We're at Vaclav Havel Airport. He’s older than me. 25, to be specific. His green full sleeved shirt has become a part of him. He’s worn it so often that every time I think of him, I think of him with it. He returns from the toilet, sits next to me. I have to go … Continue reading Vaclav Havel Airport, Prague
Tag: Tale of trot
Ports are places of many comings and goings. But there is a stillness and silence in them. Porto Antico, the old port of Genova in Italy did not smell like the sea. It smelled like a culmination of journeys. “There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is … Continue reading Porto Antico
It is a purple night. The coniferous trees are tapering to the sky in dangerous sharpening of tools. The canopied ones look like fleshy scythes. Kenilworth Castle is a mound of black. We walk down to Abbey Fields Park. Two parapet walls on either side mark the entry to the parking lot. There are other … Continue reading Abbey Fields
~ Written after leaving the familiar Bakewell ~ Some say it is in the familiarity of everyday that our soul lies. And if somehow, by some means you are detached from this familiarity, you feel a longing, an ache you wish you weren’t feeling. Losing a long kept job, finishing three years at university, marrying … Continue reading Familiar Bakewell
She removed herself swiftly from the cab in front of Canley Crematorium and began to jot down in words the following: ‘Entrance to Charter Chapel, Gardens of Remembrance and Cemetry’. The map at the very entrance caught her eye: of course, it wasn’t everyday that she came across areas marked ‘Weeping Willow’, ‘Book of Remembrance’, … Continue reading Canley Crematorium
It’s called the hidden gem of Warwickshire. But we find it easily- nestled on the A429, next to the International Warwick Riding School and a few miles away from where Edward Plantagenet was supposedly beheaded. We creep quietly with our cars, leaving tracks in gravel which is wet constantly by the constancy of rain. This … Continue reading Remains and Leftovers – Guy’s Cliffe House
I was one of those people who scorned at street graffiti being called art, now I am saved. But I am not going to call it Street Art or Wall Art or Contemporary Art, I’m going to call it Art. There is Art everywhere in Shoreditch – on a locksmith’s door, on a Punjabi restaurant’s … Continue reading Shoreditch, proclaim, proclaim, art.
Many say that Bangalore isn’t for the weak hearted- it is for the young at heart and wild in spirit. Truth is, my Bangalore is for everybody. It adapts like the kindest mother we’d ever have. Every time, and without fail. In the morning, the scent of new flowers in Madivala market, Vinayagar statues lined … Continue reading My Bangalore
So once in a lifetime, you get to go to Paris and when in Paris, from most of the Rues nearby, you see the Eiffel Tower. You see it in the morning when you take your bus around. And all day through, you keep hearing stories about how the Eiffel Tower was built for an … Continue reading Misty Eiffel Tower
Paris has never been projected as a cold city. Always as the romantic one. Having only two days, we hopped on the Paris L'Open tour bus in order to get a clear picture of the city as such. The cold, as we waited for the bus to arrive, was slowly teaching us that it was … Continue reading Paris L’Open on a cold day.
அவ்ரீனா AVRINA, poet and writer 