Pseudo Writer

She lives at the border between them, a place that is the outskirts of both of them. A place that is ignored and yet crucial, for it is the battle ground for the two nations. She is sitting under a table, crouched, waiting for the surroundings to quiten. She is holding a cross in her hand tightly, mumbling something that no one can hear. She is waiting for her parents who went for food, maybe she is praying for their safe return. And this is what war zone creates, amidst all the glory that the world claims; a trail of the dead, and the living paralysed with fear. She survived, as a war orphan, and left the place, only to see another world, that went on, the place that was far from all the horrors, where everything was normal, too normal. She heard people talking, about power, about how their nation defeated the other one, and how they are not afraid of them. And she wondered if they actually know, what it's like to be hiding under th...

She comes from a place where hatred is but a concept. Where sun symbolises hope, and there is no glory in war. A forgotten place of peace, where her memories live forever. Where red is the colour of love, and danger is denied it's existence. Where eternal melodies reside, and music is what she breathes. Where she is as insignificant as she is paramount. She describes it very often, asks if anyone else will ever visit. Sadly, everytime I have to remind her that she is a figment of my imagination; a character in one of my many dreams, the one that I desperately want to keep, and yet the one that ends with my sleep.                                                     - Sushant Kumar Das

Once upon a time in a land far far away, lived a little girl and a horse chewing hay. The girl kept waiting for miracles to happen, and randomly, they met a fairy on the way. It was the start of a journey very long, and all of it was rhythmic like a song, but I don't know how it deviated from path, and they ended up in a war of right vs wrong. This must feel like a very familiar story, for it's a fairy tale blueprint, from the inventory, and most of us grew up reading these, and our childhood is their times of glory. But is this the life we expect in our core, or is this a world unreal enough to ignore? Is this a story worthy enough to remember, or is this to be left at the childhood's shore? And if it was to be left when we reached our prime, how could snow white survive the test of time? And how could the glowing tooth fairy make sure, that every broken tooth is replaced by a dime? How could the Frankenstein still scare us to heap, and how co...

In the heart of the country, lived a man very insignificant. He is long forgotten by the place, and his house has long been vacant. There are streets he used to pass by, and the people he used to walk past, and the flurry of greetings that he exchanged; all of them, alive in a diary of his past. His days might be dark now, and he might not have enough to feed the keen, but he still feeds the birds as he did, when light was the only thing he had seen. He still walks out, in the first rain, without an umbrella, looking at the sky, and even though his vision is clouded now, his clouds can never hide the clouds that fly. He is still kind with the people, with whom no one else ever tries to be, and still has a heart big enough, to cry for them when there is noone to see. He still trusts people, after all the betrayals, and still gets broken by people under his sight. Maybe he is really stupid to make such mistakes, or maybe faith in comrades lets him sleep at night. ...

Some days, I just walk down the way, and look around the concrete-forests as they say. But what we often forget at times, is that this concrete was incubated from clay. Wet deformed clay that was left behind, withered by a tug of war between cruel and kind, and the only silver lining that we got from it , was the freedom to shape the clay by our mind. And this is why we celebrate this day, so those who freed us have confidence to say, that no matter what set of events may succeed, freedom will always carve its way . Some will find their freedom in the range of their sight, while some will find their freedom in the food they bite. Some will find their freedom in the games they play, while society will find its freedom when people will unite. Some will find their freedom in the little texts they write, while some will find their freedom in flying of a kite. And at the dawn of the day, when society wakes , our freedom will be alive in every fundamental right. But then...

Monster stories have never ceased to amaze me, and not only because they are well written. Whether it's the blood-sucking vampires or Dracula, their king, whether it's the one-eyed cyclopes or the horned minotaur, whether it's the big-footed bigfoot, or the big-toothed werewolf, despite being figments of imagination, they are as well known as dinosaur. So why was this concept introduced in our society? Maybe to scare the children to sleep, or maybe to keep in check, the superstitious heap, or maybe to destroy the solitude of shadowy spaces, or maybe to create stories worthy to keep. Or maybe these stories were diversions, to give monsters, unfathomable identities, so that when we think of monsters, the images in our mind are never-to-be-found entities. Providing us with a sense of security, letting us feel protected, feel presence of light. M aking us forget the reality of our situation, making us overlook the monsters that hide in plain sight. Monsters ...

On some dark days, I often wonder, in this beautiful place that I live in, what did I ever do, to deserve this? Looking at the bubble that I live in, this bubble of deception that saves me, from the horrifying realities of this place, I often question, what did 'they' do? Those who were not fortunate enough, to be in this bubble when the storm came, they had to drown, while I watched, helpless, not able to do a single thing. And those who could do something, the ones having the power to change lives, I could not see them, for they were hiding, behind their own one-way glass bubbles. I wanted to know, if they feel what I do, if their conscience lets them sleep, while the world is awake in agony, but all I saw, all I heard, was deception. For if those words of sympathy were true, wouldn't things be better now? Or maybe they are not as powerful as I think, maybe they are helpless in their own way, and this is what this world around me is; an inevitable...

I have often wondered, on some nights, when the sun did not set, and I turned off the lights, that do I love this silence, or do I just like it, shall I keep my mind calm, or shall I hike it? And yet I find myself in quest for an answer, of a wonderful cliche, i.e. what is love? Maybe you can love your partner, or maybe your parent, maybe you can love your sibling, or maybe someone different. Maybe you can love a pizza, or maybe a cake, maybe you can love the mountains, or maybe a lake. Yet my question's answer still remains hidden, as if talking about it is in itself, forbidden. So let's just try to define it myself, and then I will put the question back on shelf. I feel that love is a four letter word, used by many of us at many events, and when we can't explain what we feel, we use this word as an easy replacement. It is a word having a lot of layers buried in it, for it is made up of the uncertainties we bear. It's our need to articulate what we...

An old man once told me, that if you take a fictional book, and read its content carefully, very often you will find, the writer, hiding behind its words, in the character traits and little incidents, in the plot, between insignificant events. And on closer look you will find, that the author of the book may be one, but the stories in it have multiple authors, for his twelve and twenty-two year old selves, both are sharing their stories on the same shelves; It's a wonder how the event remains same, and yet time alters the story in retrospect. And as the character arcs will progress, there would be moments of bravery, of passion, and moments of hesitation, of compassion; all of them, hidden behind stories. It may be a story of regrets devouring a soul, or maybe a story of someone's unachievable goal, or maybe a bizarre story of playing whack-a-mole. It's an enigma how the smallest of moments can hide the simple and complex with equal ease. And the desi...

Maybe, I am writing a poem, or maybe I am just talking to notepad. Maybe, I will publish this somewhere, Or maybe this will be lost in my diary. How fascinating a single word can be? 'Maybe' ; a word I have often found, lingering around, in my sentences, and I cannot help but wonder, how much weight this word carries. Maybe I am completely wrong about it, or maybe I am right on the point. But I have often found myself hiding; hiding behind this single word. Maybe I will become who I have aspired to, or maybe I will become someone I condemn. Maybe I will eat the last piece of chocolate, or maybe I will save it for my sibling. Maybe I will help people just because I can, or maybe I will stand at the sidelines, watching. Maybe I will do my assignment today, or maybe I will do it an hour before submission. Maybe this world is a place worth residing in, or maybe it is something we just have to bear. Maybe I will eat homemade dinner, or maybe I will have a tak...

Those masterpieces inside glass frames, hanging on walls, of museums and art galleries, or lying between glass shelves of old libraries, or in black discs surrounded by glass boxes, often reflect what we expect to see; and this is the role that glass plays. But when glass is removed, when reflections die, and pretentiousness is overshadowed by art; very often, a story is found, emptied inside, in these pensieves of their presents, our past. A story of a man who wanted to share his life, a dream that the man wanted to achieve, a place that he wished to visit, but couldn't, and a lot more can be found in his pensieve. A wish, every artist attaches to these, very often by us, the wish is overlooked, same wish that connects every species, the wish, the want, to be understood . For every piece of art tells a genuine story, and every piece of art contains the emotions of the artist, and neither can be separated from the art that survives, for hidden in every piece ...

Walking through this crowd, full of inconsequential chatters, and not discussing what matters; myself, by an aura of calm, I surround, when noise and colours are all around. For I am afraid of what is about to come, as we have stopped caring for our legacy. Knowledge is what made me, and legacy is the burden I bear, whenever, to freedom, I come near. But it's a burden worth bearing, present is a moment, too small for caring. It's past that we are leaving behind, adding our deeds to our legacy. Time passes and everything ends, we exist finitely, between an infinity, a life, existing with death, in unity. Chaos ensues, order fails, legacy's destruction, ignorance hails. A future built upon darkness is what awaits when seeds of shadows a re sown in our legacy.                    - Sushant Kumar Das

Original : When it left my hand and rose against the earth, I attempted to bound it. But bounds were not what it was meant for, and its destiny found it. It started getting lost in the sky, but a beauty it brought in lives. A ray of light in darkness, it was. Romanticized in words, a tragic cause.                                     - Sush ant Kumar Das From A Child's Perspective: The boy like me was holding a balloon, which wanted to go in sky. And he accidentally left the thread, and the balloon started to fly. I kept looking at the sky, and by disappearing, it showed it's might. The elders were looking at him and smiling, as if it was a beautiful sight. They looked at him in the same way I do when my brother has something that I have lost. They were smiling at him while exchanging words,...

Do you crave for the sun too, when cold is seeping through your body, and you can neither run from it nor hide from it? When every part of your body has started going numb, and you aren't even aware of the battle that your inner biology is going through to prevent that, do you crave for the ray of light that brings warmth along with it? Well, we sure did. And boy, did our wish come true; rather someone went a little too overboard with our wish. It was a few decades ago, when scientists realised that the extent of global warming has taken an exponential rate of growth, and warned the world administration about it, suggesting safety measures. But while most of the countries were not able to successfully execute the safety measures, some spent their time in denying that global warming exists (no jokes there). And finally everything went really well. By the way, did I mention that the world population is below ten thousands now? No? Well did I mention that all of us, champs of our ci...

Cold is what succeeds the warmth, it is cold, that preceeds it. Reminding me in this populous swarm, stands alone the empty seat. Life is what stands in between, when the seat tries to remain filled. The seat has to be emptied again, for it's destiny has already been sealed. I remember the first occupant, a catching of breath in the life's dance. But leaving is what was meant for the person, for this seat is nothing but a trance. The seat is meant to be empty, life starts when this trance ends. The person who occupies this seat, is nothing but a temporary semblance. The semblance will eventually dissolve, and cold will replace warmth and happiness. Everyone will be gone, noone shall remain, it will be the time, when you embrace emptiness.                               - Sush ant Kumar Das

There are days, when you can feel blood flowing through your veins, creating a special kind of rush. This rush is accompanied by a sense of excitement, which sets off a game of domino with pieces falling right into the productive spaces. And then there are days, when you are enclosed by a bubble of soothing calmness, with nothing but a quest for stillness between the noise of velocities. Troy had a special kind of love for both of these. But unfortunately, he was getting neither of them for a few months. As a student who had taken an year off for the preparation of a few entrance exams, Troy had days in a monotonous rhythm with minor to no variations. Waking up, freshening, eating, studying, eating, studying, ea........, sleeping; was all he was doing these days. He couldn't help but wonder about the decisions he took in his past, that had confined him into his own little room with a set of course books, willingly. Actually that's a lie. He knew exactly what those decisions we...

A few millenniums ago, in a cave that doesn't exist, he understood value of progress, it was an art he couldn't resist. He set off towards a journey, that transcended all the bounds. He yearned to reach the sky, after covering all these grounds. But now that he has reached everywhere his heart desired, what shall lie ahead of him, what new spark shall be fired? Was this fire of excitement everything that ever mattered? Or did gaining a sense of familiarity bound the ashes that had scattered? Did he even want to remember memories of the fires he imparted? Or for him all this was just a game where past ended when future started? Does he need to be reminded, there is a weight he carries with him? That every fire brought collateral damage, and progress came while morality was dim?                                ...