She is too shy for comfort. At times, I can’t even find a way to start a conversation. At the most, she would nod, maybe a smile in her boldest days. Leaning against the door, gripping hard at the ends of her attire, she would twist the threads in nervousness. I can notice sweat trickle down her forehead, as she talks.
And I wonder:/ These heads popping out, their throbbing figures,/ Are they figment of my imagination?/ Do they gather just to make me realize/ I am no anomaly, a part of them, Possibly estranged.
Keats the person we know has been pictured through word-of-mouth...it remains amusing to me how an article read on Keats is almost always an article forgotten.
Ganguly in inertia for a moment and then his fall, one arm below his body, his cry of agony — provided a poetic moment for the lensmen and T.V audiences, but for us the writers, if we had written, we would have had to do with cliches like ‘aged warrior’ and ‘falling hero’.
