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It rains here in fits and spurts superimposed on a general background of rain. Broken cobbles punch through tattered streams of water on the streets. Mumbai is, well, bomb blasts and extremist Hinduism. Bombay, you bitch, why do you make me love you so? Sunday, January 31. Adrenaline zithers through your bloodstream, I tell myself. Its 4 AM, and I just want to go home.
All this would have cost you atleast about 5 crores. In that money, you could have donated 15 new patrol jeeps, enabled forestry department to hire experts forest rangers and equip them with the basic stuff like walkie-talkies and GPS systems to keep a better track of these animals. That would have saved a few lives. Please just sell your sim cards and begone.
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The Tallest Tales To Traverse The Terrain Tough. Sunday, September 24, 2006.
Saturday, June 21, 2008. If I should say,. How rosy that would sound. Tinged with the pink of love. Or, if I should say,. How melodious my words would be. Singing in the tune of love. I could even say,. Life was devoid of meaning. How weighty my words would sound then,. Loaded with the portent of love. So fitting for this day. If only I could say them. But you, my love,. Are made for bare facts.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009. It was a cold winter. A dry, dusty, old winter. A winter hoary with age. Spring-bird sat mute in her gilded cage. Her siren-song lost, her signal for spring. Her song for the future, for all the gifts it would bring. The bold men of the land, they knew it was time,. For the ice to melt, for warmer climes. Beasts were slain, hymns sung. Offerings made, garlands strung.
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