Poetry So now, Losing the three last night, Taking them back today, Dripping and dark the woods. - Ernest Hemingway

It’s been raining for centuries, What difference does it make? -Once upon a time in Anatolia

The Colour Yellow.

Holding shades of Melancholia and Warmth, this colour-unlike others, is a consumer.


And it was at that age… Poetry arrived in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don’t know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.

-Pablo Neruda

Innocent droplets of rain Make almost all events Quite natural.


12 July, 2013. Mumbai, India

It rained intemperately today, as if God was vigorously trying to wash away sins of this city. As if, he wanted to spare us from being punished, as if he was tired of punishing. It was one of those days where your heart feels heavy and is about to cave-in any moment, sadness is in the atmosphere and you feel that somehow, God is unhappy too.

This dreary day ended with a demise of my personnel favorite yesteryear’s long-familiar movie star - Pran Kisan Sikand. He did exceptionally well flowing in the stream of negative characters. Once he aspired to be a professional photographer.

This photo series is dedicated to him. May his soul Rest in Peace, Amean.

(via abeerkhanletsgo)