Tag Archives: photography

Thanksgiving

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Like the air, invisible, untouchable but paramount to life.

An emotion, a void filled, completeness, paramount to happiness.

A feeling, a whisper, a simple touch, paramount to survival.

A fantasy, an imagination, a dream, paramount to ambition.

Family, friends, a society, paramount to continuation.

Celebrations, festivals, customs, paramount to joy.

Like a soul within a body, otherwise just muscles, bones, blood and nerves.

Love is paramount to existence.

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Fall-5

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Leaves, lime green and lemon yellow, waiting patiently for the temperature to drop.

This year September had been unusually warm, delaying the magic show of nature.

But soon the show begins, nature adorns its most vibrant attire.

Appearance of leaves changing from sparkling sunshine yellows to bright oranges.

The royal blood red deepening to sophisticated maroons. Finally resting at rusts and browns before they kiss the Earth.

Falling gently to the ground, one leaf over another, one at a time, slowly, meticulously. Leaving the tree bare.

Rising to form heaps of leaves’ mountains.

Forests transforming into chaos of colours, clear blue water bodies reflecting the magic.

Enhancing the effect.

Leaves breathing their last breaths, trees shedding them, saying goodbyes, letting go!

One of its kind farewell, so amazing, so breathtaking.

                       Photography Credits Go To Sapna Veluri Nandakumar.

History

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History peeping coyly through windows of far forgotten forts, palaces and temples.

Doubtful of how it is remembered, how it is twisted, how it is incorporated to attract, serve tourism.

Standing its ground for centuries, committed to the river that once embraced and washed its feet now swallowing sins of people. Being worshipped so that it would keep cleansing their souls while they pollute her.

Remembering the tenderness with which the sculptors chiselled each design, caressing, worshipping each goddess they carved.

Rustle of the silk of Queens, following their feet. Soft tender, adorned with heavy tinkling anklets.

The sound of the brass bell just before she entered the temple. Remembering the fragrant, colourful flowers she offered  with her eyes closed and soul awake, pure, in reverence.

The blinding reflection of swords shining mercilessly in the first light of the Sun, metal and water of river turning into gold alike.

How it was, how it is remembered now, how was it written by whom? How it was kept true and intact, how it was changed! History like an old lady remembers helplessly, peeping through the windows of palaces, forts and temples.

The Visitors

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🐞🐝🐞

I am visited by butterflies, when I walk into the garden.

Yellow butterflies flying off little yellow flowers as if the whole bunch just grew wings.

Urging me to raise my arms to touch them but in vain.

I am visited by a tiny 🐦bird, when I walk into the garden.

Little black bird residing on the tall green bamboo🎍, chirping as if the bamboo found its voice.

Startling me everytime it flies away.

I am visited by ants 🐜🐜🐜, when I walk into the garden.

Tiny red ones, building anthill in a quiet corner as if  the garden were their kingdom, protecting them from rain.

Stinging me, sending shivers up my spine as soon as I step on the grass.

I am visited by strange small white  frogs🐸, when I visit the garden.

Jumping to hide in the hedge, making it shake as if the hedge acquired dancing feet.

Making me jump back, petrified their predators🐍 may follow soon.

I am visited by droplets of water falling down from wet leaves.

Creepers bowing, shaking off their flowers on me, greeting me in the mornings.

Reminding me I am alive and awake, when I visit my garden.

🐝

🐝

🐞

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Morning Stroll 3

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The sky burst open like a volcano, spewing  lava in all directions, spreading, flowing like river of death. Consuming everything in its wake and its path.

It burst open like a heart, broken  into a million pieces, bleeding pain. Consuming the one whose was broken.

It’s just a way of looking at things,

for the sky exploded with warm gentle sunlight, spreading, flowing like river of life. Reviving everything in its wake and its path.

It exploded like a heart, into a million pieces, with joy that could’nt be contained inside anymore. Revitalizing, disburdning, whose burst.

It’s just a way of looking at things,

For even if it were lava, time turns the fields of destruction into most fertile lands.

For even if the heart were broken, time gives ample opportunities to heal and repair, turning it into flourishing abode.

It’s just a way of looking at things.

The morning stroll

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           Photo Credits Go To Zubin Oommen Ittyerah

  Walking hand in hand towards rising hope, welcoming a new day.

   On a road uncluttered and clear made of faith.

   Cool, calm breeze ruffling the hair, could turn into a storm.

   Reminding, urging to be one another’s  pillar of strength.

   Flowers of prosperity blooming, filling the heart with contentment.

   Finding joy in each other’s company, feeling safe.

   Street lights , the guiding lights, like the trust within.

   For life will happen everyday if we have each other.