Getting up early on a cloudy morning, knowing that the feeble light that enters your room had divorced the boring, punctual time long back, is agonizing. It brings about waves of feelings rushing unto your mind. The outstation boy starts missing his home, the scent of his mother that only mothers have. The city girl is caught indecisive between the immediate and the moment later - she chooses to stay at bed convincing her of an illusion of the alarm. And the writers wait for the sound of rain. Cloudy morning dullness is pandemic. It touches all, paused to let each one of us have a philosophical view of life that has been and that is to be on a balance sheet. Rain blushes with poetry from an old window view, the same gushes with disgust in an water-logged street. Most of the Cities in tropical India are a pampered child along the south while the northern parts of them are still parental - they are orthodox, troubling and still warm. People excuse themselves in the name of rains f...
Some Memories are hard to hold on So I put them on words.