A walk through the writers' basti that's filled with papers and ink pens. One, a fast walker and the other who takes her own time to sweep her feet on the ground. Reading aloud the letters, she spots, she got stuck in writers' Basti where all the words are written on the papers and posted across the poles, walls, telephone booths, foot path, notice board, cards, windows and everywhere.
Writers' they are, they are also striving for some aesthetic sense. Clutter of papers yet, they stop themselves to clutter around their basti.
Writers. Thoughts. Basti it's called, as it's a small town devoid of the Netflix, Prime entertainment. Libraries are still a rage. Kindle has it's own fans. Amidst such happening and boring place, arrived two strangers. Stranger to themselves and also to the writers. N I R, continued reading Anima, V R I T H I.
NIRVRITHI. read out Anima, as she continued reading whatever flashed across her sight.
On the blank side of cheap blue pamphlet, words are scribbled.
Can NIRVRITHI be described in this way? She thought. Yellow Ghungat over a person in green boots was a hard sight to imagine yet, the baffled eyes that got concealed through the Ghungat seemed plausibility.
Searching for stillness. Does Nirvrithi seek stillness?
While the slow walker got stuck with the blue pamphlet and a few words, the other stranger crossed the basti and got into the Singers' street, listening to an age old album.
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