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Mir Hossain

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I floated in fun filled balloon. Being unconscious of weary world. I did not care what I might face. And lived life on the edge of the sword. The pleasure principle abducted my reason. Affection in me took shape of infatuation. Polluting the air of love, I roamed. And thought only of her in deep meditation. Less I travelled, long route I imagined. I found little sense in my uttering. Mighty blow and curse I grabbed calmly. And I accepted caution as blessing. How far can we go in such a way? Imagination is good only in dream. Life and love are not about exaggeration Neither are they mere gossiping. Still love is good and god's bliss. It is the purest gift for us. How Holi it is! Is beyond description. And its magic is very desirous. Taste it not as a wine. Whose pleasure is temporary. Once intoxication is exhausted. All feeling is turned into mockery. Love is so lovable word. That I love to love it for love sake. Fancy

I floated in fun filled balloon. Being unconscious of weary world. I did not care what I might face. And lived life on the edge of the sword. The pleasure principle abducted my reason. Affection in me took shape of infatuation. Polluting the air of love, I roamed. And thought only of her in deep meditation. Less I travelled, long route I imagined. I found little sense in my uttering. Mighty blow and curse I grabbed calmly. And I accepted caution as blessing. How far can we go in such a way? Imagination is good only in dream. Life and love are not about exaggeration Neither are they mere gossiping. Still love is good and god's bliss. It is the purest gift for us. How Holi it is! Is beyond description. And its magic is very desirous. Taste it not as a wine. Whose pleasure is temporary. Once intoxication is exhausted. All feeling is turned into mockery. Love is so lovable word. That I love to love it for love sake. Fancy

Neha Mittal

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Fancy top

Fancy top

Neha Mittal

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Fancy kurti

Fancy kurti

Neha Mittal

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fancy saree

fancy saree

Neha Mittal

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Fancy suit

Fancy suit

Abinesh

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I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition— add two cups of milk and stir— the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look ©Abinesh Numbers

I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition— add two cups of milk and stir— the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look ©Abinesh Numbers