Her sins were scarlet, but her words were read. Wednesday, February 15, 2017. The last month, however, was one in which I hardly stuck around in Delhi. I touched the beaches of Kerala, the locals of Mumbai, the dunes of Jaisalmer, and finally, the hills of Kumaon. All in a month - different terrains, different people, different motivations and different takeaways.

Somebody called her an artist. Somebody called her a writer. But she was a visionary who. Painted life with her pen. The diary was her canvas. And her brush strokes were. Neat and deep, deep buried. In her eyes, like the shells in the sand. Her mind was a beach of thoughts. That visioned the sky as a bird. From the herd of people,. In her womb just like a pearl in the sea. The only pearl with the shine. And lust created by her own hands. Of stale and flaccid coat.

Rants about broken hearts and broken lives. My name is Vartika, and I am afraid of my mind. I wake up a new person everyday. I know I am different, we are all different. And in all our differences, we are just like everyone else. These blogs are rad! .