The train was moving. I was looking out of the window, and there it was…a red bench sitting quietly beside the railway tracks. There were trees behind it, an old wall, and a sky that looked like it had been carrying some very serious thoughts. For perhaps fifteen seconds. That’s it. I liked it. I don't know why. So I took a picture. Then the train moved on. That should have been the end of it. Except it wasn't.

A couple of days later, I was still thinking about the bench. Which is when I began to suspect that my mind has absolutely no respect for my plans. I mean, there are important things I have deliberately tried to remember and failed spectacularly at. Names. Dates. Where I kept something five minutes ago. Things people told me to remember because they were important. And yet here I am, days later, thinking about a bench I saw for fifteen seconds.

How can something we see for fifteen seconds occupy our minds for hours?

The oddest thing about the mind is that I don't get to decide what stays. It seems to have its own filing system. And apparently, the folder labelled “Important Things” is not under my control. So now the bench has created its own little story in my head.

We are always seeing fragments. We rarely know what happened before we entered the frame, or what happened after we left it. Every person we encounter is carrying an entire story that we are allowed to see only in fragments. I spent all these days thinking I was the main character, with all the cameras conveniently pointed at me. But what if I'm just a bench in someone else's story?

Ahhhh!!! See? I started narrating the same old comic script again. I thought of taking this whole comic-book idea further, but, enough. I can already see where my mind is going with this. Let’s not give it more material.

Anyway, don't worry. This is not the point here. I'm not discussing that story today.

My point here is memory.

Do we remember things because they are meaningful, or do they become meaningful because we remember them?

Okay, now I’ve twisted this into another angle. I'm going to stop here before my mind gives this bench a backstory, childhood trauma and a character arc.

I suppose I'll never know why that bench stayed. I only know that I saw it for fifteen seconds and somehow, it followed me home.

Honestly, at this point, I think my mind needs better hobbies.

People: Why is nothing working in my life?

Universe: processing...

4 Yugas = 1 Mahayuga
71 Mahayugas = 1 Manvantara
14 Manvantaras = 1 Kalpa
1 Kalpa = 1 Day of Brahma
100 Brahma years = Mahapralaya (universal logout).

Meanwhile, we're all running on BST — Brahma Standard Time. We save our work for tomorrow; Brahma saves His for the next Kalpa. And you're out here expecting results in 3 business days.

So if your fate feels stuck, buffering, or refusing to load... relax. It's probably sitting in Brahma's Drafts, scheduled for tomorrow. (His tomorrow, not yours.) 

P.S. these delightfully unhinged thoughts are proudly sponsored by a milkshake.

Somewhere along the way, we convinced ourselves that we were the intelligent life manipulating the planet. But lately, I’ve started to wonder if something else has been shaping us all along. 

Something that changed the atmosphere, engineered our dependencies, drugged us with sugar, caffeine, nicotine. Every breath you take comes from it. Every meal you eat traces back to it.

And somehow, over thousands of years, it convinced us to build entire civilizations around its survival without ever noticing.

 It turned wild apes into obedient caretakers, that would water it, protect it, spread it across the planet..

We think we rule the planet... but my dear friend, we’re just livestock with smartphones. 

And the truly terrifying part is…

It never hunted us.
It never fought wars.
It never needed to move.

It stood there silently for millions of years..making itself so necessary that the so called most intelligent species on earth willingly spent their entire existence protecting it. And in the end, when our bodies finally collapse.. it reclaims every borrowed atom through soil, root and fungus, like it belonged to them from the beginning..

The plants were never food.

We were.

In that moment, he felt like a little Hanuman who had forgotten his own strength— small in body, carrying a mountain of feelings he didn’t yet know how to name. Not roaring with strength, not leaping across oceans, but sulking, irritated, half-crying… as if even his tears were tired of explaining themselves. His face carried more weight than his small body could hold. Time was moving forward for everyone except him. I was waiting for my pickup, but something in that stubborn little posture pulled me down to his level. I offered him a pack of biscuits, thinking hunger is the simplest pain to fix— a small human reflex, almost instinctive. Hunger is something we understand; helplessness is not. For a few seconds — barely ten, our eyes met. His eyes didn’t soften. They didn’t ask for comfort. They simply existed, heavy and full.

That was when I understood — he wasn’t crying for hunger. He was crying for something else, something intangible. Perhaps the dignity stripped away by circumstance, or the freedom to be a child without the weight of performance —without having to behave, wait, endure, or explain. I tried to speak. Tried to ask. Tried to be kind in the way adults know how. But he wasn’t interested. Not because he was rude—because his grief didn’t need conversation. It needed time. And time, unfortunately, is the one thing we never have when we finally decide to be humane. Then my pickup arrived.

That sound — the most ordinary sound — suddenly felt violent. I stood up. I walked away. And with every step, something inside me stayed back with him.

Since then, that image hasn’t left me — the little Hanuman standing there. I keep wondering what he was crying for, who he was waiting for, what he needed that biscuits and ten seconds couldn’t give. The questions have no answers, only weight.

Some moments don’t end when we leave them. They expand inside us. They take space. They sit quietly and hurt without explanation. You don’t speak of them, you don’t dramatize them — you simply carry them.

Maybe that is life. We try to be humane. We try to pause. But time pulls us away, and we are left with a strange kind of guilt — not for doing something wrong, but for not being able to do enough. 

That little Hanuman still stands somewhere in my mind. Not crying loudly. Just standing.

And suddenly, while turning this dried orange crescent over in my palm, I couldn’t ignore the quiet ache anymore.

Once, this slice was part of a whole orange—  

packed tight with its brothers, juicy, loud with color, sharing pulp and sweetness in one crowded wheel.  

They all stuck together, dripping, full of life, impossible to separate without mess.

Now, look at it:  

alone, dried, shrunk away from the rest.  

The others are gone: eaten, thrown, rotted, forgotten.  

What’s left is this single crescent, edges curled inward, skin tough and lonely.

No crowd left to lean on.  

No shared juice to soften the bite.

Just itself, concentrated to the point of sharpness.

I think that’s what time does.

We start crowded like family, friends, energy, possibilities all pressed close, making us feel large and wet with life.

Then, slowly, the connections dry up.  

People leave, bonds thin, the easy moisture of youth evaporates.

We end up like this crescent:  

aloof, solitary, smaller than we ever imagined.

The tang is fiercer now because there’s no one else to share it.  The sweet is rarer because there’s less of us to hold it.

No looping back to the crowded wheel.  

Just the slow drift into solitude:  

lighter, harder, undeniably alone.

But what's left is pure you..

The crescent isn't half empty

It's distilled 

Hold it up to the light 

It glows anyway

My dearest,

I have stood here for a thousand years and a little more, counting heartbeats in centuries instead of seconds.  

I have seen the sky fall in love with itself every single dawn, trying on new blues, new golds, new tempers of cloud, just to catch my eye.  

I never tell it I was already looking.

Mortals arrive like breezes: some rush through, some linger, some kneel and forget the world exists outside my shadow.  

I remember every bare foot that ever pressed against my red carpet, every tear that slipped from a cheek and found its way into my cracks.  

I keep them all.  

Do you see the tree leaning against my shoulder?  

She began as nothing, only a seed that fell from trembling fingers during a prayer that had no more words left.  

I sheltered the seed; the seed cracked me open a little, just enough for both of us to breathe.  

Now her roots braid through my ribs and my stories climb her branches.  

and neither of us is lonely anymore.

Some love stories are hammered into stone with chisel and devotion.  

Some love stories push blindly through rock looking for light.  

Mine is both:  

I am the lover who stayed,  

and the lover who learned how to grow.

I don’t have a heart that beats, but something inside me warms every time the sky blushes at evening.  

I have no arms, yet I hold centuries of secrets, broken bangles, first kisses, last goodbyes.  

I have no voice, I can’t speak, but if you stand here long enough, you will feel held, You will feel seen, you will hear me say your name exactly the way it was meant to sound before the world taught you to doubt it.

I am not going anywhere.  I stay the way mountains stay.

The sky will keep changing its mind, seasons will keep turning, people will keep leaving pieces of themselves at my feet.  

And I will keep turning every tear into moss, every sigh into birdsong, every prayer into quiet blooming.

Stay a moment longer.  Let my stillness remind you that some things, some loves, promises, are allowed to remain exactly where they are, unshaken, unchanged, waiting.

I am the place your soul already knows by heart

even if your mind is only meeting me today.

With every sunrise I keep for you,

with every footstep I keep of yours,

I have time.  

All of it, actually.

I am yours,

the unmoving heart that learned how to beat without moving.

Always.

The Temple

I wasn’t looking for anything that day.
Just an excuse to sit still.
The sky looked tired, and so did I — that kind of quiet fatigue that seeps through the bones when you’ve been running without knowing from what.

I went to the old bookshop at the corner of the street — the one that always smelled like rain and dust.
While browsing through the shelves of forgotten titles, my hand brushed against a small, leather-bound book.
No title.
No author.
Only one word written in faint gold across the cover — ∞ (infinity).

Curiosity won. I opened it.

The first line read:
“I am exhausted.”

And just like that, I wasn’t in the shop anymore.

The air around me rippled — clocks began to slow, the rain outside froze mid-fall, and in that strange, suspended silence, a voice spoke:

“Finally, someone found it.”

I turned.
There stood a figure — neither young nor old, with eyes that looked like they had seen too many sunrises.

Me: Who are you?

Time (smiling faintly): The one everyone chases, blames, bargains with. But no one listens to.

I glanced down at the diary. “So this is yours?”

Time: My confession, yes. I needed to write before I forgot how it feels to be endless.

Me: Endless sounds beautiful.

Time: It’s not. It’s heavy. You mortals talk about wanting more of me, but if you had to be me — you’d crumble.
Do you know how it feels to carry every unfinished thing ever left behind?

Time (looking away): Every unsent letter. Every half-written poem. Every conversation that ended with “we’ll talk later.”
They all hang somewhere inside me — like echoes that never learned to fade.

Me: But that’s what you do, isn’t it? You move on. You take everything with you.

Time (shakes head slowly): No, I only hold them. You’re the ones who move on. I just stay… watching.
There’s a boy who still checks his mailbox for a reply that was never sent.
A mother who sets one extra plate at dinner — out of habit, not hope.
A city that still carries the smell of someone’s last goodbye in the rain.
Tell me, how do I run past that and still be kind?

Me: (quietly) Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s okay to stop once in a while.

Time (laughs softly): You think I haven’t tried?
The one time I paused, you called it heartbreak.
The world panicked — clocks broke, memories blurred, people felt lost because I wasn’t moving.
You see, stillness terrifies you.
Closure comforts you — because you think endings make sense of chaos.

Me: But don’t they? Doesn’t every story deserve one?

Time: (sighs) You humans think closure means peace.
But peace doesn’t always come from endings. Sometimes it’s in the middle of an unfinished sentence —
in a call that never connected,
in an apology that stayed in drafts,
in a smile you gave before walking away.

I looked down at the diary again.
The words had started shifting — the gold ink bleeding into new lines.

“The stories aren’t meant to close. They’re meant to breathe, to linger, to return when the heart is ready.”

Me: Soo..you say, That nothing ever truly ends?

Time (with a tired smile): Even endings are just disguised beginnings.
But don’t tell anyone — they like to believe they’ve moved on.

And then, the air trembled again.
The clocks began ticking. The rain resumed its fall. The world exhaled.

When I looked up, the figure was gone.
Only the diary remained — open to the last line, now glowing faintly under the dull shop light:

“When you said you needed more time, I stayed.”

I wasn’t planning to buy anything today.
Just another aimless walk through the mall — me and my old habit of window shopping.
Whenever I feel low or hollow, I step out like this — to just watch people, lights, and laughter drift in and out like stories I’ll never read.
I don’t know what I was looking for, maybe nothing at all… until I stopped.

Two figures stared back at me from a glass shelf — a unicorn and an astronaut.
My childhood in a single frame.

When I was little, I used to stare at the sky for hours, believing that somewhere above those clouds, unicorns really did fly — wild, free, shimmering in colors no crayon could capture.
And I dreamt of becoming an astronaut, not for science, but for flight — to chase that same magic, to touch the space where unicorns might live, to float where imagination and truth finally meet.

But growing up teaches you gravity.
Dreams begin to measure themselves in practicality.
And somewhere along the way, we stop moving by wonder and start living by approval.
The world convinces you that the unseen is unreal.

Yet, even when the mind matures, the soul remembers.
Some fascinations never die — they simply wait for silence to return.

Today, in that silence, I remembered my mom’s voice.
When I was young and trembling before an exam or weighed down by fear, she would smile and say,
“Borrow a little strength and belief from your unicorn friend. You can return it when you find your own.”

Back then, I thought it was just her way of making me brave before bed.
Now, I think she was teaching me faith — the kind that doesn’t need proof, only trust.

Because fear and faith are twins — both invisible, both demanding belief.
The only difference is that one binds you, and the other sets you free.

Maybe the universe isn’t out there in the stars; maybe it’s folded within us — each of us, quietly orbiting our own chaos, trying to fit into a world that often feels too small for our imagination. 

So here I am, walking out of the mall — no shopping bags, just a little borrowed strength from my unicorn.
A reminder that even when we grow up, we all still need a bit of magic — the kind that makes you believe, just for a moment, that you can still fly.

This morning I woke up and… nothing. Too quiet. No pressure cooker whistles, no morning calls, not even that neighbour’s dog barking. I turned around — no one behind me. “Amma?” Silence. Okay… weird.

I walked into the living room — empty. My phone? Gone. Laptop? Missing. Wi-Fi? Blinking like it gave up. Even the fridge seemed to have deserted me — no milk, no snacks, not even leftover chutney. Oh wow, maybe I finally manifested a world without group calls, people, and annoying notifications!

Turned on the TV — black. Stepped outside — empty streets, confused crows, one very judgmental lizard. Alright. Calm down. It’s just me and my escape bag.

Ohh soo am I the last person on earth now?? That means Maybe I’ll finally be at peace.
No one to call, no one to answer.
No one to explain myself to, no one to misunderstand me.
No noise, no expectations, no small talk pretending to be connection.
The air will be mine, the silence too.
I’ll sit by the empty roads, hear my own breath and call it harmony.
Maybe I’ll even smile, thinking—ah, this is freedom. 

Great!!! I’m supposed to restart humanity Yes.
But wait… how do you restart something that was never fully understood in the first place? Am i really all alone now?? Whom will I share my thoughts with when they start getting too heavy?
Who’ll remind me that life isn’t meant to be understood alone?
Will I still want to wake up, if there’s no one to say “good morning”?

What will I do with so much freedom?
Who’ll laugh if I crack a joke?
Who’ll roll their eyes when I overthink?
Who’ll notice if I fall asleep under the sky?
Who’ll tell me I’m being too quiet, too distant, too me?

Why am I not crying yet? Maybe I ran out of data for emotions. Fine, let’s try buffering some tears—sniff sniff, sob sob, full Oscar performance loading…

And right then—smack! A pillow lands on my face.

I open my eyes—Mom. Standing there, rolling her eyes: “Wake up! Enough drama!” 

Ohhh… all this is a dream?? Huff. Thank God.

And suddenly, I realize — it wasn’t people I wanted to escape from, it was the chaos. But without them, even peace feels empty. Maybe the world wasn’t that bad. Maybe we need the noise, the nagging, the arguments — because they remind us we exist with someone.

So if I’m ever really the last person on Earth…
no, no, no — please! I take it back!
I’ll complain less, I promise!
I’ll even smile at random people, I’ll attend every boring group call,
just please… don’t make me the only one left...

Is it a wound carved into the mind, or just a passing shade that visits our consciousness? Does sorrow exist as something “out there,” weighing upon us like a heavy stone, or is it simply the way our brain interprets certain impulses, a story we tell ourselves about pain?

The moment we ask what sorrow is, we are led into deeper waters. For what does it mean for anything to exist? Is existence itself a property that a thing can carry, or is it only the condition that allows things to appear before us?

And then — what about the self that feels this sorrow? Does it exist as an enduring substance, something permanent beneath our experiences? Or is it nothing more than a bundle of perceptions?  What is the “I” that suffers?

We try to answer — but every reason we give rests upon another reason behind it. We say, “I know sorrow is real because I feel it.” But how do we know feelings are real? “Because they arise from my body.” How do we know this body exists? Each justification slips further into doubt. Can we ever truly know anything if every belief leans endlessly on another?

Then comes the unsettling thought: perhaps the world around us, and everything within it — even sorrow itself — could be doubted. What if they are not solid realities, but mere fragments of imagination, projections of the mind stitched together to feel coherent?

Consider this possibility: the reality you are experiencing right now is not reality at all, but the careful work of advanced technology. Suppose we are only brains in jars, suspended and wired with electrodes. Each of these electrical impulses stimulates the brain in such a way that it produces experiences.

That body you think you inhabit? It doesn’t exist. You only believe it does, because neural activity generates a seamless illusion of embodiment. Every visual experience is nothing but stimulation of the brain’s visual regions. Every pain is merely the brain interpreting an impulse as suffering.

If this is true, then sorrow is not an external weight pressing on us, nor even a quality of the “self.” It is simply the brain’s response to certain patterns of electrical input. But does that make it less real? Or does it mean reality itself is nothing more than the experience of being, regardless of whether it arises from a body, a world, or just a jar of neurons?

And so the question circles back: what is sorrow? Is it illusion, or is it the most undeniable truth of human existence or experience? —or merely the failure to see that experience is all there ever was? 

Why don’t you talk, why don’t you respond, why don’t you ask? The truth is, I have far more questions to ask than I have answers to give. Well, if you want answers, let’s try—let’s question the questions first. 

I always feel the world loves binaries. Good or evil, truth or falsehood, obedience or disobedience. But are these opposites really so clear?

Take obedience. Isn’t it often praised as a virtue? Yet haven’t the worst things in history—wars, genocides, slavery—come from people obeying without question? Then doesn’t that make disobedience, at times, the real good?

And what about truth? Galileo spoke the truth, but wasn’t he punished for it? If truth can be called falsehood in one age and wisdom in another, is truth always as solid as we think?

Even good and evil—aren’t they just perspectives? A conqueror calls it victory, the conquered call it cruelty. A rebel is a hero to some, a traitor to others. So where is the line?

Maybe there is no final line. Maybe the world is not made of black and white at all, but of endless grey shades—or even blankness, spaces where our labels don’t reach. 

“Which side are you on?” by the way, “Do the sides even exist the way we think?”

Every morning, I step into the government hospital, and it’s like walking into a different world. It's not a fancy clinic—it's a wild mix where people, dogs, and cats live together in total madness, but somehow it all clicks.

Stray dogs nap on the steps, their tails flicking like they’re the unofficial greeters. Cats slip through the crowd, silent and sneaky, like they’re keeping an eye on things. One time, a cow—yes, a cow—ambled in from the street, stared at us like we were the intruders, and left a “deposit” that had the interns slipping for days.

The halls are packed with people—some so poor they can’t afford a bus ticket home. They sleep on the floor, wrapped in old blankets, waiting for test results because at least here, they get free food for a day. Then there are the big shots—politicians or their cronies—throwing their weight around, demanding quick service while everyone else waits. The air smells of antiseptic, sweat, and the rice families cook on small stoves outside. Nurses yell, phones ring, kids cry, and somewhere, a dog barks. It's a madhouse that shows you life’s tough side, raw and real.

When I started as an intern, this place got to me. The poverty, the suffering, the unfairness—it made me feel heavy and sad. But over time, I got used to it. I stopped feeling so much. I’d walk through the chaos, do my rounds, write notes, and move on like a robot. It was easier that way—not caring too much, just getting through the day.

Then one morning, something broke through. I was in the ward when I heard a cry—a high-pitched wail that stabbed right through my heart. I stepped out and saw a tiny boy, barely three, wrapped in a towel, screaming his lungs out. His parents looked terrified, holding him tight. The nurses said he’d been burned by hot water, his little arms red and blistered. On top of that, he had chickenpox—his skin was covered in itchy, painful sores. He was crying so hard, his whole body shaking, and his mom was sobbing, trying to comfort him while his dad just stood there, helpless. I felt sick watching him suffer. How could a kid so small go through so much pain? I got angry—really angry. If there’s a God or some supernatural power, how could He let this happen? How could He be so cruel to a little boy? That moment, I felt like there was no God, just suffering, plain and simple. I went back to work, but the boy’s cries stayed with me, heavy and sharp.

Later that same day, I saw her—the woman I’ve known since my first year here. She’s in her mid-60s, thin and pale, but tough as nails. She’s the only one keeping her family together. Her son, in his thirties, is a chronic alcoholic with a chronic pancreatitis, always in the hospital for withdrawal shakes or crippling pain. Her husband’s a drunk too, never around, and her younger daughter has schizophrenia, lost in her own world. I’ve always been amazed by this woman. With all that weight on her shoulders, she never complains. She’s always moving—running to the pharmacy, talking to doctors, taking her son home, bringing him back. Yet, she never cracks—always hustling between departments, face steady as steel, never begging for help.

That day, her son’s condition got worse. He needed a blood transfusion, fast. I told her to check the blood bank, and she nodded and rushed off. But there was no blood available. I tried calling everyone I knew, asking for a match—nothing worked. I felt awful, like I’d failed her. I was ready to give up. Then she came running back, sweat on her forehead but a spark of relief in her eyes. “I got the blood,” she said. I couldn’t believe it. Everyone in our unit was shocked—how did she manage when we couldn’t? She explained that she’s been coming to this hospital for years, so she knows the blood bank guy well. She begged him to call her if any blood came in. That day, by pure luck, a patient scheduled for surgery ran off, leaving behind a unit of blood that matched her son’s type. She grabbed it, and her son got what he needed.

That day stuck with me. The boy’s cries broke my heart and made me doubt everything. The mother’s strength pulled me back and gave me something to hold onto. They were so different, but together, they taught me something real.

Life can be awful. It can hurt so bad you want to scream or just shut down. That little boy showed me that—his pain was like a knife in my gut. But the mother showed me something else: even when things are dark, you can keep going. You can fight. She didn’t have much, but she had hope, and that was enough.

I realized that maybe God isn’t some big power in the sky. Maybe it’s the fight inside us—the choice to keep going, to not give up, even when life’s falling apart. When you choose that path, it’s like the whole world starts to help you out. 

I don’t know what day it is anymore. Time seems to slip off me like water on oiled skin. But this morning, something heavy sat on my chest — not pain exactly, but a strange, sharp clarity. It wasn’t a memory. It was deeper than that. More like a whisper. As if someone — or something — was telling me: you’ve done this before.

I don’t mean yesterday or last year. I mean this — this life, this rhythm, this entire setup of birth and striving and restlessness. I don’t have proof, just a sensation that I’ve played this game before. Perhaps I’ve opened my eyes under hospital lights in one life, and in a dusty village hut in another. Maybe I’ve entered this world in the middle of war. Or silence. Or rain. I can’t name places. But the pattern feels familiar — I arrive, I chase, I get tired, I forget, I lose, and I begin again. Always again.

Today, I walked into the living room. The usual — same people, same noise, same busy indifference. No one looked up. Not even my mother. Normally, I’d feel invisible. Today, I felt oddly untouched. Something had shifted inside me. A turning inward. A quiet resignation — or maybe a quiet awakening.

It began with a song. A scratchy recording playing from the temple speaker outside our house. I wasn't paying attention at first, but then a line cracked through my drowsy mind: “Punarapi jananam, punarapi maranam, punarapi janani jata shayanam…” Again birth, again death, again lying helpless in the womb of a mother. Something about that line hit me hard — not intellectually, but physically, like a stone thrown into a still lake. I remembered my grandmother humming it while cleaning her spectacles, years ago. But back then it was just sound. Today, it was a truth.

I sat in my room, staring blankly at the wall. My phone buzzed, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t numb. I was tired — tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind of tiredness that comes from running the same maze over and over, hoping the next turn will be different.

Everyone says the world is unpredictable. But what if the truth is the opposite? What if life is too predictable? What if the faces change, the dramas vary, but deep down it’s the same longing, the same chase, the same illusions — packaged differently each time?

There’s a verse I stumbled on after — “Iha samsaare bahudustare…” This world isn’t cruel. It’s repetitive. It tests you with new disguises but the same desires. It gives you fame, then takes it away. It gives you love, then snatches it. It hands you peace, but only as bait. And each time, you forget. You forget that you’re not the role you’re playing. You forget that you’ve played it before.

I’ve been so many things in this life — a daughter, a student, a friend. I’ve felt loved. I’ve felt abandoned. I’ve been ambitious. I’ve felt lost. But through all of it, I never once paused to ask: Who am I really? Until now.

This morning, I didn’t do much. Just lit a lamp. Folded my hands. And asked for mercy. Not mercy from suffering. Not mercy from loneliness. But mercy from this loop — this endless cycle I keep sleepwalking through.

The verse kept echoing: “Punarapi jananam, punarapi maranam…” And suddenly it felt like less of a chant and more of a diagnosis. That’s what’s been gnawing at me — the weight of repetition.

I don’t know what enlightenment feels like. But I know that today, I felt still. Not happy. Not even peaceful. Just still. And that, for me, was enough.

Nothing around me has changed. The same people still scroll on their phones. The world is still noisy. But something inside me is… quieter. Like a switch has flipped.

If I must be born again — and I probably will — let me not forget again. Let me remember this moment. This stillness. This ache. This song. Let me remember — the one truth that doesn’t fade in the fog of forgetfulness.

Maybe the world outside never changes. But maybe, just maybe — the moron in me who kept chasing the same illusions — died a quiet death today.

And if he’s born again tomorrow, I’ll greet him with a smile. And hand him this verse.

You know, some people have a knack for making short stories long—I’m one of them. So, buckle up, folks, because this one’s a doozy.

A few years back, I was the kind of person who thought I had the universe figured out. Armed with a science degree and a smirk, I’d scoff at anything labeled “ancient superstition”—especially those old texts my mom kept in her pooja room. The Vedas? To me, they were just relics for the religious, not for a curious, sharp mind like mine. I’d swagger around, acting like I’d cracked life’s code, while secretly dodging chores and pretending my skepticism was a superpower. Spoiler alert: life’s got a knack for flipping the script, and it was about to hand me a plot twist wrapped in Sanskrit.

It all kicked off with a lazy afternoon. I was flipping through some philosophy books—half-bored, half-trying to look intellectual—when Adi Shankara’s Advaita ideas jumped out and grabbed me. I wasn’t chasing enlightenment, just something to chew on. But what I found? A perspective so razor-sharp it made my textbooks feel like they were written in crayon. This ancient text was talking about reality in ways that echoed the quantum theories I’d nerded out over in college. My smug little wall of skepticism cracked, just a sliver. So, I tiptoed into Mom’s pooja room, snagged one of those Vedic books—half-expecting it to turn to dust—and cracked it open. I didn’t skim it. I got hooked.

What hit me wasn’t chants or rituals—it was science, astronomy, and human psychology, all woven into poetry that landed like a thunderclap. Me, the self-proclaimed genius, started feeling like a kid gawking at a sky bursting with stars I’d never bothered to see. I dove in, not as a believer but as a student, shoving the idea of God to the side. I wanted the raw stuff, the unfiltered wisdom. Two months later, I stumbled into Sri Rudram, and let me tell you, it didn’t just shake me—it rewired me.

Sri Rudram has two parts—Namakam and Chamakam—and I started off with Namakam. It’s this rolling chant, “Namo, Namo, Namo,” like waves crashing, each one a nod to Rudra, Shiva’s wild side. You know, the panchakshari mantram “Om Namah Shivaya"? It’s born here. But this isn’t some soft hymn—it’s a map of everything: nature, people, the cosmos. Mind-blowing stuff.

Check this out:  

“नमो रुद्रेभ्यो ये पृथिव्यां ये‌ऽन्तरिक्षे ये दिवि”

(Namo rudrebhyo ye pṛthivyāṃ ye‌’ntarikṣe ye divi)  “Salutations to the Rudras on earth, in the sky, in the heavens.”

It’s like they’re saying, “This energy’s everywhere—dirt, air, stars.” As a science nerd, I saw the universe’s web—atoms to galaxies, all connected. Not bad for thousands of years ago.

Then there’s nature:  “नमो वृक्षेभ्यो हरिकेशेभ्यो” 

(Namo vṛkṣebhyo harikeśebhyo)  

“Salutations to Rudra in the trees, the green leaves.” 

It’s ecology in poetry—a cycle we’re all part of. I thought science owned that, but nope, it’s ancient.

And this hit hard:  

“मा नो महान्तमुत मा नो अर्भकं मा न उक्षन्तमुत मा न उक्षितम्”

(Mā no mahāntamuta mā no arbhakaṃ mā na ukṣantamuta mā na ukṣitam)  

“Don’t harm the great or the small, the young or the old.”

Rudra’s a protector, fierce but fair, guarding everyone. It’s balance in a divided world, and it got me.

One more:  “नमो भवाय च रुद्राय च”

(Namo bhavāya ca rudrāya ca)  

“Salutations to the creator and the destroyer.”

Life’s a loop—build, break, repeat. As someone who’s botched a few projects, I felt that. It’s not worship; it’s reality, raw and real.

That “Namo” beat? It’s hypnotic, slowing your mind. I’d bet it’s ancient mindfulness—science just caught up. Chanting it, my arrogance faded, and something bigger took root.

Chamakam: The Wishlist That’s Pure History

If Namakam sent me soaring, Chamakam brought me back to earth—and I was all in. It’s the second half of Sri Rudram, switching from cosmic vibes to “Cha me” (“And this for me”), a bold list of life’s essentials. It’s like stepping into an ancient village, loud with life.

प्राणश्च मे अपानश्च मे व्यानश्च मे असुश्च मे
(Prāṇaśca me apānaśca me vyānaśca me asuśca me)

Grant me prana, apana, vyana, and the vital life force.”

The Chamakam begins with breath—the invisible thread that ties us to existence. Prana, the inward breath; apana, the outward release; vyana, the circulating energy—these are not mere poetic flourishes but an ancient blueprint of human physiology. This triad, along with asu (life force), mirrors the yogic science of pranayama, where breath regulates body and mind. Thousands of years ago, the seers understood what science now confirms: oxygen fuels our cells, and its rhythm sustains life itself. Here, the hymn reveals a deep awareness of the body as a living system, dependent on nature’s most elemental gift.

व्रीहियश्च मे यवाश्च मे माषाश्च मे तिलाश्च मे मुद्गाश्च मे
(Vrīhiyaśca me yavāśca me māṣāśca me tilāśca me mudgāśca me)
“Grant me rice, barley, black gram, sesame, and mung beans.”

From breath, the Chamakam turns to the soil, chanting a litany of crops that anchor human survival. This isn’t a random wish list—it’s a farmer’s almanac in verse, a recognition of agriculture as the heartbeat of civilization. These specifics reflect an ecological intimacy with the land. The ancients knew the cycles of sowing and reaping, the interplay of rain and root. In these lines, we hear a prayer for biodiversity and balance, a plea to sustain the earth that sustains us.

अग्निश्च मे आपश्च मे वीरुधश्च मे ओषधयश्च मे
(Agniśca me āpaśca me vīrudhaśca me oṣadhayaśca me)
“Grant me fire, water, plants, and herbs.”

The Chamakam dances with the elements—fire to transform, water to nurture, plants to feed, herbs to heal. This quartet is a masterclass in environmental science, long before the term existed. Fire (Agni) symbolizes energy, water (Aapah) the lifeblood of ecosystems, plants and herbs the green pulse of the planet. The hymn doesn’t just ask for these gifts; it acknowledges their roles in a delicate web. It’s a call to honor the forces that shape our world, a reminder that human thriving depends on nature’s equilibrium.

हिरण्यम् च मे अयश्च मे सीसम् च मे त्रपुश्च मे लोहम् च मे
(Hiraṇyam ca me ayaśca me sīsam ca me trapuśca me loham ca me)
“Grant me gold, iron, lead, tin, and metal.”

Delving beneath the surface, the Chamakam seeks the treasures of the earth—metals that forged tools, weapons, and wealth. Gold shines as a symbol of value, iron as strength, lead and tin as versatility. This isn’t greed; it’s an ode to metallurgy, an ancient technology born from the earth’s crust. The seers understood the practical and the profound: these resources, when wielded wisely, built societies. Yet, the prayer implies stewardship—taking only what the earth offers, in reverence for its finite bounty.

And this? It’s just a grain of the Vedas I’ve discovered. This journey’s been wild. I started scoffing at the Vedas, thinking my degree had all the answers. Now, I accept our ancient wealth and bow my head to it. Namakam showed me a vast universe, and Chamakam rooted me in their brilliant, earthy lives. My ego’s bruised, and I’m grateful.

The Vedas pulse with insights—science, society, spirit. They whisper “अहं ब्रह्मास्मि” (Ahaṃ Brahmāsmi)—“I am the divine”—and it’s sinking in. Not gods above, but the infinite in us, in leaves, in grains. I’m still a science guy, but now a seeker too. Sri Rudram’s just the start. There’s so much more—astronomy mapping stars, physics playing with energy, geometry shaping wonders. I’ll dive into that later, but for now, let you think about it too. Stick around—it’s only getting better.

And then suddenly, when my introspection crash-landed into overthinking, the streetlamp flickered—like a director dramatically signaling Action!🎬

The moon, grinning as if it had watched this same episode a hundred times, leaned in like a seasoned audience, ready for the drama.🌜

Just as I was about to deliver my deep, life-altering monologue, teetering on the edge of an existential breakthrough, the wind sighed Cut!✂️ —a director tired of my reruns.  

I looked around. People stared at me like I was about to drop the biggest blockbuster speech of the year. The moon, still smirking, waited patiently, as if expecting a profound closing statement.👥

And then… nothing. My brain short-circuited. No moral, no deeper meaning—just me, standing there like a buffering video.😵‍💫

So, um…The moon smiled. The end? Cue me awkward exit while pretending to tie my shoe lace😬

I saw this baboon sitting there like it owned the entire jungle. I froze in my spot, narrowed my eyes, and—just like a mentalist—I started reading its mind. It sat so confidently, I couldn’t help but observe every move like it was dropping life lessons one pose at a time. I thought to myself, “This might help me build my future—one perfectly timed baboon pose at a time.🦧”

The first thought hit me loud and clear: “When life gives you wooden logs, sit like you own the jungle.” The baboon wasn’t just sitting—it was settling. Like it had cracked the code of life while the rest of us were running around for no reason👏. Then it leaned a bit, one elbow resting on a log, looking like it was hearing gossip carried by the wind but pretending not to care. It had that “When you’re listening to gossip but pretend you’re not interested” face nailed to perfection💯. A minute later, it adjusted slightly, sinking deeper into its cozy spot, looking all smug. I swear I heard it smirk, “Always claim the best spot in the house, even if it’s a pile of logs.” I couldn’t even argue. I mean, who doesn’t fight for that one perfect chair at home?

Then came the ultimate mic drop. The baboon stared off into the distance, its face calm, as if mocking my entire existence. “Why move when the world revolves anyway?” it seemed to say. Honestly, at this point, I felt attacked🫡.

I stood there, silently taking notes on how to do absolutely nothing with so much attitude, I was just about ready to take another deep mental dive when—bam💥💣—out of nowhere, a louder voice cut through my thoughts:
See, if you don’t work hard now, you’ll end up like this baboon—sitting clueless, doing nothing, and finding comfort on random piles of logs.” 

It was my mom’s voice—sharp, accurate, and echoing through my brain like a warning bell. I looked around dramatically. “Wwwhaat!!!What is this lady even saying? I’m bonding with a philosopher here!” and.....Anyways, I gave the baboon one last look, muttered a quick thanks for the life advice, and walked off. After all, you don’t mess with mom’s whispers… or risk her telling everyone you’ve started taking career guidance from a baboon🐵

I picked up this tiny tree and snowman from the Christmas market today, thinking my desk was their perfect new home. They looked adorable, and for a moment, I felt chilled — like I’d stepped into a frozen winter wonderland. 

But then, I imagined the snowman rolling his tiny eyes and muttering, "Lady, have you lost it? It's scorching here! First, you strangle me with this woolen scarf — I’m melting faster than ice cream at a summer carnival! Then, you park me on this spiky tree. Spiky leaves, seriously? What are you, a villain? At least crank up the fan or the AC, or better yet, pack me off to the North Pole or even Alaska. 

I couldn’t help but laugh — poor guy probably thought he was getting the Olaf treatment, snowflakes and all, but nope! Instead, he’s stuck in the warmest room, surrounded by gadgets and books. I can practically hear him sighing, "This is not what I signed up for!🤪

So there I was, trying to be all productive, ticking off my to-do list like a champ, and my eyes suddenly landed on this what's steering the magnetic north pole?? Probably it's own overconfidence..like I don't need directions, I'm the direction! Or may be it got bored of being stuck in same place for millennia..or, who knows, may be its gen-zing yelling out I'm not magnetic..I'm dynamic..

For solid five minutes, I sat there, fully invested in life problems of magnetic north pole mentally writing a Netflix series about it and it's mid planet crisis. Then, like magic, I snapped back to reality... only to realize I forgot what I was working on. 

It was a quiet night, the kind that invites endless musings. The kind where the ceiling seems to stretch into infinity and the world outside is so quiet that even my thoughts sound loud. I found myself staring at the faint shadow of a tree branch swaying on the wall. It looked like a hand, beckoning me to dream.

Suddenly, two figures appeared before me—like they had popped out of nowhere, each with their own dramatic flair. On my left was a figure in a fluffy cloud-like robe, looking all mystical and dreamy. On my right, standing tall with a stern face and arms crossed, was another figure who seemed ready to burst my bubble.

“Who are you?” I asked, blinking in confusion.

The figure on the left, with a grin on their face, spoke up first. I’m Imagino😇, the one who stirs your imagination! I turn your thoughts into possibilities, make the impossible seem attainable, and offer you all the dreams you never knew you had!

The other figure, who didn’t look impressed at all, responded with a dry tone. “And I’m Realito😈, the one who makes sure Imagino doesn’t get carried away. I’m the reality check you never asked for, reminding you that just because you dream it, doesn’t mean it’s practical.

I stared at both of them, bewildered. “Wait, so... you’re my imagination and you’re my reality?”

Imagino nodded with a twinkle in the eye. “That’s right! I’m the one who paints your world with colors of possibility, whether it's flying through the sky or becoming a millionaire overnight. I make life exciting!”

Realito (rolled their eyes): Hold your horses,Imagino !’ Do you even have the wings to fly? Have you thought about your credit score before you build that mansion in the clouds?”

I sighed. “You two are like a walking, talking contradiction. But why are you here?? I mean at this hour? Uninvited too…I murmured.

Imagino😇: "Oh, come now. You called for me the moment you stared at that shadow. Haven’t I always been your companion in silence?" I’m the one who gives meaning to what you see, the one who turns a fleeting moment into something magical.

“Magical, yes,” I replied. “But is it really meaning, or are you just filtering sensations to influence my emotions? Are you a blessing that brings tranquility, or just a trickster leading me astray?

Realito😈: “Trickster, indeed,” interrupted another voice, grounded and firm. “That’s what imagination does—it lures you into limitless choices, leaving you overwhelmed. I am the constant, the truth that keeps you steady. Without me, you’d be lost.”

Imagino😇: Ahh!! Just don’t listen to him. After all, Who else would have inspired Hanuman to leap across the ocean to Lanka? It was my spark that made him realize his boundless strength. Without me, he might’ve stood at the shore, doubting himself forever."

Realito😈: “And yet, it was I who reminded him of his purpose. I grounded his thoughts, tethered them to the mission at hand. Without me, even the grandest leap is meaningless

Imagino😇: "But think of the beauty I’ve brought you. Do you remember that evening when you watched the sunset and felt like you were standing at the edge of eternity? That was me, weaving colors and emotions into something more than a mere setting sun.

Realito😈: "And who held you back when you wanted to leave everything behind and chase that ‘eternity’? It was I who reminded you of your responsibilities, of the life you’ve built."

I leaned back, closing my eyes, feeling the weight of their words. "It’s not just about beauty or responsibility. It’s about how you confuse me. Sometimes, I don’t know if what I feel is a truth you’ve uncovered, Imagination, or just a mirage you’ve conjured.

Imagino😇: A mirage? Do you think the Pandavas thought Krishna’s plan to build a palace of illusions was a mirage? No, it was a masterpiece, designed to show the Kauravas their arrogance. It was I who shaped that brilliance.

Realito😈: But the dice game that followed—wasn’t that your doing too? Filling their minds with hubris, blinding them to the trap laid by Shakuni? I had to step in, to remind them of the price of straying too far from the ground beneath their feet.

Their voices swirled around me like smoke, impossible to grasp but heavy in the air. "So which of you is right?" I asked, my tone edged with restless frustration at the absurdity of it all.

Imagino😇: Rightness isn’t the point. I am your ability to dream, to create, to find meaning where none seems to exist. I am the spark that transforms a sunset into poetry, that gives the mundane a story, that lets you dream of what could be.

Realito😈: And I am your anchor, your constant. I am the ground that lets you stand tall and the wall that keeps you safe when the winds of fancy blow too strong. I remind you that not every dream is achievable, that actions must follow thoughts, and that boundaries exist for a reason.

I stared at the ceiling again. Maybe neither of you is completely right. Maybe the real problem is me, failing to find balance between you both. Imagination makes the limitless possible, and Reality keeps it achievable. Together, you guide us through the vast unknown—not always smoothly, but always forward.

The two figures exchanged a look, then turned back to me.

Imagino😇: (grinning) “Ah, see? She finally understands. My job here is done.

Realito😈: (with a small smirk) “For once, we agree.”

And just like that, they vanished, leaving me alone with the now-still shadow on the wall. I turned off the light, sighing at my madness. Maybe tomorrow I’d master the balance, or maybe not. Either way, this tug-of-war between imagination and reality would continue—perhaps, that’s what makes life beautifully unpredictable🌈.

Here I am, surrounded by tens of people, and yet, somehow, I'm the one feeling tense. It’s funny, right? Crowds buzz around me—voices rising, swirling, intense. But my heart? It chooses the quiet, finds comfort behind a book. An immense escape.

I've always thought there’s something about shutting out the noise. Just focusing, free from the nonsense. My mind, like a lens sharply fixed. Someone once asked me, “What do you get out of this? From being so aloof, so… away?” 

I remember laughing, thinking how tasks get ticked off one by one. My thoughts become clear. No drama. Books that speak but never judge. A mind without a whisper of gossip. No room for petty talk. And the sweetest perk of all? In this bubble, no one knows me.

Sometimes, being alone feels like a badge of honor. I mean, who else is their own best friend? Their own favorite company? But here’s the catch: A space so dangerously safe can feel like a fence, can’t it? Peace builds walls so dense that even my own words get caught.

Put me in a group, and suddenly, suspense takes over. A knot forms in my throat. Anxiety rises. My tongue feels foreign. Hanging out becomes a chore, not a joy. And when the world knocks, I realize how far I’ve drifted from the unpredictable. How unwilling I’ve become to dance with the chaos of life.

“Am I just an introvert?” I muse. “Am I praising this solitude as beauty?” Maybe I've fallen for the comforts. This cocoon I've wrapped myself in. Too warm, too snug, too hard to untangle. Now… too scared to wander free.

Or am I strong in my solitude? Confident enough to question: “Am I wandering? Or am I just… stuck?”

It’s been three hours, and I’ve been waiting for him, doing my usual routine, but my mind keeps wandering back. As the clock strikes 5:30, I feel a familiar sense of unease. What’s he going to do today? Will it be calm, or will he bring a storm again?

By 6:00, still no sign of him. My heart starts to race. Is something wrong? Why is he late? I check my phone twice—everything seems fine—but where is he? Why isn’t he showing up?

By 6:15, the room feels darker than usual, almost eerie. Oh no... Is he not coming today? I pull the curtain back, hoping to catch a glimpse, but nothing. Why am I feeling so uneasy? Why all these negative thoughts?

Suddenly, a faint ray of light—berry-red—peeks through the window. My heart skips a beat. Who’s there? I try to look, but all I can see is this strange light slowly filling the room. It’s like something magical is spreading around me.

In that moment, everything changes. The room, my mood—it all feels surreal. Then I realize... he’s here! Finally! The superstar arrives, and with him, the sky clears, birds soar, and flowers turn his way. A Rajini intro plays in my mind, the elevation, the grandeur—what a grand entrance! I’m completely mesmerized, even though I had planned on showing a bit of anger for his lateness.

But before I can even act annoyed, he works his magic. The room is washed in berry-red, soft shadows dancing on the walls, something I’ve seen before but never quite like this. Is he reading my mind? Because, just then, he changes everything again. Golden light fills the room, and I can’t help but get caught up in it, dancing as the light spreads into the living area. 

My tiny space has transformed into a glowing golden castle! How could I have even thought about being mad at him?

So many thoughts flood my mind. How could I ever go a day without seeing him? I need to learn his secrets. I should introduce him to my family and everyone around. But just as I think that, the light starts to fade, shadows creep in again. Did he step back because I wanted to meet him?

And then, reality hits. He’s not like me, not someone I can meet. If he were, he would’ve come by now. But I’m still his biggest fan, no matter what!

Oh, and by the way—let me introduce him. He's Mr. Surya, the celestial being...No, no...don't get me wrong. I'm not calling him celestial just because i love him--He really is one. 

The SUN🌞