Indulgence

Indulgence is just a personal expression, a search inside the soul, an attempt to tiptoe silently in the inner world of turbid emotions, to embrace oneself for one's imperfections, to allow oneself the liberty of gloom and the madness of joy, and the candidness to mould them into words...

Monday, December 23, 2024

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 I didn't know what to say When I laughed out loud and you told me to shut up When I felt this deep shame burning my cheeks numbing my t...
Friday, August 25, 2023

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I dream of resting your face in my lap and sitting under the stars on a beach. As the waves wash my feet and the breeze dissolves us, we wil...

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What is life If it is not the quiet place That wants to keep staring at leaves that move in the wind And listening to the water make waves W...
Tuesday, September 06, 2022

Sometimes reflections come to me in silly rhymes

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May I always think of work and love as inseparable synonyms May I find ways to color the world with my unique fingerprints May the contents ...
Tuesday, March 22, 2022

Everybody's a Stranger

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Inspired by Sindhuja Sarasram's beautiful anthology, Everybody's A Stranger in which a dear friend is a contributor It was 2007. Sec...
Wednesday, January 05, 2022

Resurrection

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My heart beats fast as I type. This is Indulgence - a labor of love - a place that has hosted so many of my feeble attempts at expression. I...
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Thursday, July 18, 2019

July 27, 2018

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Tonight, I am grateful for growth. For this wisdom that allows you to accept, to let go, to be. For rootedness. For the realization of the ...

November 18, 2018

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"Is human life worth living?", you ask as I tell you the story from my mother's childhood when she returned home to find her ...

February 10, 2019

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Dear T, I write to remind you of the gift that life is. I want you to realize and remember that it is a gift that you must never take li...

Banjara Hills

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There's something intriguing about this part of town, the hills have been carved into roads and streets with beautiful bungalow...
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Tulika Verma
Writing happens to me, like love, like the weather. It makes me a million things more, it gives me an adrenaline rush, and at times it induces an enveloping, nurturing calm. Sometimes, I write for myself, and sometimes, just to be read. I love words. Words that are soft and simple and still magnificent in their implication, and the way they are pronounced. I would not be me but for this congenital love for words, and stories. I love everything simple, and everything old and classy. I love the scent of old yellow pages of books, and the scent of the earth satiated by rain. I love beautiful Rajasthani ornaments, Victorian buildings, old, heavy metal boxes that contain secrets, and stories, of lives long long ago. May be thats why I love all things old, the story part - stories that are hidden in a smile in a black and white picture, in the wrinkles at the back of hands, in the silver of the hair, in large dusty, sound-echoing rooms, in the widespread roots of age-old trees that still stand with enviable dignity; Read more..
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