NavDharmyug

Dev sat on his knees as if in a confession, staring at the bright red shirt spread on the bed in front of him, his eyelids dropping with a sadness that sits so heavy on the soul that it makes one’s shoulders droop. Tears welled up in his eyes, fogging his spectacled vision, as he ran his palms over the soft fabric lying in front of him. He felt as if he was trying to touch the person for whom it was meant. His eyes narrowed as if trying to find something in a distance. He looked from one side of the wall to another, as if trying to ease out the lump in his throat, as if trying to loosen the sudden stiffening of the neck. He threw his head back and stared at the blank ceiling for a while as if looking for some sign from above. He could feel his desperate silent prayers rising up and eventually falling on his face unanswered. Sadness does not come at once, it comes in waves, one after another, each more cruel than the one that went before. He felt as if the space and heaven was shrin...

Writing in itself is a difficult task. No one wants anyone to write. Still people write. Some write expertly and leave their work for the posterity, some write shoddily, struggling like yours truly, and await readers. I try to write, as routinely as possible, if nothing else. I have been struggling with getting the manuscript of my collection of stories readied for publishing.  Writing is easy. Being a writer is not. I have been struggling to edit the stories. There is a wonderful book- The Writer's Journal - by Virginia Woolf, which I keep going back to, now and then. No one impresses the difference between knowing how to write and writing better than Ms. Woolf.  "..I think writing must be formal. The art must be respected." writes Ms. Woolf.  I have come to realize how hard it is as I am editing my stories and trying to reach what could be a perfect name for the collection. However, the entire travel for a week could not find me finishing the task at hand. ...

Courtesy: Getty Images It was Christmas night. It was a day of exuberance, of joy, of resurrection of faith. Happy delightful lights filled up the darkest crevices of night. The sounds of kids playing, the melody of sweet laughter, the Christmas carols running in looped consistency swallowed the dark sadness of a cold, December night. The air was full of warmth of close embraces which floated away, melting the freezing air. Beautiful people, dressed in lovely clothes, kids overdressed, men impeccably dressed, and women scantily dressed, wandered around in the air-conditioned interiors of the mall, trying hard not to bump into one another. Rameshwar felt tired. His eyes waded through the crowd to the opposite corner of the Atrium where some good looking and rich-looking women had set up stalls selling cakes and other things to eat. He had been there during the afternoon and the upturned brows of the exquisite ladies setting up those stalls and the prices mentioned made him qui...

Courtesy : Marta Moran Bishop- Authro and Poet The Sun was bright, but its bright, white light, under which the rugged Earth shone, like youth in its prime, carried no warmth of love. The chill which seeped through the spine, overpowered the mild struggle, almost half heartedly put up by the splendid rays, landing on the arrogantly and audaciously rising mountain. Lance Naik Narender Singh looked out of the window of his barrack. The view was lovely, with only two things obstructing a complete surrender of human mind to the surreal beauty outside-Fierce, unnerving cold and the constant fear. The mountain spread before the eyes, like an enormous giant, with arms spread wide, the blues of the far, merging into to greens spread below them. He had tried to explain what he viewed outside his window, many times earlier to Titali, his wife, in the village back home. She had never been beyond the dusty lanes of the small village, in the hinterlands of the country, about two hundre...

While it is common to find blog interview of writers and bloggers, this one is of someone who doesn't write but provides a sanctuary for those who write. This is my second blog interview, after I did one for dear friend and a great writer, Marta Moran Bishop (  Marta's Interview  ). Julie Larson, born in 1960, put together a website called StoryStar.com which she has been running for last three years. The site has propagated over the years through word of mouth and gets close to 60000 returning visitor each month. It  isn't  an impersonal techie venture, but the site finds true involvement from the lady who has been running it all by her own. Julie’s venture set up to provide a venue to writers to showcase their short-stories on the internet for many people to read for free. Julie runs the website on her own, a one-woman army with the zeal and dedication of a missionary. She picks the stories, reads and approves them, interacts with the writer and encourages them t...