The Vulture King

With sand slipping away under his feet, King Suriya observed the desert ocean in front of him. There was no question of giving up. Determined to win, the King moved towards the next slithering dune, right then he saw, or he thought he saw, a shadow. He looked all around, but could only see the golden brown sand soaking the sunlight happily. The King looked up, the blue sky turning bright white almost blinded his vision. King Suriya thought, ‘illusion’, and resumed his journey.

The Vulture King followed him.

The Vulture King

They will meet, King Suriya and the Vulture King, and set out on a fabulous journey. Read the novella ‘The Vulture King’ by Aditya Thakur, an indie author from India. It is enriching. 

(For more information check Aditya Thakur’s website –

I Am With Miss S. Bhattacharya

A cotton wrap dress, flat sandals, a jhola bag, drop earrings and a messy bun, Miss Bhattacharya looks ready. She is beautiful. Oh, she doesn’t like the bun, okay. Open hair looks fine, more than fine I mean.

She cannot hide a smile, still she tries and smiles more. Just look at her, she is trying right now. Her crazy talkative mind is talking. No, not talking, but singing, yes, she is clicking her fingers… now she waves her hand rhythmically in air.

Miss Bhattacharya is walking, she is humming, the wind plays with her hair, and she lets it. She is a sweetheart! And she shouts at the auto rickshaw driver. What? Well, yeah, the driver nearly splashed her. It’s a crowded street for all.

But our Miss Bhattacharya lives in the present, she has crossed the road and is humming again. She loves to wear her smile, even in difficult situations, even at the crossroads. You know where she has reached now? At a crossroad, will she turn left or right, maybe she will go straight.

Miss Bhattacharya is a woman of decision. And so, oh, she is turning back, she is running now, running back. Time check! Yeah, she is late, oh no. She must have forgotten something, some silly little thing, no worries. We all forget.

“Oh, how can I forget switching off the stove, the iron, the fans and the lights… stupid, stupid… yikes, I think I forgot to lock the door, arrh”, said S. Bhattacharya.

Ha! Alright, this is all normal. These things happen with everyone. Only yesterday, I forgot something… can’t even remember what it was. Shut up! The point is, Miss Bhattacharya rules, she rules her simple, crazy, funny life. (I used crazy twice… why?)

Who am I? The narrator, of course. My distinct voice makes it so obvious. Oh, you can’t hear me, my bad.

Where did Miss Bhattacharya go? I am the narrator, you cannot leave me. Wait for me Miss Bhattacharya, you’re the protagonist!

Miss S. Bhattacharya dressed as a warrior or a queen, I guess.
She likes to dress up, okay. It is an old photo.

You think the King Remembered What He Was Supposed to Remember?

I am the greatest of all great kings. I rule the land and the sea. Bow to me!

You’ll be dust one day, and completely forgotten.

My sons will carry my family name. We are the royals. Cheers to me!

Your sons will be dust too, and never talked about, ever.

My public worships me. I shine in gold and silver, I am the one they write about. Sing to me!

Once dust, you’ll become a name in a chronological list of the dead kings.

I am a just king, blessed by the almighty.

You think you’re immortal?

No. I know I’ll die one day.

Like all the others.

Like all the others…

Just remember this.

(In reference to no particular king and each and every king.)

Roger II of Sicily receiving the crown
from Christ, Martorana, Palermo.

MUSIC In A Silent Way


The room was dimly lit, the colours were all crayon textured and old… they all easily submerged in it. More footsteps could be heard and voices… voices were telling each other tales only known as a secret before by some selected few. Voices were joking, but just for a while. Soon they were talking MUSIC.

Soprano saxophone and electric guitars

Rhythms were played verbally and details were given through gestures. People gathered around knew it was time… time to create. Like a charm, everyone flowed, everyone flowed and synced to reach the MUSIC.

Organ, double bass and drums

Time stopped to bask in the musical waves… the musical waves were powerful enough to capture time. It danced, yes, it did. The room stayed dimly-lit, crayon shades also didn’t change… the room and the colours were in awe like little children looking through a wire fence… even the floor swayed… in a silent way, everyone did.

Trumpet, soprano saxophone, electric guitars, organ, double bass and drums later reminded Time to begin.

(This post is dedicated to the studio album In A Silent Wayby Miles Davis – )

The Human Touch

Sometimes in routine
Of living
Feelings go missing
Between those replies
If received
Feelings are deceived
Waiting, waiting… waiting
Those confused
Feelings feel amused
With dictionaries galore
One lures
Feelings for sure
The human touch
Just means
Feelings that are
Soulful means.
The Human Touch
Image by Daniel Reche from Pixabay

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Excerpts from the yet-to-be-written book – Unheard Voicemails

“If I have reached your voicemail, will my message also reach you… the message that was meant to be a talk… a conversation… will it be heard by others… will you listen to it whilst storing the grocery… and at what time… surely not now, right? Don’t answer these questions… I have got the answers already, yet I continue talking, recording this message… and now I hope you’re not there, letting me go on and on like this… I hope you’re not there, lying on the sofa, thinking whether to pick up the call or not… I hope you’re not there… My mind’s is talking too fast for me to keep a record of what it is trying to say to me to convey to you via this voicemail. Hmm… So anyway, it was nice… nice voice-mailing you. I guess, I just wanted to hear your voice. Bye!”

“Hey! Me again, sorry for the bizarre voicemail… but not if you thought it was kind of funny… okay, bye!”

“Hi… about the voicemail, it was bizarre… but definitely true, very true… okay, ciao!” 

In A Rush/ Not In A Rush

Life seems to be in a rush

And thoughts blurry
Like passing an array of lights
On moonless nights

Timely, untimely one hears
What is not said
But is felt vaguely
And declared mandatory suddenly

One click, one blink, one tick-tock
And life is not the same
And I will happily testify to it
For I, unlike life, am not in a rush

What Made The Monk Smile?

The monk was tired, he drank the water from the rivulet, still felt the same. Like the dark heavy clouds that take over the sky so often, the monk had almost given up to such heaviness. If only he could just sit there forever and listen what stories the wind brought to him.

Thinking this he got up and moved ahead. One step at a time. The seamless pattern, the embroidery cross, squares, diamonds, chevrons on his sweater soaked in the sun; it was a parting gift, the monk couldn’t refuse the loving people of that small village.

Strong wind currents and his rough hard shoes made music together; often the pebbles added to it.

Lines on his forehead made him look tense. Just then he reached a fork in the road; the monk stood still and saw two things – the rough path ahead and a tiny little flower beaming at him, growing out of the rocky mountain. The monk walked towards the flower and stared at it.

He smiled and resumed walking ahead. His smile echoed in the mountain valley. 

A Hit Comic Strip – Mr. Bombay

Volume 1, Issue 2
Ha ha ha!
Then Mr. Bombay said, “check out this O-some song. Bobby McFerrin is O-some.”

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