Helen is a Social Work graduate and a storyteller at heart from Gurugram, Haryana. For her, writing is like an answered prayer when human lives and emotions grip her. She crafts prose that weaves metaphors and imagery.
English
My heart is running in the era of operations, dirty tributaries smoking 'taqleef'. Open fields, wild flower, and motor-running water for the crops feels like lies to my face Aesthetics faces a crisis, cameras laugh at color gradings and grains. I can see no sunrise, no sunset. My
"Old men are dirty men. Playful like cubs," printed the twenty-year-old pulp fiction. I didn't know the margins of dirt until my twenties. He saw the cerulean-blue, flowery cotton kurti dancing over my nutty brown skin. My young, careless façade, chatting with everyone, made me look
Why does the cold-blooded moon press against my heart ? Grief, a blot, a strange silence that still makes noise on this October afternoon. I scrolled through the screen of my phone, somatic reels dissolving into me. My right ear rested on the pillow; I could almost hear the heavens calling.