They call it pichi rathalu,
a waste of ink and time.
But they don’t see the tremble in my hands
when I hold a pen,
or the storm I quiet
by pouring pain into lines.

Each word I write
is a cry I never screamed,
a tear I never showed,
a wound I stitched
with syllables no one dared to read.

They say, “Just study, forget all this.”
But how do you forget
what saved you?

These writings—
they aren’t just thoughts.
They’re survival.
They’re scars made beautiful.


"Let Them Call It Madness"

They call it pichi rathalu.
They laugh. Say I’m wasting time.
Say I should just focus on studies, like everyone else.

But they don’t know.

They don’t know these pages hold my pain—
not drama, not attention-seeking.
Real pain. The kind that keeps you up at 2 AM.
The kind that chokes you when you're trying to smile.

I write because if I don’t, I’ll explode.
I write because it’s the only thing that listens without judgment.
Because no one asked me,
“What happened?”
They just said,
“Be strong.”
“Move on.”
“Stop being so emotional.”

So I bleed on paper.
That’s not madness. That’s survival.

Let them call it anything.
This—
this is the only thing keeping me alive.