KhepiAri

A month or two back I was entrapped by the capitalist regime of discounts. In happiness and excitement I had bought six books of certain writer. I have had heard so much about her that when she was selling herself on amazon I was seduced in moments. With ten books and fame for unorthodox life style, she had intrigued me for years. Yet I had never read her. Then on that particular day she was giggling on my cart, riding to my place. Kamala Markandaya sits on my bed in glorious colours and different names. The amount of pages she had bound in those paperbacks is worth a glance. I pick up her debut novel Nectar in a Sieve and the words of the only man whom I follow blindly pooped in my head. He calls her an average writer filled with irritating pathos. He had similar warning about Doris Lessing as well, he had warned me she was depressing in a twisted way and boy he was right!   Grass is Singing left me so depressed that I refused to touch any new book for a week. I reco

yesterday's lunch, green tea and cucumber sandwich, the glossy edit happens thanks to Instagram I have started to carry lunch to my university, when I say lunch I do not mean an elaborate meal that many of my classmates cook for or feed themselves in canteen. Almost a year back I technically moved out of my hometown into university life and since then I have been practically suffering from a serious but worthless thought almost every day. What will I have for lunch? My mind says I wish a cup of green tea for lunch as well. I who once was a legendary foodie have given up my lust for food for almost seven years now. I eat to keep my energy intact. So every day when I am faced with ‘thee’ question of lunch my peace strings tune into cacophonic ballad. It’s not like the choice laid before me to eat are versatile and healthy! I have to choose between one big belly filling of Rice Meal (something I am incapable of finishing ever) Bread-Omelet (which is actually

a view from my veranda:- before the rain brakes It’s raining; I can see the transparent drops drumming the banana leaf that knocks my window every night. Stooped by force the leaves are like women clad in green saree, their heads seeking a temporary refuge under the anchal.  The well opposite to my window has always been a thirsty one; today I can see it drinking the lusty rain and spilling out of his mouth- it’s overfed. Someone had remarked on my love for rain few years back, women have over-romanticized rain and Hindi films have a great part in creating this romantic image. The songs from the 50s, 60s 70s & 80s have done wonder in poetizing the phenomena called rain. He was right in his own way, may be rain is overrated, it sure is troublesome for the one who has no umbrella and is drenched till their undergarments. Its messy, it ruins our clothes, it creates puddles on roads and finally that continuous pitter-patter and paach-pecch may make one tone deaf,