For Now

“But memories are time beings, too, like cherry blossoms or ginkgo leaves; for a while they are beautiful, and then they fade and die.” ― Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being A couple of years ago, I read a book titled A Tale for the Time Being. The book was unassuming, part of... Continue Reading →

Feels like Today

I seem to have forgotten how to write about nothing - the great wide expanses of absence. Why must everything be something? Have meaning? Fall into line? Be coherent? I've beaten myself silly about not categorising thoughts inside the margins of my journals because they need to go into an essay, a piece somewhere, a... Continue Reading →

Dreamer

There's this collection of short stories by Raymond Carver that I read from time to time. It's a small book, the cover is teal and red, and it is light in the way library books were light when you pulled them out from the oldest shelves. It is yellowed that way too and smells like... Continue Reading →

All I Ask

It is very quiet in the room. I'm all alone and the small, yellow light keeps me company. Under it, I've just finished reading A Book of Simple Living by Ruskin Bond. I think about the ferns, geraniums, walnuts, oaks and deodars generously mentioned in the book. I can hear the silence float in the... Continue Reading →

Book of Days

I knew exactly how to feel. I had done it before. The knot had tightened in my chest, my stomach rose to meet my throat. First, the affection surged, and then the pain, both at once forming a coagulated mass of unrecognizable emotion that no one has been able to pass along into routine vocabulary. It was always left... Continue Reading →

#6

I've read hardly 2 books in almost a year now. My reading has been interspersed with leafing through essays and more essays. However, fiction, just 2. The upside is that one of them was a book of absolute genius. I would write an 'On Reading...' post for the author, however, I must admit that I've... Continue Reading →

Budding Stories

There's a feeling inside me which knocks and tells me that I'm going far away from stories. All in all it is true because I've hardly read a book in over 4 months now. I've started too many of them, but read none to the end. So this feeling is becoming more and more pronounced... Continue Reading →

I Want to Read

Suddenly the words have drained their colours which have run down and smeared my fingertips, and stained my nails causing me to recoil every time I bite them in the anxiety of how I have lost the most precious of gifts - words. For I want to read a book, in the dead of the... Continue Reading →

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