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Watching the play of light coming through a keyhole on the ceiling in her dark room at night, and the particles of duct in the rays, the poet wonders.
Dark night gives pleasure to hear things quiet I ignore throughout the day- days week -weeks year-years The breath going in coming out create a melody I’m mustn’t miss.
Ceiling above me create a pattern of poetry with light when a small keyhole in the door allows the aura to seep into, It is deep and clear the dust particles are dancing in it Do they also talk like us? or Do they just exist? like some of us!
Now when I quit the porch of my house, things become a little louder yet allow me to hear the fluttering of maple leaves or flickering of old street lamps Leaves are the ones, who are yellow and dead they fall on the lake covered with algae they met kissed and celebrated death. Lamps who are rusted yet flicker in hope of another day. I noticed all this yet it isn’t just me living in this city of poems…
Image source: Sinnita Leunen on pexels
A passionate scribbler and wishful bread earner. A working professional in an embassy and a freelancer French language trainer. A voracious reader and loves to connect readers and writers. Author of Ibiza by Geetika Kaura ( read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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