Pseudo Writer

There is a house at the end of the road, I recognise it from the dusty photographs, that my store room bears the burden of. The house is full of rusty metals in dusty sheets, and devoid of the presence of sentient heartbeats. The main gate still carries a burden too heavy, a board that says 'ABANDONED BUILDING'. And the creaking floorboards ensure the perpetuity, of the solitude that is brought forth as an ambiguity. The tree that is at the centre of the backyard, has been leafless for over a decade. Birds around it have stopped the chirping spree, and squirrels have finished the nuts on the tree. A swing hangs from the withered branch, with one end of the rope torn in the middle, children don't sneak-in to have a who-goes-highest, and the adults don't scold them anymore. I often wonder if this house had abandonment issues, and that's why it became something so different, that I cannot even recognise my childhood home. Because that is what a...

For all that I hold dear, I must ask once more, what shall I do, when I can't do it anymore? When days bring despair and nights are still, what shall inspire me, to pretend once more? Over the illuminated sand, I stand once more, my feet are burning, my hands are sore. I love watching the oyster that graces the tides, even though I know it will never reach the shore. So then why do I do it, please tell me once more, what is it that I've forgotten on that shore? And if it was nothing that I ever left behind, then what's this darkness that I never saw before? I have pretended that I always keep the score, and that I am aware of where I stand on this floor, but I am quite clueless as to where this path can lead, and this pretense is just a front for an internal war. So finally as the front breaks, tremors are heard, ground shakes, I would like to ask just once more, what do I do, now that I can't do it anymore?             ...

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...