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Rivers carry stories more than we know Apart from resilience, swift and meandering. At Buxar, she's just a river  Flowing next to a small town- Making the town famous for ghat rites. Different ghats for different purposes- To celebrate life, to celebrate festivals, And to celebrate death- the one mom took me to On the first outing in this new town- Buxar. It remained in my heart, Never as a bad memory, just another memory. Apart from the flood news and overflowing lines of danger, I was unaware of her sacred magnificent existence. Until I saw her at Haridwar. As if the person treated so ordinarily  Has accessorized and I could not stop gazing. The first look of the bride or the groom, When you're used to their ordinary outfits? Something similar. Surprised at the personality development- At peak, I cried out of joy. I've known her and she's evolved, like me She's respected, adored, worshipped, and loved here Like me, who was loved in the city of Shiva. She beams wit...

Sixty pages into Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own," and I can not stop wondering about how much I can relate to a writer from ages ago.  The book was in my suggested readings in my bachelor's, but here I am reading it years later. The first impression I had from the title was- I want one for myself someday. As a kid, I have witnessed the joy of spending my life in different houses over the decade I spent in the town where I grew up. Mom had to house hunt several times to manage the distance from her office, our schools, and definitely other requirements. Each time after finalising the house, she would suggest a new corner for my dolls. And after we would shift, I remember poking her to remind the promise- the corner of my doll. I have always loved the idea of owning a space, irrespective of the size. Those of us who have lived in hostels would agree. The rooms in hostels are a scam, yet somehow it's a prized experience. I lived in a dormitory during my ba...

Dearest Gentle Reader, It has been more than three hundred and sixty-five days since I scripted a story here. It's not that I stopped writing; the universe should forbid such dark days for a person who's been journaling since their memory. It's not that someone is asking for my updates; I feel like I haven't been to this space of my life, and I want to explore why. Oh no, it's not for you to read and know and gossip about. I have figured out the “why.” Let's get to the part that made me come back. Actually, it wasn't just the ‘why,’ but several things I realized in the last few months. To begin with, I'm now done with my college. Like done-done. Though I haven't received either my bachelor's or my master's degree, trust me, I passed with flying colors. Colors that ten-year-old Ashita can never even imagine. I mean, blooming out of a small place that's barely a town, who would've thought of translating Bhojpuri works into English, atte...

Just a literary testimonial to Das, for being brave in life. I often receive surprises when it comes to reading novels. The biggest of all was my ability to read a 500-page novel The Great Expectations by Charles Dickens) without any academic pressure or requirement. Initially, I was a quote person. I was amazed by the idea of compressing ideas. Oft on YourQuote I discovered such writers. From there I even tried to come up with quotations that would amaze me when I re-read it sometime later.  लोग चांद पे जा रहे और बच्चे काम पर। चुप हूं, गलत नहीं। -are some of my favorite self-composed quotes. The goal was achieved, when I re-read these I feel happy. But it's not that just quotations amazed me. For the first time when I read an open letter, my brain stopped braining (if braining is a word). It was like slowly sliding the curtains to literature’s window, only to discover an unexpected serene scenery.  But Kamala Das’s glimpses from her autobiography scared me for a while. “What ...

From the life of a Dalit: Joothan reflects on the narrator’s journey from ‘Chuhre ke’ to ‘Valmiki’. It was difficult to be Valmiki coming from the swamp. He survived and thrived. The parental support Valmiki had was commendable. The father, who held pride in his son being educated, died with the contentment of his son escaping the caste, although he died as a chuhra. Valmiki’s mother, who dared to dream along with his son, heard the stories he narrated. Even after the severe financial crisis, her Bhabhi didn't hesitate to sell her only jewelry to let the narrator stay away from the dirt of the responsibilities they bore. The livelihood helps people in this community survive, but it dismisses the emotions. When you've got a family to feed with no social support, just fighting with the world to barely exist, this is what comes out as a result. The irony of how we say what's written in a name, yet the emphasis we place on digging into someone’s caste, is quite ironically happ...

The carnival field was full of lightning strikes. Laughter and humor were in the air. I stood near the small fountain, where a boy was quietly gazing at the alcohol consumers. A thick cotton string was hanging around his neck over his torn shirt, and some cards were in his pockets. His face was serious, with a tint of patience. Something unknown attracted me to him. He had contentment in his scarcity. I asked, “What did you see in here, dear?” “I have seen everything. They throw bangles. They aim at toys. They stab numbers with arrows. I liked aiming at toys. The magician is useless. I can display a better show of cards than him.” He replied very profoundly. His words didn’t pause anywhere. I asked, “And what's behind that curtain? Did you go there?” “No, I couldn’t go there. Tickets are charged.” I said, “Let's go; I'll take you there.” I thought, “You're my companion for the day.” He said,“ What will you do there? Let's go shooting.” I agreed with him and said, “C...