JHALMURI CORNER

ECHOES 2.0   how do you make home?  Brick and mortar  or plaster and paint  the couch and mattress or bookshelf and fancy plates landscaped gardens and beautified gates  a pool perhaps and  a fireplace  I can still see a lot of empty space. -Postscript   

ECHOES 1.0   What do I think of when I think of you? Do I think of the smile on your face, or must I relish in the memories of your arms? Tell me, O lover, what do I remember you as? Many moons ago, I lost script of the language you spoke. All I own is the heartbreak you wrote. It took me years to wash away your touch, for I admit I couldn’t let go. You linger in parts of my conscious like we were one just hours ago, and yet today I ask myself, What do I think of when I think of you? -Postscript     

 "Writing is not my strongest suit," said no writer ever—until yours truly. I am not a conventional writer. I would go to the extent of arguing that I am not a writer at all. The profession is too noble to be tainted by someone who needs auto-correct in every sentence. My inadequacy in the balanced use of punctuation, grammar, and structure is quite obvious. Now that I have laundered any traces of expectation that your mental fabric may possess, we can begin this blog. The struggle of writing  As we have established, my writing capabilities are fairly mediocre and devoid of any originality. I find it quite difficult to churn out ideas. Reading a moving piece of literature somehow tickles the writer bone in my body. It's like the writing gods can only be satiated through an ancient ritualistic book sacrifice (the imagery is quite hilarious). But as luck would have it, all that I have read in the past couple of months is the opposite of inspiring. Most of my writing is cath...

 I spend most of my days on my desk. It is smaller than the one I have back at home, but it gets the job done. Every time I look up, I see Antartica. I promise I am not going crazy, there's just a world map stuck on the wall. It's loosely taped across the edges, and I have scribbled ocean currents in blue and red. But yes, getting back to Antartica. It is a fascinating continent; it's got half the world on its surface. There is Victoria land and Roosevelt Island separated by Ross Sea. And the Japanese station on the coast named after Prince Harald of Norway. It looks like an oyster with a thick tale. That is not a piece of information that you needed but I am short on things to entertain myself, so here we are talking about Antartica. Today when I looked at Antartica, I was pulled back to the ballad "The Rime of Ancient Mariner" ** . It was taught to me at 14 by a woman who loved her job a little too much. She took her time explaining each line, simplifying each w...

  I was sucked into the "not a feminist but an equalist" wave long before I truly understood the meaning of feminism. So, the teen me wanted to be anything but a pseudo feminist, it made sense because I didn't want to hate men. The men in my life have been nothing but kind and supportive, they were simple men driven by simpler ideologies. My father was more than content with his two daughters, despite coming from a society that was famous for seeking multiple abortions in the desperation to have a male heir. He was found punching above his weight to give his little girls the education that was multiple notches higher than their male counterparts. Is he a feminist? certainly, to an extent, not sure if he knows what it meant to be one. My brothers were more than okay with knowing that their sisters were as equally competent as them and sometimes more. And hence I did not want to be a man hater. I loved the men in my life, and they were doing everything they could to empower...

"Who am I?" Scribbled the middle-aged man as he turned gracefully to a class of impatient and fatigued fourteen-year Olds. They all kept what their teachers referred as 'a pin drop silence 'and gave him their undivided attention. However, most eyes in the crowd of forty would sneakily drift to the clock right above the board.   READ MORE