Count to Seven

Golden. That's how the sunlight was, as it eased in through the window, and fell on the floor, stumbling through the clutter of the room, crawling up the desk, groping for a hold on the bed. The sky outside was a clear blue, with flakes of snow-white clouds strewn across. Dew-drops lounged on the grass-blades, glistening as the rays hopped over them.

Gold, blue, and green; the colours dominated outside, striking up a harmony.

Tranquil. Serene. Peaceful...

"KABIR! If I find you still on that bed, I swear I'll--"

As Parveen Shah rounded the door, her words died in her throat, lodging themselves there. She swallowed.

The Lark

When I was a child, I was friends with a lark. It was no ordinary bird, for it could talk. And by talk, I mean human speech. This isn't one of those stories where in the end, the narrator turns out to be an animal or some inanimate object.

I was speaking about the lark, yes.

Poems.

I wrote these poems in school, for the class assembly. Extremely unprofessional poems, but had to post something here.

SLAP!!!!!!

       The chairs were neatly arranged for us, the students! A rarity in my school. But then, it's not everyday that you are bade farewell from your school. My mind was on a totally different frequency as the students and teachers gave their speech. I was hearing only snippets of conversations and speeches passing through.