A great person said, ” Words have so much power that it can create emotions, words can do a lot to a person.” SImilarily, Saadat Hasan Manto the master of words wrote some beautiful piece of literature in his writing career. He was a writer, playwright, novelist, and short story writer. His short stories like Khol Do, Khali Salwar, Tanda Ghosht was among the most controversial piece of literature. Manto was praised by many Indian Directors and Producers. The film begins with
With grease on his pudgy little hands, sweat pouring down his burning neck, brows furrowed in innocent concentration he toils endlessly, not knowing any other world but the one, where working is the sole palpable reality. The excitement children of his age feel when being promoted to using a pen he has never known. He isn’t even aware of a thing called education. All he is aware of is his master’s hand hovering inches away from his skin eager to feel his body tremble. What is
Maybe its not that to you that it is to me
Its far more complex that it seems to be
Soon it becomes so simple that we
Fall into it so easily
This love is that to me what its not to thee
A life long walk together we see
No me No you now we are we #Poetry #englishpoetry #poetic #Writer #Poetrywriting #love #poem #complex
Indians have been writing verse in English at least since the 1825 and it goes under many ludicrous names- Indo-English, India-English, Indian English, Indo-Anglian and even Anglo Indian and Indo-Anglian. Indian writing in English emerged during colonial rule and was shaped by Indians’ desire and the necessity to describe their own social realities and destinies in the face of British political dominance and purported cultural superiority. English was a language that came to
I entered the central library for the very first time to complete a script and was worried as the deadline was approaching. Without wasting any time I sat on the bench beside the main entrance and started with the research. While reading I found that the subject of the play had many sub-subjects which were as important as the main subject and had to be included in the backstory. I wanted to jot the topics but to my bad luck, I didn’t carry a pen or a notebook. But childishly
Come back, where are you?
Without you, everything is still
A part of my heart aches
Every fraction of my soul grieves
And panting and is all alone.
I am rushing through my emotions
And find no hope, no light
Only darkness, outside your abode.
And I try to peel every emotion
You are intact in, out of my skin.
When you left and went far
I fell like rose petals
Naked, grieving and all alone
It felt a thunder like heart cramp.
And it hurt me just right
Like of a va
I didn’t know when
I fell in love
for the second time.
Butterflies- which died long ago-
started flapping their wings
in my stomach.
I wasn’t aware she was:
We started sharing glances
But no words
I was scared of losing it again
But she was eager for her first.
Amidst all this,
I kissed her pink petals,
And my tongue wondered
Beyond my lips…
Neither she nor did I
Sensed the minutes passing by.
We found love in sublime silence,
And each other’s eye.
Sitting on a couch
I see outside through
The corner of my window
The dusk rising,
Dim and unclear around
An indicative sign of darkness
Into a dark night.
I see the darkness looping
Over the roof, abruptly
Nudging through my
Windows and doors, slowly
Filling the empty room dark
Killing my reflection in the mirror
Opposite to the stained wall
Engulfing my thoughts, it
Swallowed my brain
The unraveled darkness
Started consuming me
These Few lines from the mouth of the dying hunger artist are one of my favorite lines from the story “Hunger Artist” by Kafka. “because I couldn’t find a food which I enjoyed. If had found that, believe me, I would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart’s content, like you and everyone else.” “One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug”. The Kafkaes
He was staring at the wall continuously, brushing his fingertips past the smooth surface, glaring at it constantly so much so that it seemed like he looked down at the wall. The wall was so beautiful, no scars, next to perfect paint and a smooth surface, smoother than anything else. It could be a really good muse and it indeed was for him. All the credit for his work went to the wall. The wall of perfection. The wall that made him write. The wall that made him love. The wall