Leafy Meadows

Dust. It settled quietly, on the arches of the stone gate that once protected the haveli from the inquisitive eyes of the intruders. Small creepers now rented the crevices of these stone joints and weeds of all kinds flourished here unaware that they have taken abode on the compound of Maharana Uddham Singh's Haveli. The Lasts of the Rana, for he now is without an heir and living his old days in a small community near France and Switzerland border The strong iron gate, which once kept people in awe and would intimidate small village folks who would come to pay respects to the Haveli, decayed slowly. It's iron on the mercy of winds and rain, eroded so much, you could break its bars and hinges by swaying of a stone no bigger than your wrist. When opened its hinges gave a mournful cry of a bygone era and hesitated to nudge forgetting that the strength which once was their pride now was gone and its frail hinges could only cry. The ground inside, untended, now resembled a dilapidat

  Chirping her way in, the little sparrow made the grand entry in the nest, the nest its all but ugly, made comfortable by lining the floor with softest of feathers and cotton and bits of fabric collected over an endless number of flights, well, that was just the bedding. How about the walls then, fine twigs from the softest and tender grass were collected, sorted, and carefully weaved one by one, creating a small shallow and eventually finishing it with another smoothest upholstery of feathers and cotton. Such is the nest of our common sparrow. Perched high on the branches of a fig tree, this sparrow has made her third brooding nest. This she does without exhaustion, it’s the natural urge to pass on the genes and with it the experience of this little life. Insignificant, not even close.   It was raining and summer was just heating up, the sun was too tired of being cold, and was getting hot, for it too, doesn’t like the cold weather. There up in the neem tree, amongst three

  From church room confessions to all swears and oaths and vows. From secret chambers to open conventions, the truth is what makes us bow.                                                                 The feeling of guilt that lingers                                                                 or remember crossing the heart with fingers.                                                                 A thousand lies you say,                                                                 in the end, truth wins the day. Hide it, from the world or the god above or sink it in some abyss unknown. But by you, it will be always known, Coming from your heart's deepest cove.                                                                         And in the end, the truth will surface                                                                    and will mock you and grimace.                                                                    Oh! now you take a vow and oath,