I will see them every single day in this dark empty park, telling me that loneliness has driven me mad.’

Lunatic as they inferred him to be, but he was just like the people, finding solace in the darkness of the park in their heart which was once lively.  


Collaborated/co-authored with 
Vatsal Thakore
Blog link: theinceptedpath.wordpress.com

Standing at the door of a Brothel!

Standing at the door of a Brothel!

That night, I reached the brothel earlier than usual.

Brothels are a lot like chameleons. They look different during different times of the day.

Once the night has set in, brothels look like a marketplace of sorts. Different kinds of skins are put on display, and the customers carefully choose one (sometimes, more) depending on what they prefer. The music always plays loudly, mostly to mask the noises coming from the many rooms. Even the noises vary. Sometimes, it’s the general rocking of rickety beds and bed-posts. At other times, the bawling of the fatherless babies of the prostitutes. Occasionally, it’s the sharp cry of a young virgin forcefully entered.

But that night, I had reached the brothel before any other customer. The place was surprisingly clean, and mostly empty. A young woman was sleeping near the doorway, presumably tired after a hard day’s work, cooking and cleaning for the residents of that brothel.

“You are early today,” the owner remarked. She was a thin, pale woman, dressed in a simple saree and her hair neatly tied in a bun. Without her dark red saree and all the make-up that I usually saw her in, she was hardly recognisable.

“I was told that the early birds get the prettiest and youngest worms,” I replied, looking around to see if any pretty young ones were close.

“Pretty ones don’t reach here. Young ones, yes. How young would you go?” she asked me, getting up from her chair.

“Umm…” I wondered what to reply. I liked them young, but how young was I willing to go, was something I had never considered.

 It was difficult for me because I never got an appropriate choice. People like me are hard to find. It’s not that I have been a choosy kid, but the truth is I have never been given a choice.

Even as a child, I did not get to pick the children who played with me. I was always a choice. All my past lovers left me because I was always an option for them and not a “priority” or a “preference”. I have been treated like a leftover food item which is never given a second thought before discarding. Thus, for a person like me decide to choose anything becomes difficult.

However, retreating from the flashback, I registered that the owner was still gazing at me looking for an answer.  Even though she knew that I didn’t have a choice being the only “girl” looking out for a “girl”, she eyed me questionably. And this was the harshest truth that I had to accept.  I had no choice on my sexuality. Therefore, as usual, I couldn’t answer and unlike any other customer, paid her without receiving any service.

 I had been early to brothel most of the nights, in the fear of getting caught. But today was the earliest.

/* Backstory Alert:

So, a few years ago, somewhere around 2016, I took part in the writer’s search organised by theanonymouswriter.com. Having cleared the first round, I was assigned the task for the completion of a story in the second round. The story you read below is the second round task and the content written in red is provided by the esteemed writers of theanonymouswriter.com and the content in purple is written by me. Also, TMI but I cleared this round as well, making it to the third and the final round for the writer’s search however not clearing it. The story is fictitious and holds no relevance to any person or entity living or dead.

Now that you’ve read the story above and the backstory, I hope it is relatable. */  

Featured image credits: http://testofwill.blogspot.com/2006/12/dark-house.html

The malevolent fuel.

The malevolent fuel.

I was really thinking whether this idea would work or not. Skepticism was something that I had inherited. My father was skeptical about my career, my mother was skeptical about my future and my sister was skeptical about my food habits. There’s always a ‘maybe’ factor attached when it comes to something related to me. And this idea was something that had been hovering around my mind for the longest time.

Though it isn’t something too rare. People have tried walking that path and there have been successful ones. Let’s not get into the ones who failed. That’s a whole different perspective, I’d choose not to see. For me, as of now, there’s either success or giving up.  So with that motivation, I begin to gather the basics. The information, the knowledge, all I needed to know. You see, to make a monument, an everlasting one with all it’s glory, you first need to gather the bricks and stones. What I wanted to do might not be monumental-ish, but would definitely clear paths for my monuments to stand.

You might be wondering what I’d wanted to do and it is really simple. I just wanted to commit a murder.

What? Were you expecting something cliched? That’s the thing about this world. You want to bring new people in the world, it’s all okay, even if they cause new kinds of troubles, take up space, exhaust resources, but you want to remove some ‘unwanted pests’ kind of people and everyone starts judging you.  

My soul has been tormented for enough amount of time. I’ve decided to end my worries, once for all. Why does one want to live with the problems or either run away from it when you can kill. The stain of his blood and his cry for mercy will assuage my burning blood and calm my anxious nerves. I cannot tell you enough about my feeling of contentment.

Him, yeah. The one I want to kill is a him. I’m a ‘her’. It’s been years since his ‘peaceful’ ways have been torturing me from within. It’s been months since I’ve been trying to convince myself that I was the bad one to have reacted harshly to his mistakes. It’s been weeks since I’ve realized that he was a far more evil person than I had thought. I used to look at him and wonder how he always let go of my mistakes with a calm mind and a sympathetic smile on his face.

Enough of his ruling around the ways and enough of him overpowering me with his actions. With this murder, I will show him that I am greater than him in every aspect. I will show him that he cannot just ruin my life and go away with it. If he has dared to hurt me, he will have to face the consequences. I have gathered courage to nurture the new life after I am freed from his reign of terror. However, he will watch me take away everything that he has, including his life. And that’s the first thing I’m going to take away and he wouldn’t be alive to see the rest. Will he?

I sit down on my desk and start planning every event that will go on, step by step.

  1. Buy the tool, from at least 50 kilometers away from the locality.
  2. Sneak up on him and find out his schedule.

Schedule. This word sent my mind in a frenzy of depressive thoughts. Everything always had to be on his ‘schedule’. I remember one day when I could not make it in time to his lunch plans, he did not scold me, he did not shout. Rather he started ignoring me with a smile. “You gotta pay the price for your mistake, sweety”, he said. And then I had kept trying to apologize to him, trying to get him to talk to me, but he was already eating his lunch, with a video call going on with one of his female colleagues. It was like he had everything planned. He knew how to make me suffer. I sat there all day, not eating anything, watching him talk to her and then curling in a peaceful sleep.

The day of murder is nearing and a wave of nostalgia runs through my mind. I reconsidered the option of fleeing as my lover would readily agree to do it. A murder was something he horrified.

A day before the murder was actually planned, I began to foresee my future, without him and with him. Every possibility seemed dark and I began to lose motivation. That day I cried my heart out. I cried for all that I’ve been through and I cried for him- for his death, that was going to come. My face had grown pale and my mind weakened, until I saw him, his wry smile and his bizarre touch. I was sure of my intentions then. I wanted this man dead.

On the day of the murder, he walks up to me and has the same smile on his face. The evil one from within. He hugs me, “Hey! Long time. How have you been?”

That hug was enough to trigger me. In that one second, I remembered everything that led me to do this. I push him away and hold out the gun which was hidden underneath my pyjama.

“You are too delicate to handle this, darling!” he says, with an absolute horror on his face.

I smile and say, “I’m strong enough to bear you and the mistakes that you’ve committed. And now, you gotta pay the price for your mistake, sweety”.

I pull the trigger, he hurriedly kicks me in the abdomen and something dies inside me. We fall down in the pool of blood, not knowing who is killed. My baby or him?


Collaborated/co-authored with 
Vatsal Thakore
Blog link: theinceptedpath.wordpress.com


The classic struggle between a person and time!

The classic struggle between a person and time!

As she runs, trying to board the train that had just started to leave, she struggles for her balance and manages to get on the train. She sighs and mumbles to herself, “the daily struggle between a person and time”. The train then starts to pick up speed with a jerk. Looking up, seeing the same old faces smiling at her, she continues in the compartment, contemplating the monotony of her life.

Reema was a working woman with two children and a loving husband. She had already gotten so late for her work and yet again the railway added to her misery. Usually, she was good at keeping the track of time and getting everything done before the clock struck 8. But today as she took a little more time enjoying her morning tea, rotis got burnt and so did the pohas which was her children’s favourite breakfast. And eventually, cooking everything from the scratch took more time and hurriedly she left her house rushing towards the station.

Finding herself a seat, she thought if she was not even worthy of the little more time that she took. It wasn’t like her husband or the children ever complained to her about anything, but now it seemed that she had set some boundaries for herself. Just then, as the train reached the next station, a girl, in her late teens, boarded the train with two of her friends, all laughing their cheeks off.

This daily commutation between Kalyan and VT (present-day CST) was a tiresome task. But her encounters with the fellow passengers made this journey easier to bear. She hadn’t really known these girls who were standing in front of her but she had seen them often in her journey. She used to grin unknowingly seeing them as they reminded her of her own college days and her college friends who were now distant.

Today was no different, or so she thought. When one of the girls turned to her, they both stopped smiling and blankly looked into each other’s eyes for a second. The girl turned her face back to her friends and started laughing again as though nothing was wrong. It was now, that Reema realized that something about their presence was ticking her off.

She had seen this face before. She had seen these brown, almond shaped, shiny eyes before. And they were not hers but someone else’s eyes. The train arrived on different stations and departed, her destination was still far off but this new likeliness of the girl to someone she knew was troubling her. She was confused. Surprisingly, no one else seemed to notice them.

The girl looked back again. Reema couldn’t recognize if it was just a delusion or was a face that temporarily coincided with the girl’s face that she was remembering from her past. That very moment, when the girl again looked back into Reema’s eyes her train of thoughts ushered in the reverse mode.

She was back to her 19 years old self, laughing with her two best friends, Geeta and Tanvi. The three of them were walking towards the railway station, discussing the English class of the day.

‘The classic struggle between a person and time, ends in time winning’, what a boring theme to write a story on”, Geeta says.

“I think it’s cool. Might make us realize a thing or two while discovering its depths”, Tanvi replies.

Just then, Reema shouts, “Damn the lecture, our train’s leaving, hurry!”

With that, the three of them rush towards the train, that was starting to pick up speed. Reema and Tanvi manage to get on quickly, while Geeta was still trying. Reema, oblivious to this, smiles and says, “forget classic, this is the daily struggle between a person and time-”

As she says this, she hears Tanvi shout. Turning back, she realizes what went on. Geeta, failing to board the train, fell on the railway platform, hitting her head on the concrete pavement. Everyone around started shouting and they stopped the train with the emergency brakes. Reema and Tanvi rush down and run towards Geeta, who sees them nearing and says, “I-I shouldn’t have rushed. I shouldn’t have struggled… I-”, and goes silent.


Reema blinks and is brought back to her present self, staring at the kiddish, laughing eyes of Geeta, that tried to send her a message. She blinks again and the three girls are gone.

The twenty years old lesson comes to an end, as she wipes her tears away, and thinks to herself, “I shouldn’t have struggled. Not today, not twenty years back. Because in the end, time always wins.”

She ascends from the train on VT station and advances towards her workplace which was beside Saint George’s hospital, but firstly, she had to visit the hospital. She buys a bunch of flowers from the street vendor on her way. Geeta loved mogras and what more could she want, 20 years after she’d woken up from the coma. The smell of mogras and the smile of her best friend was what she had missed all this while.      

Collaborated/co-authored with 
Vatsal Thakore
Blog link: theinceptedpath.wordpress.com


Mélancolie de la pluie

Mélancolie de la pluie

Mélancolie de la pluieMelancholy of the rain


The roaring clouds, the pouring clouds.

This turmoil’s instability.

The fervour of the cold winds.

The strongest petrichor.

This turmoil’s inability to sooth.


While the love of the pluviophiles

Soars high above the clouds;

The land beneath suffers a havoc

Getting drowned in the rainwater

And the noise of the chaos caused thereof


As a single drop slides on the window,

And someone’s gloomy eyes glued to it,

The mist is simply a reflection of the condition,

Of someone’s mind, of someone’s heart,

Or just turmoil going on in nature.


This lacking solace of nature

So shared by the heart, makes wonder

If the claps of thunder are the screams of joy

Or the cries of anger, led

By the daunting streaks of lightning


And then the night crawls in,

The changing hues of the sky,

Orange, pink, purple, indigo,

The shimmery stars are still dimmed though,

The rain is still boisterous though,

But the darkness hiding the dark clouds,

Tells everyone that the turmoil will end.


Why was suddenly the darkness

A sign of hope? The silence that it brought,

Better over the sound of battering rains?

For once, there were wishes of a harsh sunlight

In the sleeping night,

In the hopes of it vaporizing the flooded chaos.


But nature takes its own sweet time,

Time to weep, time to unwind.

Collaborated/co-authored with 
Vatsal Thakore
Blog link: theinceptedpath.wordpress.com