A Mouthful Of Heaven
Crisp, crunchy puri made of maida, not sooji.
Thick, clotted tamarind-date chutney, sweet and sour both at once.
Chilled, green, spicy mint water
A handful of mashed potatoes, boiled watana & white chana.
I could die happy.
Crisp, crunchy puri made of maida, not sooji.
Thick, clotted tamarind-date chutney, sweet and sour both at once.
Chilled, green, spicy mint water
A handful of mashed potatoes, boiled watana & white chana.
I could die happy.
I hope the whirling never ends. Then I remember, nothing is endless.
There is a problem with bartering education like a commodity. It really doesn’t result in knowledge or learning. The gold rush for fancy degrees means we spend our efforts pursuing them and then clinging on for dear life (politicking & manoeuvring so the title/accolade is retained). There is no time,…
When shame defines you, it takes root in the fertile ground that is you, to propagate more of itself. Thus, the ashamed becomes the shamer.
Today I didn’t feel cool, collected or in control. Today I was incomplete.
I painted the Mumbai skyline on an old pickle glass bottle.
Season of Mists by Neil GaimanMy rating: 4 of 5 stars <spoiler alert> The fourth Sandman book is where you get to meet the entire Endless family in one place – or at least the still active ones. Destiny, the eldest, calls for a family conclave. Desire needles Dream about…