He’s a perpetual outlander. Whenever cords of insecurity throttled him, he’d track the movement of the monster on a paper-page in his favourite haunt.
She’d no lean-on for emotional support. Her past wounds still wide open, it’s beyond her bandwidth to deep-dive into another affaire de coeur.
Skirting the edge of open-air lawn at the summer house appareled in oaks growing at an angle, sat the participants.
Compère’s voice floated in the air: “This afternoon we’ll begin by quoting from memory most memorable lines from Classics. The mike is yours.”
An animal-advocate was on his way to a forest-resthouse when the rain came down by the bucketful. It grew steadily darker.
A truck menacingly appeared round the narrow mountain-bend. While making way, he slipped; fell into the void.
The camel was couching in the thin grass, when its keeper helped her on with the climb.
The dromedary then abruptly rose, first on its hind legs, jerking her forward into a heap, then on its forelegs, sharply tilting her backward.
When I stepped out of the actor’s abode, I was in a daze. I understood why Lean chose him for A Passage to India. Seeking to soak myself in his surroundings I sat on a bench overlooking a cemetery nearby.
The image of him slumped over the hospital bed has dropped anchor in me never to leave.
Unable to sleep, he called me one late-night, his voice a husky whisper.
I stand near the road-verge. The artist who brought me here from another realm caresses me whenever I feel homesick. Passers-by who see my flower-clusters can’t take their eyes off.
Travelling to any place, I often go out exploring it in the dark.
That night, in a secluded spot under a last quarter moon in a town called Bansuri, I found a besuited man in conversation with himself.
Just as I appeared directly in the line of his vision, he fell silent.
Read the book by the Jewish Memoirist I prescribed for you? She regards journaling thoughts as her Saviour. Tell me straight up what does writing do for you? When I get eyeballs on my work, I live, otherwise I wilt. So publication comes uppermost, right? Yes! You must revisit Emily. Bronte? Dickinson. She’s very famous. …
The wind was ripping at him as he entered the tree-shaded Ashram. The garden path led him to the riverside where he sat on a chair and looked out at the coursing river.
