Storygrams
They say I was made for love.
They tuck me behind a bride’s ear,
thread me through garlands,
leave me beside quiet graves,
and hold me between two hands
when words are not enough.
Strange, isn't it?
I have thorns on every stem,
yet somehow,
I became the flower
people chose to say
“I love you.”
I have watched women wear me
in more ways than I can remember.
In braided hair before weddings.
Around wrists during festivals.
Between fingers on quiet evenings.
They called the women beautiful.
I noticed...
Beneath the dying evening light, a little girl carried sunflowers like soft surviving light.
Pragati doesn’t sell flowers.
She carries sunflowers that seem far too bright for the streets around her.
That evening, she was done. Day over.
And Chotu was waiting.
Three signals stood between her and home, but mentally she was already there — planning what she’d say when he asked,
“Didi, kuch laayi?”
She wasn’t going to say yes.
She was tired and late, and the flowers she’d been carrying all day had s...
With squeaky sneakers and a Batman bag,
Marco walked where candle flames would lag.
Through the painted walls, the silence rang,
“ Do you think she can see me? ” the question sang.
Young Marco was lost in thoughts so blue,
How cruel a world, yet achingly true.
For a dream to come, but only halfway
Snuffing out the light of a child’s day.
At five, he had all but learnt the part
Where loss can crush a weary heart.
On days as pale and dark as nights,
Grief walks in claiming its gut-wrenching right...
On a quiet afternoon in Old Delhi, two brothers sat on the stone-paved pathway of a worn-down garden. Dressed in maroon kurtas and matching topis with watches on their wrists. It was little Ahmed's birthday today, but looking at them you’d think they shared it.
Their parents lacked riches but ensured they gave both boys everything equally. To them, this was the best form of love they could offer. However, this also meant that every purchase required twice the money.
The younger one of the two...
As Mahesh parks his scooter, a constellation of sounds drifts from within the Gurudwara, something inviting in the auspicious bells and the rhythmic verses being recited.
His mind, however, is elsewhere.
He steps into the Darbar, where the kirtan flows like warmth through the air– vibrant, grounding. As a little girl passes him by, he wonders why he truly came here today.
The truth is he feels helpless and lost.
Tomorrow, Mina’s two years of tireless preparation will be put to test– the CAT exa...
It’s just you, me, and the wind. Every weekend, as the sun climbs into the sky, I know it’s time for Raj and me to soar. Raj holds me tightly as we head to the terrace, both of us eager for the wind to lift us higher. The sky is our playground, and together we’ve mastered its currents.
You see, I’m not just a part of his life—I’m his kite, the one he trusts to carry his dreams on the wind. Our bond is more than string and paper-it’s freedom and adventure itself. Up here, with Raj’s careful guida...
“Aree Kamala, tere phoolon per makhhi aa rhi hai”… said an old guy who runs his shop near Kamala’s “Sneh Ki Dori” flower stall.
Kamala, a young woman in her early 20’s who had been born and bought up in an orphanage used to run her small stall in Ghazipur Mandi. Born to parents who abandoned her for being a girl child, Kamala always had a dream of having parents. Each time she used to see a perfect family, her heart ached a little with a lingering hope as fragile as the garlands she threaded.
O...
I have seen countless sunsets, but today’s feels different. The festival buzz fills the streets children tug at sarees, shopkeepers call out discounts, and the air is rich with fried sweets. But I do not move. I sit among my brothers and sisters, waiting, as Radha dips her brush into gold paint and brings us to life.
She shaped me with care, smoothing every imperfection. I have watched her rise before the sun and mold life from dust. As she paints each diya with weary strokes, I realise Diwali i...