Six Months to Numb Your Senses. {poetry}
It wasn’t easy, but six months on, I can safely say that I can now think of my father without the tears rolling uncontrollably.
Browsing Tag:
Smitha Vishwanath
My Home Is the River. {poetry}
"May there be no hurdles," I pray. "May my home find its way. May it reach its destination," I chant an incantation. "Om Namah Shivaya."
Branches: Trying to Find Reason Behind This Madness. {poetry}
As I tried to find reason behind what had happened, something within me clicked. All the sorrow I felt in my heart changed into gratitude.
When We Can Do Nothing Else, We Wait. {poetry}
We wait for the world to go back to normal, to be able to meet and greet each other like old times, to be able to breathe freely.
Acceptance: The Act of Jettisoning. {poetry}
Acceptance is the key to healing and surviving. It demands honesty about one’s failures, abilities, weaknesses, situations and mistakes.
I Cannot Tell the Difference. {poetry}
I found no difference in the killing of eight-year-old Kathua in Kashmir and 23-year-old Nirbhaya in Delhi. Which one was worse, I do not know.