#fiction
Comeuppance
I have a confession to make. In December 1992, I lied in court. Yes, I was fully aware that I was under oath, standing in front of an esteemed jury.
I have a confession to make. In December 1992, I lied in court. Yes, I was fully aware that I was under oath, standing in front of an esteemed jury.
I realise each garment is a storyteller. The ritual is a personal journey of listening and feeling the stories. The warmth permeates through, preparing me for the cold and numbing winter.
It was a cold afternoon in November 2020 when Ma left us.
All came to an end! What remains with us now is the warmth of her memories.
With the ‘kanyadaan’ the girl is expected to shoulder the responsibility of her new family and traditionalists believe that her duty towards her parental home ceases. Feminists scoff at the tradition
Dark, gloomy, foggy, depressing, cold, and numb—these words mostly scream out of our minds when someone gives us 10 seconds to describe winter. But I have been nature’s exception
“It was numbingly cold. Secondly, it was wet. Thirdly, it hid rocks and bushes and, frequently, horse dung and sheep droppings.”
It scares me that mothers can age too. Even if I find it hard to accept, she is slowing down and not as invincible as I’ve always perceived her to be.
A collection of thoughts on what festivity means to women
Season 8 is a mellowed and watered-down version of previous ones; the Koffee has gotten Kold. (Or is it Karan’s Konscience?)
