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Writer. Reader. Dreamer. A Conundrum of thoughts. Riddle in an enigma.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, 2 July 1997

Photo by Shot by Cerqueira on Unsplash

A baby girl breathes to life. She cries to have slipped out of her mother’s womb, in a new world with new images all around. Her bawls are muted by the pouring outside. The sky is wailing too, as an angel has been plucked from its heaven. Her squalls slowly soften into a bleak mewl as she feels safe again in her mother’s arms. The word has spread, the birth of a daughter, a blessing or a curse soon to be found out. Pleasantries are being exchanged, an elated father waiting patiently to bring home…

A poem on longing and connectivity, and everything in between to stay afloat in desperate times.

Image by Katarzyna Micińska from Pixabay

I was a lost sailor in the sea
Trying to find my way back home
Amidst the endless stretches of the deep turquoise
I saw only the remains of our sullen blue-black madness.

“Follow the brightest star, and it will take you where you belong,” was all they had said.
I look up to the sky and each of them shone differently.

Shiny things did never appeal to me,
I was more of a believer in the Beauty in Simplicity kind of a boy. …


Illustration by Spandan Banerji

Winging far away from my motherland of Maharajas and snake-charmers, Namastes and Suprabhats,
In the land of handshakes, milkshakes and Hollywood, is now where I lie. Cows are sacred in India, but “Holy Cow!” the American Outcry.

My name is Daya,
Here, they called me Day-ya.
How do I tell them each time they said it wrong, it actually is Duh-ya.
Daya for mercy, Daya for peace.
If the verbal form too had a font, it would be the ‘Italics’.

All the hundred thousand stars in my eyes,
Now sparkled fiercely in 50 on a flag soaring high. …

Saturday Poetry Prompt: Out of doors

Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash

She had a magical door in her home garden
Decorated with arching vines, from which hung fairy lights
On a string moisture laden.
It only opened for her, a secret escape
From this city life, sitting on her shoulders
Like a brooding and grumping estate.

The key to the enchantment she forever held,
On the other side, a mystical forest.
A Lushness in dark green undertones
Of majestic oaks standing tall,
Olive shrubs squatting short,
Pines racing to catch the sun,
From maples on trees to sweet honey buns.
In between patches of ghost trees lurking, barks in stellar white
A bed…

A poem for the runaway kids

Photo by Roland Lösslein on Unsplash

Young kids,
Born at the rail tracks,
To mothers on the wrong side of the street.
Watch trains pass by, in dreamy eyes.
What gives life could also kill,
Innocent fascination, to merciless assassination,
Air hanging around, all still.

Not knowing a world beyond, with no clue,
where the locomotives are coming from or going to.
They believe in an oblivion mess,
Playing games with themselves,
To be faster than the fastest express.

Sometimes they see faces of beings who look nothing like them
Staring at alien figures, they keep waving at them
In the hopes of a new tomorrow, to a…

The tropical landscape and the monsoon season.

Photo by TOMOKO UJI on Unsplash

Raindrops on the window sill.
The air weighing heavy with the sweet scent of wet soil.
A walk barefoot on the grass.
A radio playing an old classic from the 90’s.
A calm mind and a heart laden with nostalgia.
Endless thoughts to fill your journal.
A companion. ♡

Insight into a day in my life

Illustration by NEETHI

I have a voice; I would like it to be heard too. But there was a problem. I couldn’t let my thoughts out to be exposed for anyone to find them. All these thoughts ever did was just speaking to me in a language that only I could understand. I put them on paper as they made little sense in my head. People who have strength in their verbose abilities do not realize the power of the written word. But for people like me, we get scared. We speak little unless we are spoken to. …

A short story based on a very real comic episode in my family

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Ma wakes up at her usual 5:30am. She sets the water to boil on the stove for the first round of tea to begin the day with.

Same morning rituals took pace at the Saha’s. Sipping on the morning glory; a golden transparent shade of brown, the rich aroma of freshness, typical to every Indian household, while reading the daily gazette paired with some faint Bengali classics playing in the background on the television.

Today was going to be no different.

As she sits herself comfortably on the living room sofa, eager to take on all the worldly affairs and…

Julia Saha

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