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the.anonymous.writer the.anonymous.writer

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The Anonymous Writer  Listen to our origin story at TEDx by clicking the link below.

https://youtu.be/5q9rKkPPIbs

NANOTALE I ABHIJIT

NANOTALE I SUYASH

Nanotale I Abhijit

NANOTALE I KRITI

“A for?” I prompted again.
She kept jiggling her feet, apparently interested on the burn mark on the tablecloth.
“What’s this burn, Mamma?” she suddenly asked.
Taken aback, I quickly tried to think of something, “Er…Nothing baby, just Mamma being careless with the candle."
“What’s careless, Mamma?”
She was curious these days.
“Not watching closely what you’re doing,” I reluctantly replied.
“Is Papa careless whenever he beats you?’
And she is growing out to be bright.
“Clara? A for?” I said sternly.
At once, her brows tightened, “A-V-O-C-A-D-O!” she said.
Gosh. Where did she learn this word?
“What about apple?” I asked, picking up her notebook, murmuring to myself, “Haven’t I…?”
Instantly, I remembered another evening. ‘A for ant,' I had written and my step-father had reminded me, “Ants grow wings just before their fall”. He twisted my little wrist twice so that I never forget ‘A is for Apple’ and nobody changes that.
It seems nothing has changed. It’s just that my step-father has now been replaced by my husband. I unknowingly caressed the fresh burn mark Clara’s father had given me when I had to slap him to stop him from hitting me. My fault - too much salt in the food.
Talons as usual seared on me to clip my wings or maybe my wings have already being clipped but I am not going to let the same thing happen to my daughter.
“Mamma? Are you being careless now?” Clara’s voice brought me back to the present.
I looked at her notebook, the next word was ‘B’, it read ‘B for Buterfly’.
Later, I taught Clara ‘F for Freedom’ and ‘W for Wings’, determined to raise a would-be-buterfly; a 'butterfly' with double ‘t’.
Written by: Swatilekha Roy

Nanotale I Abhijit

NANOTALE I ABHIJIT

Date yourself and follow the flow of river,
Let moments sink into the corners of your heart-
In those spaces which are filled with tears.
If loneliness has grabbed your hands indulge in it a little more.
Date yourself and be a warrior of lonely paths,
Be someone whose autumn has heard the murmurs of crumbled leaves,
And has painted beauty out of it.
Date yourself like a poet dates his words and kisses his pain.
Date yourself like the lone benches of spring.
Date your soul as well as your shadow -
Whom you forgot in your own darkness, let alone theirs.
Date yourself and praise those eyes which have cried,
Legs which have walked through filth;
Date those fingers,
And let it run on the pages of life for nothing entangles it more.
Date every bit of you, dying to love a perfect you;
Date your status, 'Single, not available'.
Date yourself and be the poetry that every poet wants to date;
Date yourself like the crowds date loneliness;
Date yourself for breathing is not living.
Written by: Shristi Thakur

Nanotale I Rishabh

CONFESSION I KRITI

*An excerpt from the diary of a playboy*
I am a perfectionist; I've always been one. My socks match my ties, so do my glasses with my wallet. I hate changes. I want everything to be constant, perfect.
I’ve been in love innumerable times. They call me a playboy, a heart-breaker and a man-whore. I am not a predator that preys on youth and beauty but I am a perfectionist who believes in consistency.
I don’t love women because I love them, but I love them because I love love. I am madly, passionately and devotedly in love with love or at least, in love with the initial stage of love. I want it to be constant. I want butterflies to flutter in my stomach forever. I want to feel the never-ending magic in the breeze and listen to the continuous music my heart dances on. Unfortunately, these feelings die. You take your relationship to the next level and BAM, the charm disappears.
I don’t want it to die. I don’t want love to die. Because, I am a perfectionist, remember?
So, isn’t it better to change the woman as soon as the charm vanishes? Find a new love and get drunk on it? Let my breaths dance to the tune of my soul and feel ecstatic? I want to feel her heartbeat against my chest and smile as it increases to the warmth of my love, not to decrease with the growing time.
Oh, love! Your beauty is beyond words. Why don’t you drink from the fountain of youth, so that you never die? So that I can allow you to possess me and make me dance like a madman?
And they call me a playboy. No, my dear world, I am not. I am just a lover, a lunatic, a perfectionist.
Written by: Sahifa Syed ( @sahifa_sm )

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