Sangeetha Kamath

  I walk on that rickety bridge again, tiptoeing ever so mildly to rewind time, to rewrite great many chunks of heartbeats and on a quest for answers. The surging waters below are on their merry journey, a mist of spray and foam in the air in their enthusiastic trail. I've only managed to turn back the pages on my journal in my limited human capacity. What once began as a rosy project to capture the idyllic and vintage when I first started out on the April layout , turned out to be a ghastly summer of 2025. Barely had I got a foothold from the dizzying heights of the ill-fated 2024, only to step on a landmine ??! A Bed Of Roses …. what had I prophesized?  It's now a shrine staring at me ever so solemnly. In this garden of eulogy , I’ve made the pages come alive with a swarm of butterflies in as many shapes, sizes and colours I could. Not at all randomly placed but on each date which marks a significant ritual… And then there are some days in April which are remembered most ...