Posts by Hrishi Ram

An Autobiography Of A Table Clock

Usually, I am not bothered by the material things surrounding me, the purpose of these things are believed to quench the thirst of affection towards such fascinating collection of art. They have no life and neither are they bothered by the dust that sways placidly around them. I, however, do need the service of cleaning my craftsmanship but unfortunately have not received any since the dust clouds have possessed the

The Mage of Samon

<script async src=”//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> It is true that the human intelligence is limited up to a point where a person ceases to accept a belief or an idea even though its existence in the world is proven to be positive. We regard what we can control and

iFly

<script async src=”//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> (Gleeman’s real life interpretation about his first flight take-off experience*) *with embellishments   When the deers of the forest jump hither and tither to escape the vicious vicinity now occupied by the savage beasts of the carnivorous appetite, my excitement trebles when I

The God That Failed

The lost memories of Zoya Alam dated to 1947.   Dear Kartik, The stolid memory of my brain only allows me to see the fragments of my life past. Although the knowledge I procured about the behaviour of modern man still falls short every time my vision glares upon your portrait. How old were we then? Twenty – three, I reckon, for I remember the young and angry blood flowing

We, the Rebellious

The class in which I had once studied, the people which I once adored cause me no more pain than a prick of a needle as I leave them behind; now that I have summoned up the courage to escalate to an area of unorthodoxy, where the membranes of my brain show less of emotional endeavour towards the crowd of people far less adapted to the truth of the world

The Midnight Tree – Poetic Prose

(The following piece is a poem written by refraining to the rules of imputing verses) When we know the day arrives to face our challenges – may be a moment long waited for, a silence so longed for, or may be, a part of our eternal self so delicate to handle that we crafted a particular time to deal with – no wonder we are stupefied by it. For me,

The Mysterious Facts of Hugo Rammstein

1786 A. D. France   I was always fascinated by the ability of the human brain to produce atrocious stories; simple yet horrendous explanations gestured by one’s own mind and noted down on a paper by words moulded into phrases and sentences, leaving the reader aghast and paranoid. Out of these horror stories which I seldom had the opportunity of reading were the ones purely based upon human experiences, incidents

The Romantic

1700 A. D. The Caribbean There are many ways in which a man loves a lover. There are tales about love young men used to tell when we were sailing through the Atlantic. Tales about love of how a man wooed a woman and they lived happily ever after. How a woman left her dear papa behind taking all his riches for the sake of her lover. How a man