2 and 2 are five

  Tony Randall and the Grammar of Grace. There was something almost architectural about the way Tony Randall spoke. Each sentence felt meticulously engineered, a miniature edifice of cadence and clarity. He never uttered words; he constructed them, syllable by syllable, as if language itself were a form of moral carpentry. In an age so enamored with spontaneity, his precision seemed almost subversive, a quiet defiance against the slovenliness of modern expression. Randall did not perform language; he consecrated it. His voice, urbane, resonant, faintly melancholic, carried the conviction that speech was a civilizational artifact, one too sacred to be squandered. To him, vocabulary wasn’t a trophy of intellect but the apparatus of thought. Every word had lineage, nuance, and temperature. To misuse it was not merely inelegant; it was profane. Watching him on screen, particularly as Felix Unger in The Odd Couple, you felt that rare synthesis of comedy and conscience. Beneath the comic...

I imagined your death before your birth, it made your silence easier to understand. When you left, there was no funeral, so I carried the ritual each day. A quiet ceremony, bearing the weight of things unsaid. I tried to swallow you whole, not in hunger but in need, to become part of my breath. But love is not a vapory chimera. It clenches a stubborn shadow, stained beneath the skin, refusing release. Is death a malignancy or liberation? I ask not with sorrow but with restless thought. Time away, almost cruel, never learned mercy. And love is not biodegradable, but life-processed. She is a woman of virtue, so resolutely good that her kindness suffocates, a mirror reflecting society's unyielding demands. She lingers, not free yet unbroken, an ineffable enigma the cosmos hesitates to unravel. Written by : Vvu.

Dust of the Glorious. I marched where Ganga weeps through waste, Where tricolor dreams rot in haste, My blood boiled like Churchill’s scotch, But cooled in Delhi’s metro watch. I fought with pens in bazaars bare, Echoes of Tharoor in Lucknow air. Shakespeare groaned in chai-stall plays, While Dickens wrote in Bombay's haze. "My country right or wrong" felt thin, When sons of soil sold truth for gin. Plath wept beneath Kashmir’s white sheet, And Rashid sang from Siachen’s beat. written and published by: Vaibhav Vedhase Upadhyay.