Literary Mystique

O land where rivers sing of ages, Where mountains keep the silence of sages, Where monsoon pens her poetry fine, On fields of gold in rhythmic line— You are not just soil and stone, You are breath, you are our own, You are pulse, the faith we borrow, You are the promise of each tomorrow. From surgeon’s hand with steadfast skill,  To nurse’s midnight vigil, From farmer’s patient, tilling grace, To soldier’s guard at border’s place— All labour here is sacred flame, Each act a thread in freedom’s name, A flag we raise to the sky Crowned with the glory that shall not die. We are a nation, strong yet kind, Bound not by borders, but hearts aligned, By countless deeds, both small and great, That keep her pulse, that shape her fate. Our democracy is not just read, It walks in every step we tread, A handshake daily, warm and true, Between our hope and work we do. Let our art be lamps through nights of care, Let our words be bridges built to share, Let our science mend the body’s pain, And s...

☁️ There are days when the sky wears its sorrow so delicately, one might mistake the heaviness for softness. It stretches itself across the horizon, a tapestry of reluctant greys, threaded with faint, reluctant light --  as if even the sun, today, is uncertain of its place. I have always admired the sky’s quiet endurance. How it carries its grief openly, yet never quite collapses under its own weight. I wonder if that is the art of survival: to be full to the brim and still remain intact. When people ask if I am well, I find myself tracing the shape of the clouds, searching for answers in their unfinished sentences. I reply, "I am managing," which is simply another way of saying: I am holding storms the way the sky does -- without spectacle, without relief . There is a particular kind of ache in occupying the middle ground -- between breaking and enduring, between what I reveal and what I will carry quietly into the next morning. Some skies never clear. Some stories are never...

"I remember when I was a little kid, I felt like anything that was wrong, my mom could hug me and make it right again. But there is no way for her to make any of this right again. Part of growing up is figuring out that your parents don’t have that ability anymore.." Synopsis  : At Caseham High School, Eve Bennett is a respected math teacher trapped in a passionless marriage with Nate, another teacher. The school is still reeling from a scandal involving a former teacher,Art Tuttle, and a student named Addie Severson, who left the school ostracised. When Addie returns to campus, bullied and vulnerable, she finds unexpected support in Nate’s English class and his after-school writing sessions. But as Nate’s encouraging attention deepens, Eve grows increasingly suspicious, especially when she finds Addie lingering near their home late at night. What unfolds is a dark, psychological storm: secrets surface, rumors spiral, and no one seems safe from manipulation. Addie becomes bot...