The Last Station

Sunilís stories have the trappings of self-expression. It is like the feeling of satiation of a fruit laden tree that droops, brazenly flaunting its uterus above all other parts of the anatomy. In every fruit there is a seed of love. It silently implores the reader to relish on the sweet pulp and to plant the seed in the fertile expanse of the heart. Sunil writes with an earnestness. The resultant tune of literature is the realization that the diversities of the universe are cemented together by a beautiful love. Such stories are few, though the genre of stories made its debut long back.