Humans of Himachal

We, as a society, I believeare the most spoiledconsumers of goodsbe it emotionsor objects. Together,

When I was born,I had the scent of my motherThe voice of my father,And eyes,

I personally believeit’s easy to rememberpeople as colours.Poets make theblue of sky,My friends are cheery

I’m aware of my privileges and the best one I have is literature.Seriously, nothing tops

Unboxing oneself/ is a long/never ending process. I dodge affection/ like bullets/ the thought of/

Yesterday I wrote a poem to the early spring.Flowers in my gardensoothe my heavy heart,every

What is summer if not the excitement brought by fragrance of spring tangled in cold wind,running through the

I am envious of street lightsfor they see more than II wish it were possible

I have heardpeople complainingabout writersnot writingtheir whole heart,always tryingto hide some part.And I have seenpeople

On being asked abouthow do I decide and choose,I’ll show you my folded handsand blame