We love our first love the hardest. Our first love is spontaneous: we’re risky, we’re daring and we feel that there’s no danger in loving wild. We love without precautions, … Continue reading Why love is like coffee
Acceptance is a happy feeling. To feel accepted, is to feel loved. It’s thrilling, it’s engaging – and it’s also a very good boost for your self-esteem. Since ‘acceptance’ holds … Continue reading Of questions and answers: is agony chic the new cool?
I came across these comments in the spam: (All the comments come up to 2,179 words – yes, I actually counted. Yes, the skeptics are free to do so too. … Continue reading Elder wand found! A good, gracious, thank you
Yesterday, somebody asked me, “Why do you write?” I stayed silent because I knew that the question wasn’t as direct as it looked. He asked again, “No, Khushboo, tell me … Continue reading The most honest and naked piece of writing I have written about me yet -Throwback to new beginnings.
Writer’s Note: This is the second part of the story ‘Stained Love’. This is an entirely fictional piece. This post is not meant to hurt or offend anybody. All comments and feedback is welcome.
Writer’s note: This story is an entirely fictional piece. Created from my vivid viewings and scattered memories of numerous brave and strong women who have pulled their life together even after it was completely shattered. I admire the courage and the fortitude of people- especially these women, who have fought through their darkest times and have been able to come out of their trauma and pain. As a storyteller, I try to record their bitter times, hoping to portray how one’s will and resilience paves the path of better times and better days. This story has been written in parts and everyday, a new part will be posted on my blog. This is a new endeavor and part of the collection of ‘Housewife Tales’. I request all viewers to leave their feedback and comments which will give me an insight to what the audience thinks and believes. Happy viewing.
(Many a times there are lives which don’t seem to be parallel with our lives. But, these lives do exist. So here is the forgotten tale of the old man whose name was never known, but whose mind was loud and beautiful and I wish I would’ve heard that music.)
A scornful smile filled his lips as he walked.
The old man at the Church was what he was called.
He swept and he mopped and purged the traitors to God.
He swam and dunked and walked for miles in light, for the light.
A cold summer evening, he put on his husky hat,
Smiled a smile of gloom and galloped,
With a lantern in one hand and a casket in another.
His beloved rested in an old, willow hut,
Where the olive brew cooked.
He scorned at the sun, and laughed at the orangish aura of the autumn leaves.
He whimpered in pain, and stared forlorn,
The old armoire was bleeding rust,
Cracking up in moths and dust,
Scooping his dreams with a hollowed broomstick and lazy moonlight,
He laughed at the greyhound room’s hallucinations and flames,
Whimpering in the sawdust and scrapples,
Numb with the mischief of his tattered, unhinged, unabashed mind.