A smile, a captivating smile, Breaking the tide of the morning spell, Winsome as the fluttering of a thousand butterflies, A warmth so profound, that it stokes the fire of love, A child, a child, a beaming little child.   A bud so encompassed in its own warmth, Breaking free with a little step, Leaving the warmth and comfort of home and hearth, Stepping forward into a world of learning, A child, a child, a confused little child.   A small whimpering smile, a fleeting touch, A

Every morning, before the sun burns the mist off the Ganges, the city wakes. Bells ring. Boats slide across the river like tired prayers. Somewhere, a corpse burns. Somewhere else, a child laughs. Varanasi does not lower its voice for death. They come to die in Varanasi. They do not arrive by accident, the river calls them long before their bodies fail. Some hear it as faith. Some fear. Most only hear it when there is nothing left to hold them where they are.   I unlocked the

Some of my fictional and non fictional works. Hope you enjoy the posts.

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