An array of colorful camps dotted the river banks, like a Garrison of army on a peace keeping mission. A mini India; many great nations; different people living in the same place, an inversion of the notion of nation.

All writers pen sad stories to garner sympathy, writing is after all for the abandoned of the society: the ink-leech, spewing black blood and sucking innocent souls.

But you raised a ruckus about and threatened to perform a Julius Caesarian on anybody on anybody who calls April the cruelest month- I was Damn born out of the loins of my father in the spring of April, you claimed. Surgeon, you stood up for the month of buds and bitches like a true Kuon Kunos

It had remained a mystery to me, a catholic magic, i suppose. Faith is the best Googly one can bowl: God, the proverbial third umpire.

The gods are real crazy when it comes to prayers. They listen to some sometimes and do not listen to some sometimes. But the whole world prays, nonetheless-All the time

Tough to part; lock, stock and barrel. Something remains, like recognizable tastes and smells, which kindle the faculty of memory, yea-pricks the soul.

What can a fallen star wish for, but it fulfills other's wishes, is it not?

For, if after fifty you don't live the aspirations of the young, go away. Who needs needs spectacled snails, salivating on the Soma of youth.

Life cannot be lived without irritations and angers; fights and placation-A cycle of Karma, wheels of succor.

That is what the opposites do, cross the swords invariably and unknowingly.