V Bright Saigal - Writer

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Contact Me:- vbrightsaigal@gmail.com

An India Born American Novelist, Poet and Short Story Writer.

Los Angles - California.

 Ph: 001-315-292-6263


Post Graduate in Advertising & Public Relation


Advertising Consultant &Copy Writer

(Working with Creative & Media Alliance) 

Teaches:- Marketing Management


Rifle Shooting,

Horse Riding ,

Karate- Black Belt -Ist Dan.Shito-Ryu.



1.Short Stories



4.Screen Plays


The rising sun emblazoned the eastern horizon in red. The cry of the birds has awakened the jungle. The dew drops on the narrow grass leaves glow as diamonds. Birds fly from their nest in search of food. There is a deer grazing in the valley. Its white spots glow against the rising sun. It looks here and there with a frightened eye. A bat flies back to its old tree. Some bats hanging upside down. Nuts brought in and half eaten by bats in the night strewn all over. Small birds jumping from one flower to another in search of honey. Butterflies flying up and down look like delicate flowers being tossed about by the gentle breeze. Small fishes play in the lake. Some of them come up and hop above the water. A small frog sits close to a big rock. A kingfisher sits watchfully on a branch, which leans towards the stream. Some times it dives towards water like an arrow and flying out with a fish. The fish lashes its tail to escape but has obviously failed. A branch of a tree caresses the waves just as the mother pampering her child in the cradle. On the other side of the river a tiger is drinking water unconcerned with eyes a bright red; tail is raised in the air, strong paws in the water. He is deception in majesty.

Nature is symbiosis; that is the rhythm of Universe. 



The moon is rising in the east like a silver sphere. A flood of silver, spread all over the valley. The scattered cloud looks like torn pieces of paper on a film of water. When a cloud hides the moon its halo embodies on ambience of holiness. The calm lake bathed in silver rests like a sleeping child. The shadows of the moon looks like a golden plate in the lake. The mountain looms over the valley. The jingle of stream is a lullaby. The moonlit lake became a silverine mirror. Even a dejected man will love this nature, if he sees this beautiful night. 



Critics Are the Artisans, Who Chisel Out, A Good Writer