The Death Of Peacocks


Dear Friends! In modest tones, I hereby speak
Of certain deaths of birds of vibrant hues.
A little while ago, I saw them fly
Discreetly out of cages which trapped them
In lives of bondage — free, to roam the sky.
The sun that burnt their magnificent plumes
Could NOT, in death, ensnare their cherished cries
Unspoken — felt by crows who, newly here,
Could see no tinge of freedom; on each bough
Now hung a noose for any erring crow.

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The Pigeonhole Principle


(The pigeonhole principle in mathematics, in its crudest form, states that if you have more pigeons than pigeonholes, you have to group multiple pigeons in one or more instances to accommodate them all.)

Outside, soft rain drizzled down the puckered white walls, drenching them slowly but incessantly in its cold and moist embrace. Silent green trees gazed upwards longingly as if searching for a faint trace of some stray sunbeam through the dark pall that veiled the land. The dahlias in the garden cowered their majestic heads before the frigid wind. The grey cemented area assumed a much darker shade reflecting the overcast skies above. The freshness of the grass slowly wafted from the damp ground, accentuated by the musty smell of the oak tables and chairs. Far away, over the regular sound of rainwater playfully tapping the paths, one could hear the dying vestiges of car horns scooting away in utmost urgency. The unnoticed edges of the window pane were already foggy, and mist was gradually invading the entire view. The weather was bad; it was getting worse.

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Dead Ends


What goes around comes around, in some shady back-alley in the middle of nowhere, clubbed to death and left to soak in one’s own pool of blood.

“Forensics,” she said, thrusting the coffee cup into my bare hands with such vigour that I could hardly reject the offer. “Keeps you focused,” she explained, and left with the gait of someone who has had enough caffeine for the day.

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