Posts by Ishu Uppal

The Sparks In Our Stars

Sometimes I wonder if stars are sparks, Of the eyes that refused to be lost, In the engulfing darkness of sorrow. Still cradling a tear or two, perhaps. For I see the sparks twinkle, As if inciting underneath a puddle, Of tears full of hope.   I guess that is why I lure to make a wish, When a star chooses to fall.   Yes, they fall but not in

Son Of A Spy

<script async src=”//“></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> My dad is a spy. I believe he is alive, even though it’s been years since I last saw him. I believe so for Maa believes so. He would come home once a month. Maa would burst into tears and hug him while

The Science Of Love

<script async src=”//“></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 looked like just another day. The scientist sipped his glass of Dihydrogen oxide warmed slightly above the ambient temperature by precisely seven degrees. In his mind dozens of formulae convoluted and condensed like chromosomes do during cell division. To a normal eye,

How Tears Tear You Apart

<script async src=”//“></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> A tear slides down my cheek, gliding over the warmth of my skin.   Its existence wriggles as it transforms slowly to nothingness, just like me, losing myself in the paradoxical bubble of reality. Another tear follows, meeting its predecessor on its way

Cup of Hope

Each dusk, I store all my tears in a cup before I cry myself to sleep. They sublime into nothingness overnight, but leave the saline traces behind. This gives me hope; this too shall pass, though it might leave some marks behind.   Each dawn, I wake up to the mocking streak of the sun, the cursing chirp of the birds and the piercing trifle of the breeze. Life doesn’t


<script async src=”//“></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> “Sat Shri Akal, Sardar ji.”   It wasn’t something you’d expect from a Muslim man too often. My eyes couldn’t help but scan him throughout. He appeared to be an extremely poor rickshaw puller, evident from his shabby, worn out clothes. The dullness

The Final Fall

The sight of the cliff diminishes as I fall below. Perhaps, it is the cloud that blurs my vision. Or it could also be my tears. I had been there on the apex just moments ago; turns out, everything wants to push me away. Even the cliffs.   Isn’t my life supposed to flash before my eyes? Am I not going to be history? The birds might chirp about some crazy

Migrated Colours

<script async src=”//“></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> “Paint me for a hundred Euros,” she commanded.   The migrant raised his vision. She was beautiful. Beautiful had always been an overly exploited adjective; yet, she was beautiful. Beautiful like the first rays of the sun peeping behind the Alps onto a

Ice Cube

You let me go. Your trembling hands loosen the grip. I slip between your fingers. I kiss the air, ecstatic. My chill sublimes into nothingness. Death seems just so beautiful. I crash with a clink. All I see around, is me. Dead, Am I? “It’s a glass,” the reflection says. I let a sigh of relief. But should I? I stare up to the heavens. I see your profound eyes.

I’m very happy for Sania Moorza winning the Wimbulldon…

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