You’re that newspaper column..

People write auto-biographies

People write biographies

People write books and novels

People read them all

People write poems and stories

People always try to express

Either by words or actions

Words can vary from one to many

Actions can vary from null to all

But it’s all out there

Similar is a newspaper column

In the middle page of the newspaper

Because people like my parents

Start reading from the front page

And seldom go till the middle

And people like me

Start reading from the last page(sports section)

And never EVER go till the middle page

And that newspaper column

Remains unread by people like us

But it doesn’t matter much

Because the author of that column

Will definitely would had made sure

That he gives his best effort to the column

Irrespective of the reading audience

And he will also make sure that

He cuts that column and keep as a

Memior for life

About his small yet important works of life

Such is life

Like a newspaper column

Important to us and hence kept

Like a rose and protected and safe

Only by us

What others think

Or how others act

Shall not make us NOT live our life fully 🙂


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

P.S. : Cheers to Life and that special newspaper column with our name written in it 🙂 Today’s song is The climb of Miley Cyrus 😉 Monday is here 😦

Help me tell my story..

I was there in my balcony,

looking at the vast blue sky,

seeing the birds migrate,

gazing at the slowly setting sun,

reminiscing the good old days.

Those days, when I used to count backwards,

to that day when my grandma would come,

come to visit me from village.

It didn’t matter what did she bring for me,

hand-made pickles, a bag of toys or any other thing.

What mattered was THE STORIES.

I used to love listening to stories,

bedtime stories of ghosts,

noon time stories of king & queen,

stories I read from my books,

stories I visualized myself to feel safe.

The lesson learnt from each story was crucial,

but more crucial was the imagination,

the way in which I visualized myself as the protagonist.

The movement of hands of my grandma while telling the stories,

the lowering of tempo of her voice during suspense,

the big wide eyes to show surprise,

the soothing smile to show happy ending,

was all very important to me.

I used to believe more in that imaginative world.

I used to think that my imaginative world could had given me more pleasure,

because I could not keep those stories inside me anymore.

I needed to tell those to someone, to anyone, but in vain,

because I was only meant to listen them,

as I was born a Dumb!!