Designed with WordPress
-
The Namesake : Jhumpa Lahiri In the kaleidoscope of cultural identity, second-generation immigrants are vibrant threads weaving a tapestry of heritage and adaptation. Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel, “The Namesake,” delicately unravels the intricate dance between tradition and assimilation within the life of its protagonist, Gogol. Gogol’s journey begins with the weight of a name—Gogol Ganguli—a name…
-
Navigating a world shaped by adverse and angry surroundings during my upbringing, I developed a coping mechanism—strategic detachment. Instinctively calibrating disengagement from the nauseous aspects of the world, I grew up wanting to be kind, to generate good. However it soon became exhausting to navigate a world where the depth of an individual is often…
-
reference: Madwoman Plays God in the Attic The trope of the “madwoman in the attic” is a traditional literary device used to portray the suppressed, rebellious, and anguished side of women. The madwoman I’ve woven embodies internalized misogyny—her femininity, shaped by patriarchal norms, becomes a source of claustrophobia. She envies men and desires to become one,…
-
My God died. I couldn’t mourn like Antigone. Resisted grief, I killed him. For he refused me at my birth, I abandoned him at his funeral. Orchestrated quite the inferno. Killing is an art, I do it with finesse. Fot I unraveled the divine, with its fall our scripted fate met its end, now one…
-
“Can I have six crackers”? I can hear my brother ask. “If you have six, then your sister only has four. Help me get the walnut butter.” screamed mom. The common scene for 10 years of my life, the nut chaos, and going nuts surrounding the fragile wooden kitchen table. The three of us counting…
-
यूं ही नहीं कहते, ये चिनाब का दरिया है, ये इश्क से भर्या है|| Oh the callus moon river emits cascades of tragic love stories! On its bank Ranjha played his flute,Heer transcended into a devotee. The tranquility witnessed and immortalized their gory, A love that couldn’t surpass drowned in the moon river,picturesque. The volatile…
-
A few days ago I came across a black cat dead under the sheets drenched in blood.The cat seemed at peace,cute, being curious i removed the sheets unfortunately someone stabbed it at its neck… head bloody but unbowed,sin attempted to fill the void,and left it in the cold,somehow the cold didn’t bother it anymore and…
-
i remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere,driven with a strong sense of detachment from the world around and even from myself. Grew to be someone inconceivably remote,out of the stress and tragedy of it all, i remember being 7 locking myself within four walls, alone in my room between two worlds,…
-
what difference is between the monument and i most days even i am a museum of unfettered things, it build of stones and i of bones both trying to suspend time in its eternity… stood the test of time as a token of remembrance bricks and flesh, built and born, both seen as a gesture…
-
Nothing ever ends poetically. What ends tragically, we turn into poetry. Similar to how all blood was never once beautiful, just red. There have been times when artists used a pen, camera, or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger. Hauntingly rich art often dwells out of suffering just as Tennessee Williams once said, “I’m afraid…
till death.we do art 