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"It was a wonderful experience interacting with you and appreciate the way you have planned and executed the whole publication process within the agreed timelines.”
Subrat SaurabhAuthor of Kuch Woh Pal
I write these words not to capture you, not to hold you, but to honor you. So that when the pages close, when silence returns, and when the years pass, a part of you remains here—tender, luminous, eternal. Every unfinished poem, every color in my sarees, every photograph where my laughter spills freely—they all carry traces of you. They are fragments of a love that refuses to be constrained by time, by distance, by the ordinary world.
This
I write these words not to capture you, not to hold you, but to honor you. So that when the pages close, when silence returns, and when the years pass, a part of you remains here—tender, luminous, eternal. Every unfinished poem, every color in my sarees, every photograph where my laughter spills freely—they all carry traces of you. They are fragments of a love that refuses to be constrained by time, by distance, by the ordinary world.
This is not an ending. It is a breath. A quiet promise. That no matter what storms arrive, no matter how far life stretches us, we will find each other again and again. And when that day comes, when all the fragments of our journey align, we will simply hold each other and say, “I told you we would make it.” Until then, I carry you in every heartbeat, in every word, in every silence. Because you are, and therefore I am.
I write these words not to capture you, not to hold you, but to honor you. So that when the pages close, when silence returns, and when the years pass, a part of you remains here—tender, luminous, eternal. Every unfinished poem, every color in my sarees, every photograph where my laughter spills freely—they all carry traces of you. They are fragments of a love that refuses to be constrained by time, by distance, by the ordinary world.
This
I write these words not to capture you, not to hold you, but to honor you. So that when the pages close, when silence returns, and when the years pass, a part of you remains here—tender, luminous, eternal. Every unfinished poem, every color in my sarees, every photograph where my laughter spills freely—they all carry traces of you. They are fragments of a love that refuses to be constrained by time, by distance, by the ordinary world.
This is not an ending. It is a breath. A quiet promise. That no matter what storms arrive, no matter how far life stretches us, we will find each other again and again. And when that day comes, when all the fragments of our journey align, we will simply hold each other and say, “I told you we would make it.” Until then, I carry you in every heartbeat, in every word, in every silence. Because you are, and therefore I am.
Wandering thoughts, veracious darkness, tangled-jumbling worries, unrest soul, daunting mind, assiduous efforts by heart ………...that had left all stimulus on backfoot and had set the tranquil feelings in mere abstraction finally found a way with the ink and a zeal to pour it out with certain poetic license. These poems are the words written while exploring the unexplored hidden 'self'. WORDS are the best replacement for the tears spilled, p
Wandering thoughts, veracious darkness, tangled-jumbling worries, unrest soul, daunting mind, assiduous efforts by heart ………...that had left all stimulus on backfoot and had set the tranquil feelings in mere abstraction finally found a way with the ink and a zeal to pour it out with certain poetic license. These poems are the words written while exploring the unexplored hidden 'self'. WORDS are the best replacement for the tears spilled, prayers unanswered, longings that remains waiting in solace, colossal losses and purest of the pure emotions. In a hope will provide a little solace to many in the outbound world.
Balloon waala was selling colourful balloons at the corner of the mall road. He was hopefully looking to the passers by and was attracting the little kids with the colorful, dotted and striped air filled toys.A child stopped near him. His mother was not interested in the little wish of the little Read More...
Slurrp....slurrp....he was sipping the tea for wading off the tiredness. In the sweltering heat he works for 8 continuous hours. He thought of her. He thought how she used to serve him steaming hot fulkas with onion and green chilly chutney. Her smile fades away all his worldly worries. A tear found Read More...
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