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Shriram iyengar
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The man who wasn't
The man who wasn't

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Lunar Musings
White blotched orb. Keeper of secrets. Guardian of somnolent souls. Scribe of crazy silence. Eternal insomniac. Lonely heart. Wolf god. Or Goddess. Gaia's pale stalker. Pockmarked space football. Conductor of ocean tides. Chopin's muse. Galileo's muse. And ...

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Conversations
Conversations Quiet, muddled, befuddled Never reaching a conclusion Endless, meandering, circumambulating Tiresome in their childish repetitions. Conversations Are never clear They never come to me Like they do in my dreams Lucid, transparent With you befor...

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Exhausted
I wish to be exhausted Too tired to breathe Walking on broken bones Staggering to bed Empty of thoughts, feelings and you So I work myself through  pains last flashpoint Break all memories' joints Forget the task of remembering Build a life of dismembering ...

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Be True...Re-view - The Secretive Six by Saurabh Mathur
Umberto Eco, offering advice on his complicated task of writing, said, “ If we think that our reader is an idiot, we should not use rhetorical figure s, but if we use them and feel the need to explain them, we are essentially calling the reader an idiot. In...

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The Upakarma
"If you are going to do it for my sake, at least do it right" Mr Iyengar grumbled. Harish frowned. Srivatsan Iyengar glared at his son. He set the boy's hands right. The sacred thread had to be held properly. It is not just another thread. The Brahmaghantai...

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Tum mere paas hote ho goya...
I opened my eyes to annoying brightness.  'Where are we going' , she asked.  I didn't know. Somewhere good, I hope. Why are you here? 'Why? Would you rather I was not?'  The desert raced past the windows. I was in a bus. I could see her reflection imposed o...

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Night Meteors
On cold stale nights When the cold, black hole of my heart Swallowing a thousand memories, Casts ash black dust On a tired soul, Your memory stirs.  Rising, burning, undying Your white hot fingers touch my heart, And suddenly everything is ablaze. Everythin...

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REM Sleep
The quietness of dawn is creeping upon me. There is no sound, but I can feel it. In the coldness that covers the floor. The creaks and snores of bodies in the other room. The sound of the dripping tap, one that was to be fixed last week, causes a mild irrit...

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The Attack of the Cells
Strangely, it takes time to settle in. You hear your  speak the words, but they flow over you. The dab of the needle is dulled by the anaesthetic, till the moment it wears off. Then you feel the prick, the cold steel prodding its way through your veins. The...
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