From The Quill

Where the damp wall  Smells like home;  And the faded poster on the wall  Reminds me of good times. There is this glow in the dark  Pack of Stars that I put up  Because I am scared of the dark.  And the bed, pillows and cushions  Seems to know me more than people. They witnessed my insecurities and fears. I can tell you which book is on which shelf  Without really looking,  Every single showpiece holds a strong meaning.  And a picture of You watches over me.  I can cry there in peace,  Scream, yell, vent and rant  All to myself, without judgement.  To people, it looks like a lonely corner  Where I allow no one, and nobody cares for it.  But to me, in good days and bad  That is my safe space. ~  Suranya

Confessions of a Lover  Etched in stone  For time immemorial  For you to adorn;  A love that was  Yet couldn't be.  Time's reminder to its travellers  That not all who love are happy  Not all whose names survive  Die a hero for their Beloved. Betrayal, abandonment, sacrifice  Virtues that a heroine would often live by,  That proved her worthy of being  A protagonist in his life.  But she was so much more.  One whose name was lost in time  Because her identity  Was not defined by his. Yet somewhere in some Bard's tale  A pillar or a few words in stone  She survives through time as his  Even when life kept them apart. © Suranya S ometimes in history, when you treat people as people, you stumble across characters, stories and incidents that touch your heart. Thanks to Anandabazar Patrika and its article on Saru Maru edict, long after I had read and mostly forgotten about Devi, what Asoka's first ...