The Last Adolescence I fail to grasp this bohemian life, wandering aimlessly all-day seeking refuge. Sometimes resting upon your shoulders, there finding solace, at times escaping into myself, primarily stifled breaths; now in the blaze of this evening, seated with wounds inflicted. The fatigue of adolescence spreads through the body like dandelion seeds carried by […]
The Last Adolescence Read More »
All through last night, a chilling wind swept through my dreamscape. I witnessed a hawk perched atop the Taj Mahal’s dome, gazing towards Delhi’s Lotus Temple. I observed some khaki half pants, draped like mourning banners in a Muharram procession. All these scenes unfolded before me. Gradually, they merged into your dream. There, you embarked
Know that time has healed your wounds, Yet you dread the scars. Even today, as the Baul sings,In your morning disarray, there lies only silence. Whom do you now call your beloved?The abyssal tramlines, or mere the death?
Not just on zebras, Even on your body, there’s a patchwork of stains, Which gets busy on any green signal. Traffic police, Thus, indeed, waves their right hand, Left hand too. Engulfed in comments-likes-shares, Days are passing divine, ‘One week goes by, then comes another week.’ That’s the fun of the buffet system, You can
Is it the mural of Ajanta or India’s map, the debate was about whose artistic qualities were greater? Sumanta was naturally inclined, as he spoke of Chaitya, effortlessly spanning over five hundred and thousand years of history, his eyes brightened; yet, when it came to speaking of the country, I could hardly move an inch
From Ajanta to 1947: Unfolding India’s Independence in Verse Read More »
Archaeological A tram line has passed beneath my pillow, and a new electric crematorium has just been inaugurated beside it. Those who come to fall asleep or to wake up there, all faces seem somewhat familiar to me; as if they have fallen from the same branch. Underneath my pillow, a great city floats in
Four Poems by Rik Amrit Read More »
The cold winds of Kashmir hold whispers of an ancient past when its valleys brimmed with philosophy, art, and the mystical teachings of Shaivism. Today, Hinduism may have receded from the region, but in the 10th century, Kashmir was an intellectual and spiritual center, revered across the Indian subcontinent. It was home to scholars whose
Abhinavagupta: The Mystic Polymath of Kashmir Read More »
I haven’t been able to write even ten sentences together for nearly a year. The only thing I managed to write during this time was a letter—to my counselor. Right now, I’m trying to type with a fractured distal radius in my right hand, hoping life might become a little clearer. Writing in a personal
Whispers of Laughter and Tears: Masturbation Read More »
The way we react to news—do we ever bow down to the events in our own lives with the same intensity? Take the #DepressionKills wave that gripped us after Sushant’s passing at the start of the lockdown. But, have I truly stood by the people closest to me battling depression? I think about these things
Whispers of Laughter and Tears: Conversations Read More »
Lately, I often feel that I am quite happy. Perhaps even lucky. I got to experience lockdown—a glimpse into how Brahma lives a single day in eighty years. Sometimes I tried to recall Sartre, telling myself that if solitude creeps in while we’re alone, it means we’re in bad company. But even that didn’t happen.
Whispers of Laughter and Tears: Entertainment Read More »
