An Interview with Ms. Gaurisha Singh

 Ms. Gaurisha Singh
Who and what inspired you to embark on your own journey in the world of arts?
My passion and desire to paint. The urge to pick brushes up and paint something aesthetically pleasing, representing different forms of art and culture is what inspires me to paint just each and every time.
Have you studied arts or obtained formal training in it?
Even though I'd love to, the answer to this would be unfortunately no. I never had the time to go for formal training, years over years I kept practicing on my own to achieve perfection.
Describe your art style
I love using oil and acrylic paints on canvas and making freehand objects or figures, mainly defined as modern art. The strokes with a blend of colors give a beautiful outlook to it.
For how many years have you practiced your art, and have you had to overcome any hurdles on the way?
I have been practicing for 3 years and I still am because I believe practice makes a man perfect. I've faced many obstacles and it took time a…

Ummeed: A poem by Anjali Sharma

तबछोरपेजलतीलौ, व्याकुलनाविककाधैर्यबंधातीहै
औरएकछोटीसीउम्मीद, उसेकिनारेतकपहुंचातीहै।

जबआगेबढ़नेकीकोई, राहनज़रनहींआतीहै

Our frontline heroes: A story by Lalita Vaitheeswaran

Sakharam was teary-eyed while he collected the hospital waste and carried it to the sanitation department. His pregnant wife was due for delivery in another week but he wasn't able to go as he wasn't given leave.
Dr. Rahul Sharma, the ICCU physician read his eyes and went to him clad in his PPE braving the deluge of COVID patients...
Sakharam..don't worry...We are all in the same boat. Tell me her whereabouts so that I tell my colleague there to tend to her.
Thank you, Sahab...Sakharam could not stop his tears...
Suddenly there was chaos...
Two policemen were wheeled into the emergency. Constable Mahipal was bleeding as he had been run over by curfew violators. Sub Inspector Rohit was wincing in pain as his hand had been crushed by rioters. They were taken into the Operation theater and were being clinically assessed for surgery by Dr. Rahul.
Doctor saheb...please save are God...
Prayed the policemen...
Dr. Rahul smiled and patted them softly... 
You are our heroes...Nothin…

Just like you: A poem by Supriya Bansal

My mother planted jasmine, just when I breezed in ‘n came into being  She patted the soil around its roots, similar to how she assured my well-being  She tended, staking trellis for it to climb on, wrapping it around as it grew, Just the way she propped ‘n poised me, bracing me to bloom into view The mulch ‘n manure of love, hope, dreams ‘n faith was heaped on both, Moistened with drops of patience, she pruned the stray stems of rage ‘n loathe  The balmy, ambrosial fragrance bewitched ‘n beckoned bothersome pests She softly deposed, dragged down such unsought, superfluous requests Sometimes life bogged me down ‘n I forgot to fare ‘n bloom, just like the jasmine Mother tempered us, her serene, still watch, made me ‘n jasmine, eternally sanguine  I burgeoned ‘n blossomed, akin to jasmine, tasseled out in full swing Loaded with florets of skill, spirit ‘n passion, pouring love from my very being

The virus that killed humanity : A story by Supriya Bansal

Bleep! She scrolled down to the WhatsApp. She felt darkness and melancholy closing in as she read the message in the doctor's group---    “Dr. Simon Hercules, who died after contracting novel coronavirus from a patient was denied burial by the locals. The mob not only protested at the cemetery but also hurled stones at the ambulance.”   
 Oh! The disgrace and humiliation! They had become her once noble profession's middle name! Dignity denied even at that very last juncture!    
 She, Dr. Natasha Menon, a senior resident in the state-run hospital, adjusted the blue gown, her mask, and walked up to the window. Her eyes followed the inane movements of cars filling the spaces next to the ambulances in the parking lot as her mind wandered.     
 She had been a part of the COVID-19 contingency plan from the beginning, working in shifts, providing 24/7 care. She could never forget that portentous day--- the last day of her fortnightly work-shift. She could hardly wait to catch a glimpse…

The emerald ring: A poem by Priya Washikar

The expert visited the Haveli
On a project for archaeology Chambers seeped in old traditions
He was in awe of its opulence

A photograph caught his fancy
Royally magnificent as can be
A glint held his attention
The Emerald Ring was all that he could see

In the photo was a royal lady
Depicting utmost grace
The news that was doing the rounds
She had disappeared last year without a trace

The months passed and his project was in the last stage.
Only a small area remained to be seen
Suddenly something unexpected halted
The progress of the excavation team

The Earth moved beneath his feet
Post that he couldn't remember anything
They had excavated a skeleton
In its finger was the same Emerald Ring. 

Hope: A poem by Priya Washikar

The lone ray of the sun streaming in an old room
The hope in a soldiers eyes that the war shall end soon

Hope is when an orphan thinks she'll not be alone
God shall send a family whom she'll  call her own

Hope is  life's antidote for any sadness or pain
The mirror of hope might be in a tiny drop of rain

The flickering flame of a candle burns till it's last light
Emits optimism when it says
never give up without a fight

Changing season speaks of hope
Such cheer and happiness it brings
When the flowers bloom and say
Winter's given way to spring

Aspiration lies in small things, we see
Hope lies within you and me

Be optimistic and
There's no peril you can't cope
After all someone's rightly said
The world lives on hope