I was introduced to the act of bribery
before I could barely walk,talk and
react.
"DON'T CRY Baba- Be like a Good Boy"-
and this trivial act would get rewarded.
This marks the beginning of every
transactional relationship.
A chocolate for silence,
A toy for obedience,
Promises wrapped in glittering papers-
Nobody called it corruption then.
The subtle act of bribery hit under the
tenderness of my parents.
Years later,
The same lessons entered classrooms.
"Score good marks and we'll buy you
whatever you want".
Education slowly turned into auctions,
Where certain subjects like maths and
science stood with higher price tags.
As adults,
the rewards only became expensive-
the ranks were bought with heavy
money-
Now that even ambition amalgamated
with monetary benefits.
Aftermath, Money slid beneath desks,
Promotion hid inside envelopes.
And honesty, it only reflected a foolish
lunacy.
Then, society draped bribery in gold
and cash, named it marriage.
Dowry- calculated under a man's worth,
land, job, cars, social status.
Love- Even it had entered in the race of
negotiations.
And somewhere, between childhood and
adulthood, I finally realised-
Ghoos was never money alone.
I suspect it is my whole life that's
running through every possible act of
bribery.
And perhaps, we never hate corruption,
when we are indulged.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 9:19 AM UTC
"How's Love?"
Startled,then I answered.........
For some,love is a miracle-
a glimpse of Halley's comet
appearing in their ordinary life.
For some,love is childhood laughter -
running barefoot in the monsoon
believing everything will remain eternal.
For some, love is terrifying-
a door once opened
and remains closed forever thereafter.
For some, love is a memory-
memories of those, whose existence is
kept alive
through fading perfumes and old photographs.
For some, love is survival-
a way for two tired souls
to amble the world holding each other.
For some, love is silence-
plethora of questions rambling
yet feelings jotted into midnight books.
For some, love is destruction-
a detrimental storm that arrives
and leaves space of nothing.
And yet for a few rare ones,
Love becomes Ipseity-
the quiet art of knowing oneself
because everyone has eventually'left.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 12:33 PM UTC
Twisted in a room of borrowed identity,
I asked myself-
Who am I?
Boisterous yelling out and silence all delved in,
" I am whoever that someone's eyes decide."
Twisted between the enigmatic lies,
I greet myself everyday-
Once as 'Me', and once as 'You',
and neither one really felt true.
Twisted again in the vague of hopes,
Asked myself- "which version of me did I reveal?"
The one that laughs, the one that cares,
The one that turns pebbles upside down,
Or, the one that disappears there after?
Twisted and more twisted, I finally realised,
I don't actually exist unless someone is actually looking
I am in a crowd of borrowed identity,
Since the name's neither mine nor yours.
Apr 19
Apr 19, 2026 at 10:58 AM UTC
They say a good man stands tall,head held high,
Provides without complaint,never lets his voice rise.
They say he builds a house,pays bills
Feeds the child and keeps his wife content.
He swallows the storm inside with a facade smile,
Lifts every burden himself before it touches anyone else.
His success is measured in bank balance, title and respect
His duties, his stoic demeanor - that's the mark they praise.
But what if the house is built and account gleams,
Yet doesn't feel like a home,nights hollow with laughter borrowed?
What if all he wants is love and respect,
Yet the trivial care fails to reach?
Is he a good man only because he succeeded and never raised his voice?
Is goodness measured only in stoic endurance?
Men don't cry- who decided them all?
And these ludicrous rules, who wrote them?
Fathers taught only to provide, never to feel
Mothers meant only to stay home , to comfort and pamper
Be Protector.Provider.Conqueror.
The world isn't a place for losers, they say.
But who are losers?
The ones who dare to be meek,soft and deeply human?
Goodness isn't a performance
It's a coherent choice to be honest when it's inconvenient
To forgive when revenge feels sweeter
To reach and lend hands in the dark
Without being remembered as hero everytime.
In the end, perhaps the truest good man
is simply one who remembers he's a Human first-
a little flawed, afraid and yet feels enough.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 9:53 AM UTC
In the hush of dawn, a tiny hand clutches tight,
A step into nursery, beginning of a daylight.
A world full of colours, strangers, and unnamed objects,
Inquisitive soul stands straight, deciphering the intricates.
Tears drizzled down on his confinement,
Sooner, laughter echoes and a cry to be forever incarcerated.
From crayons scribbled on walls
To letters learned, mysteries unlocked.
Initial growth spurred like saplings to trees—
A tree that would stand despite all misadventure.
Games of hide and seek, where secrets hid,
Innocence bloomed as a ray of beam.
Then comes the spark, the heart's first tender flame,
A crush in class, whispered in different name.
Blushes hidden under textbook,
Consequences that led to reduced academic hook.
And as years passed by, new words discovered—
Slangs slipped out, all of them—
A lalochezia in cold air.
Friendship ignited the forge,
Unbreakable chains that stood tall,
Resembling bonds and secrets—
Confidants, my life's cynosure.
But time collapsed, 18 years unfurled,
A tapestry of lessons deeply learned.
I call this Eighteen a threshold, not the end,
A doorway marked for beginning of greater end.
Lessons learned carve a path for niche and excellence;
Learnings unravel wisdom,
To reach the zenith—a peak.
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 11:12 AM UTC
We are told to move on,
as if love and ties were train and station,
the heart a passenger
who must board the next departure
without looking back one last time.
"Move on"—this hurried, absurd, frivolous command—
to demarcate between yesterday and today with a loose thread,
to pretend the cloth was never woven.
The past is not a burden to drop.
Memories are not chains to chop.
They are lanterns that pierced the darkest penumbra,
laughter that slaughtered our ribs,
reminding us what joy feels like
with the slightest warm horripilation.
Her voice—
the susurrus that refuses to fade.
And yet…
is she truly good enough to leave?
This woman who painted mornings on dull daylight,
who knew the exact weight of pale silence—
does she deserve to be folded, discarded
into a drawer of old letters and souvenirs,
out of sight, out of sentence, out of memory?
Tell me,
if moving on is wisdom,
why does the heart keep circling back
Wanting to go once it called home?
I feel loved even in my solitude,
gazing at her old photograph,
letting her live her best—
because the susurrus refuses to fade.....
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 11:04 AM UTC
Bewildered I stood across the cross-paths,
ambling,gazing and deciphering night skies.
In the midst of chaos and calm,
a sudden flashback flickered down my spine.
A familiar gaze - a shift leading to metanoia,
It was her... ...
... there, half- lit by stuttering streetlamp,
enjoying morsels of food with languid smile.
My scant vision stared amidst all boisterous crowd -
befuddled, I stood, acting docile and ununderstood.
A sudden thought arose- "Should I proceed?"
Discarded, my dilapidated heart with rare insinuation,
reminding me of wretched days where
I endured in solace and stifled altogether.
Yet the reel unspools, relentless -
reminds me of the fine primitive days.
Days honky-dory and subtle niche,
and suddenly - a second, then forever apart.
The very last look we never named.
Ever again we never reconnected,
aloofing old ties altogether -
a regret, a resilience of not saying goodbye.
But a sanguine vow:
Next time, we'll finish the sentence.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:07 AM UTC
A word, a hymn, a whispered curse,
"Harami" entangles before my birth.
No fault of mine, this shadowed name,
Yet I'm the one bearing all the shame.
Born of desire's fleeting flame,
Of secrets kept, of hidden blames.
Born in the dawn , with stifled vagitus,
They silenced tears I still hold close.
Naked I moved, averting people's glare,
"Harami", they hissed, raising social pillar.
My culpable parents roam free,
flaunting Pride and draped in honour
While I'm cast as sin,
an epitome of lust.
Call me not 'bastard',
but a child,
With dreams ambling,
Entangling to conquer.
The guilt is theirs. The shame is theirs.
The story is mine- to fly high above sky.
Oct 16, 2025
Oct 16, 2025 at 4:44 AM UTC
I was told happiness is ubiquitous,
Growing up, found it to be scarce-
Like a desert's mirage.
I was told men love once,
Growing up, realised it happens sporadically-
Like a drizzle's dance.
But when did I actually grow up?
Was it when my heart ached for beauties all around
Or when it was limerence that I sought?
A companion to cherish.
Perhaps it was the solitary confinement
When truth whispered softly in the dark,
That growing up is not about success and failure
Rather a journey of life embracing life's unknown adventures.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 5:02 AM UTC
Incarcerated minds; Limitless dreams,
Beamish hopes fragile,
Life unravels at the seam.
A bag full of responsibilities,
Leading towards the cross paths
An indomitable soul ambles,
leaving behind indelible memories.
New places; New opportunities,
Yet rays of despair beam
Soul surrounded by men yet ostracized,
and melancholy gleam.
Caged hopes remain the souvenir for life,
Insomniac soul rises strong,
Pausing mundane interlude.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 5:00 AM UTC