The Aisle of Valyria

She was a gorgeous damsel, in her friend’s eyes. Little did they know about her alter-ego. The hundreds of photographs adorning the wall of her room, camouflaged bouquets of memories. The sun loved to peek through the jet black strands of her hair, as Niharika stood like Narcissus every morning, trapped in the vortex of reminisced memories. Today was no different for she was lost in her own world.  One that was made of memoirs inscribed onto the parchments, of the numerous trips she had embarked upon. She emptied the neatly torn pouch into the coffee brewer. The wooden rack, had packets neatly aligned. Coffee beans had always been her souvenir, from the stalls enroute to Batasia Loop in Darjeeling, to the hill-grown beans while birdwatching the Andaman tribes. She sat down on the turquoise duvet that lined her bed, with the mug in her hands. From the aroma of the cappuccino, she could infer that the beans were from the land, where backwaters are looked upon by coconut g...

It can sometimes be quoted as a coincidence, when Cupid silently follows you tip-toed, as a silent spectator, scribbling down excerpts of your conversations, as you walk with the man you find innocent but worthy. You feel all this time, someone’s keeping an eye on you. Still, he keeps you engrossed. You forget to look back and search for those probing, beady eyes. You enjoy it. Even I did. I never thought, I would be standing at such a juncture of life. When I desperately want to retrace back my steps on this cursed path, and resume the same journey on ‘The Road Not Taken’. Frost’s poem was simply an extra chapter in the literature book. It was never meant to be felt. He and I, both feared the outcome of this commitment. Probably, I loved him more. I couldn’t simply sit and watch him, being frisked away by some other girl, in front of my own eyes. I could sense the mirth that poured from his heart. Yet, I couldn’t fathom the depth of the abyss I was already falling into. The ...

Dear stranger, By the time you read this, I will be long gone. Gone, not with the wind, but with the fear of oblivion. I am not shedding tears as I use a pen for the last time. I am shedding blood. Blood that flows free, from the wound that my heart has borne all this while. I am a living corpse of shame. Shame that shrouds like skin, refusing to wear off. The mountains of Leh can’t dilute my sorrow. It was February the 8 th , a year before. The hues of sunset filtering through the glass panes that line the walls adjoining the staircases, failed to enchant me as I walked down. I was dazed and disoriented, for the schedule at my new college had started weighing down on me. Books in my hand, and music filled my ears. I saw a boy of my age, with spectacles like Potter’s, nose-deep in a book sitting on the bench. His face was obscured by the cover of the book, probably a Sheldon. Through the glasses, and over the book edge, he returned my gaze, as our eyes met for the first time....

It was a cold noon, with the sun’s rays not shining through the leaves and cascading onto the staircase that flanked my room. My phone screen on the side desk blared up. ‘On a vacation trying to escape the harsh realities of life?’ was what she had asked. Not my girlfriend. But my girl. The girl who had been, through the ebbs and tides of time. The soft duvet swooned me, trying to lull me back into sleep. Getting up, I walk in a half-asleep trance onto the door, adjacent to the balcony. As I unlatched the door, a reinvigorating gust hit me hard on my face. I didn’t feel the gust, I simply melted into it, just like butter on barbeque. What met my eyes, was an absolute panorama of beauty, encased in serenity. Rain had lashed down some moments back, infusing that green look to whatever seemed lifeless and barren, until now. I was holidaying in Manali, the Switzerland of India. Rightly so, for the scene in front of me was breathtaking. An inn of two storeys, was my refuge. Standing in ...