I believe the only fragrance that’s never been bottled up is that of old books… that dusty, earthy, faintly exotic transcending you in times immemorial, of paper bound since ages. … Continue reading Fragrance of Words
उर्दू अदब इतनी ख़ूबसूरती से जज़्बातों को बयान करता है, शायद ही कोई और ज़ुबान वो मुक़ाम हासिल कर पायी हो अब तक। एक बेहद ही रूहानी ग़ज़ल है निदा … Continue reading निदा फ़ाज़ली
I want to write, scribble few thoughts And spill those feelings tied in knots and loops of oblivion On a sheet that has seen and lived and breathed the words … Continue reading The Words That Once Were There
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust, French novelist, critic, essayist and a philosopher in his own right. You know when it’s time, you know when it’s that one moment which … Continue reading Marcel Proust
Every piece of writing by all those profound writers influence me.
For a while I slip into a stupor, drunk in their words, the meaning of life in between their sentences- and it’s a wonderful feeling to live the lives they create and weave in between the printed words one after the another.
The social and cultural milieu a writer belongs to reflects in the fabric of their prose. It’s beautiful, it’s like minuscule architectural beauties embedded in a huge structure.
I’m taking a break from all the web readings for a while and go back to the roots where I begin my life, ghosh, Woolf, Marquez, Conrad, Bronte, Eliot… those are the concrete pillars I hold onto whenever I feel myself losing to the insanity of the world around me.