The Escape Artist

The master criminal, the man known as the “escape artist” was finally caught. The man who could not be held captive was now behind bars, kept in the most secure of places. The place with no exit, the place that devoured all its inmates, that is where he was kept. He wasn’t tortured or interrogated. The cell where he was kept was torture enough. A sane man could go insane just by the grim look of the place.

No one asked him how he had managed to escape every single time he was caught, no one bothered really. They knew that his winning streak was over. He couldn’t run away, not this time.

Back in his hometown with his family, it was one hell of a thanksgiving. His children tugged at his shirt, people chatted and laughed. It was a happy place. His wife called out to the guests in her house, her husband and her kids. The big turkey was ready.

He had escaped. He was a killer no more, he was a simple man whose entire universe revolved around his family.

A loud thud woke him up. It was his call for supper. He realized he was only dreaming. His introspection was cut short by a quick sly smile from his guard. He returned the courtesy, he smiled back.

While the inmates ate the damp prison food, the guards talked about how they had managed to chain down the “escape artist”.

But what they didn’t notice was one missing guard.

Back in his hometown with his family, it was one hell of a thanksgiving. His children tugged at his shirt, people chatted and laughed. It was a happy place. His wife called out to the guests in her house, her husband and her kids. The big turkey was ready.

And this time it was for real. It was freedom at last for the “escape artist”. He had lived up to his name, again.

Death or Glory?

Deafening noises of bombs blasting and guns being fired raged. Shrieking cries of soldiers shouting in the face of death could be heard. Intoxicating smells of blood and sweat and ammo and heat mixed together made the hairs on the back of one’s neck stand erect. Countless lives were lost, numerous worthless sacrifices for bubble reputations were made.

People rejoiced. Leaders were gifted garlands. Heroes were born on that fateful day. It was a joyous end to the nightmare. The war had been won.

But if only one could see the faces of the mothers who lost their sons, the sisters who lost their brothers, the wives who lost their husbands and the children who lost their fathers. They told but a very different story.

Land of No Return: A Photo Essay from a Dying Ukrainian Village

This is worth a read.

 

Photographer Viktoria Sorochinski came to a Ukrainian village that she remembers from her childhood and felt the urge to capture its last remains.

Source: Land of No Return: A Photo Essay from a Dying Ukrainian Village

The Last Time I Saw You (Part Four)

The definition of purity is right here.

The Last Time I Saw You is a series that reflects on the comings and goings of travellers, and how, sometimes, we’re just ships passing in the night.

Source: The Last Time I Saw You (Part Four)

Festivities of Bengal

‘Durga Puja’ is the most important and culturally significant part of the Bengali culture. It is a four-day long festival held during the month of September/October, worshipping Goddess Durga and celebrating her victory over the evil ‘Asura’. The true beauty of Bengal can be seen and felt during these days. The ancient traditions adorning the Bengali community are reflected clearly during these days.

Initially restricted to just Bengal, the tentacles of this highly popular festival has spread far and wide across other states of India and even abroad, to countries like the USA, the UK and Australia, where the number of non-resident Indians are quite a few.

 

How to Read More

Here are six tips by Texas-based writer and author, Austin Kleon, to help you read more.

Source: How to Read More

Storm

 

‘The wrath of the Gods fell upon the poor human soul. Amidst thunder, lightning, strong winds and heavy rain, the Jet MI7 went down in flames leaving no survivors’, said the headlines. The pilot’s wife read the newspaper and slipped into oblivion.

Everyone knew of the storm raging outside, but no one knew of the one raging inside her.

Epitaph

Walk into the light

‘The sun was blazing down on her skin, her feet were bare, her lips were parched with thirst and strands of hair were all over her face. Legs shaking with weariness, she kept walking. The timid and fragile woman with a child in her womb could either give up or move forward. She is a hero, not because she became rich and famous, but because she chose the latter.’

Says her “epitaph”. About

A little something born out of idle times.