Today my pencil pulled me onto water. One stroke… and a river spread across my page. Another stroke… and wooden boats appeared, tilting gently as if nodding hello.
The pencil swirled quick and light, rickshaw wheels spun across the margins, their bells jingling inside my ears. It paused, then curved carefully— the domes of Lalbagh Fort rose, like sleepy guardians of the city.
A secret slipped out as I drew: Dhaka is called the “City of Mosques,” with more than seven hundred, each one a prayer sketching the sky.
I laughed softly. Maybe my pencil had become a minaret today, calling me not to prayer, but to wonder.
When I signed the page, the river rippled back at me— a smile in water and ink.
I opened my sketchbook and drew the India Gate, standing tall like a doorway to stories untold. Beneath it, I placed tiny dots of people— tourists, school kids, dreamers, all walking through history.
Next came rickshaws, buzzing like cheerful beetles, and a tea stall where steam curled into the winter sky. I shaded the domes of Rashtrapati Bhavan, imagining them as golden crowns balancing on the horizon.
Even the pigeons in Connaught Place looked proud, as if they knew this was no ordinary city— but the heart that beats for millions.
I smiled as I signed my page. Today, my passport had Delhi stamped in pencil.
✨ Where would your Pencil Passport take you today?
✏️ Day 11 – The Flying Bus The school bus rattled down the road today, its windows yawning, its seats yawning louder.
So I sketched a pair of wings on its sides. Feather by feather, the bus stretched and lifted, rising like a bird that had been waiting too long.
Children leaned out of the windows, their laughter spilling like confetti into the clouds. And I sat in the last row, sketchbook in hand, watching a bus discover its secret—that it was never meant for roads.
✨ Where would your Pencil Passport take you today?
