एक दिन की भक्ति

आज सावन का पहला सोमवार है।

सुबह ही मंदिर के बाहर

लोगों की भीड़ एकत्र थी —

हर किसी के हाथ में कुछ अलग,

दूध, बेलपत्र, घी, फूल, सिंदूर।

जैसे हर वस्तु

भक्ति का प्रमाणपत्र हो,

श्रद्धा की गहराई नहीं,

उसकी मात्रा बोल रही हो।

मैंने पहली बार

भगवान शिव को सिंदूर से सना देखा।

आश्चर्य हुआ —

क्या यह भी किसी नई विधि का हिस्सा है?

या लोगों ने महादेव को

अपनी सुविधा का देवता बना लिया है?

कुछ चेहरों पर देखा

एक मौन प्रतिस्पर्धा —

जिनके पास अधिक सामग्री थी,

वे स्वयं को अधिक भक्त समझ बैठे।

घमंड था आँखों में —

जैसे भक्ति अब तुलना की चीज़ हो।

शाम को आँधी थी, वर्षा थी,

हवा में भी एक तरह की व्याकुलता थी।

फिर भी मंदिर में भीड़ थी —

लोग जल चढ़ा रहे थे,

मानो जल न चढ़े तो शिव न मिलें।

किसी ने न पूजा रोकी,

न एक पल को ठिठका —

शायद श्रद्धा थी,

या फिर वही डर,

कि कहीं कोई दूसरा न दिखा दे

अपने भक्ति का बेहतर असर।

पहली बार

शाम को जलाभिषेक देखा।

वह भी उस भीषण तूफ़ान में —

मन में यह प्रश्न गूंजा,

“यह भक्ति है, या कोई झूठा इम्तिहान?”

ऐसी भीड़ मैंने

केवल महाशिवरात्रि के दिन देखी थी —

लंबी कतारें,

हर हाथ में कैमरा,

हर आँख में एक इंस्टा-योजना,

हर कथा में एक ही पंक्ति —

#महादेव_के_दीवाने।

परंतु अगली सुबह —

मंदिर एकदम सूना था।

बस एक पुजारी,

कुछ बुझते दीप,

और मैं।

कल रात जहाँ आस्था उफन रही थी,

आज वहाँ मौन की सरिता बह रही थी।

कल जिनके हाथ भक्ति से कांपते थे,

आज वही कहीं और व्यस्त थे।

शायद कल वैसी ही

सुबह फिर देखने को मिलेगी।

तो क्या समझूँ?

क्या भगवान भी अब

हमारी ही तरह

भीड़ में कुछ क्षणों को चमकते हैं,

और फिर अकेले रह जाते हैं?

क्या वे भी

मनुष्य की क्षणिकता का भार उठाते हैं?

क्या वे भी प्रतीक्षा करते हैं —

किसी ऐसे आगंतुक की

जो बिना तामझाम,

बिना फ़ोटो,

केवल मौन लेकर आए?

एक दिन जल के लिए संघर्ष होता है,

और अगले दिन

नाम तक नहीं लिया जाता।

क्या ईश्वर भी अब

मानव के अभिनय का पात्र हो गए हैं?

जो सदा से मोहमुक्त थे,

क्या अब मोह के मापदंड से तौले जा रहे हैं?

मैं कोई बड़ा भक्त नहीं हूँ।

नहीं हूँ।

परंतु यह प्रश्न भीतर स्थिर नहीं रहता —

क्या उनकी निर्ममता में

पीड़ा की कोई रेखा नहीं खिंचती?

जब उत्सव समाप्त हो जाता है,

दीप बुझ जाते हैं,

मंदिर फिर से मौन में लिपट जाता है —

तो क्या वह शून्यता

केवल मेरे भीतर होती है,

या महादेव के भी हृदय में?

The Broken Blueprint

This week I found myself spiralling again. Not into panic but into memory, into thought. Into the parts of myself I often shut the door on.

There are places inside me I don’t visit often. Not because they are unfamiliar but because they are too known. They echo with memories that don’t need names only feelings. And when the world goes quiet, I hear the voices again.

There’s something about silence that opens the locked rooms. You think you’re alone, but suddenly you hear whispers from the past. Not voice – just echoes. Moments. Mistakes. Victories no one clapped for. Grief that came and stayed as an unwanted guest. That’s when I started thinking about the architecture of who we are.

I’ve always believed that we’re built by what we endure. That the soul isn’t some abstract cloud of light but something real. Brick and breathe. Fire and fracture. A blueprint constantly redrawn by grief, loneliness and survival.

Somewhere beneath the surface, beneath skin, bone and breathe, there’s a map I carry. Not drawn by ink, but with experience. Etched by days I thought would break me and nights that almost did. It’s not a map anyone else could read. This one twists and spirals, it carries scorch marks and cracks. It doesn’t bend outward, but inward.

I’ve walked to this place many times. Some days by choice. Other days because there was nowhere to go.

The rooms are strange, some are filled with light. Others are lines with silence so thick it hums. In one, laughter still clings to the walls – faint but golden like old sunlight caught in a glass. In another, grief sits quietly, as it always has. Not dramatic, not loud – Just Present. A familiar weight against the ribs. It doesn’t ask for attention, it waits. And when I return, it welcomes me like I never left.

Loneliness has its own corner. Not a gaping emptiness, but something subtle. It drapes itself across furniture, leaning against the doorframes. I’ve met it in crowded rooms and in silent ones. I’ve felt it while laughing, while writing, while simply breathing. It’s not always sadness. Sometimes it’s just the absence of being seen.

I used to think that something was wrong with this place inside me. That I had to repair it, fix the cracks, paint over the walls. But the more time I spend it in, the more I realise that the imperfection is the soul of the place. That this isn’t a ruin, but a living structure – breathing, breaking, and rebuilding all at once.

Even the shadows here serve a purpose. They give shape to the light. They reach me where I’ve come from. I don’t chase them away anymore. I let them speak and I let them stay.

There’s a window in this place that looks out onto nothing, yet aches for everything. It’s where I leave pieces of longing I don’t know how to name. And just beneath that window, a small flame flickers. HOPE – Not loud,or heroic but insistent and stubborn. It’s burned through storms before. It still burns.

This blueprint isn’t static. It shifts. It grows. And I grow with it.

This house is still a work in progess. A living structure, shaped by ache and resilience. Every scar, a foundation; every dream, even the broken ones, part of its design.

I used to long for a simpler and cleaner path. But now, I see the beauty in this unfinished, fractured design. The way it holds space for sorrow and still makes room for joy. The way it bends without breaking. The way it carries I’ve known and everything I’m still learning.

Maybe that’s the whole point! Maybe we aren’t meant to be symmetrical or neat. Maybe we’re meant to hold contradictions – joy stitched into sorrow, love tangled with loss.  Maybe we are not meant to be completed but inhabited. Fully. Fiercely. As we are.

And if that’s true, then I will keep walking these halls. I will open the doors I’ve sealed shut. I will sit with the ghosts and golden light alike.

Because even broken blueprints can still build something enduring.

Something whole in its own way.

Something that breathes.

The Quiet Breath of Landour

In Landour’s cradle, ‘neath skies soft and pale,
Where mountain winds weave an untold tale,
The pines stand sentinel, steadfast and true,
Their whispers like sonnets in the settling dew.

The earth here breathes slow, in a rhythm divine,
A pulse that stirs both heart and mind.
Each leaf, each stone, speaks of quiet grace,
A hymn to the artist in this sacred space.

The mists unfurl like thoughts left unsaid,
While clouds kiss the peaks, where angels once tread.
Oh, Landour, sweet muse of the wandering soul,
In your still embrace, I’ve found myself whole.

Like Wordsworth’s wild hills, your slopes softly call,
And Keats’ yearning odes in your shadows fall.
In your tranquil arms, I’ve learned to be free—
To dream, to create, to simply just be.

The Past


This Sunday, I went to the hospital alone after ages. I walked all the way, dressed up. I was hungry as I had to run a few blood tests, but I was more cheerful than usual. However, my happiness was short-lived. As soon as I entered the hospital, I saw a family crying, and one lady, in particular, was unconscious. The entire hospital had an eerie vibe that day—dark with very few people around, perhaps others as sick as me. The reception told me to go to the lab and get the name of my test written by their staff. Then began the real horror; it was quieter and darker. On the same floor, there’s the MORGUE, DEATH . Even my doctor sits on the ground floor, so I’ve often found myself staring at the morgue blankly.

I stood there gazing at the gates of the morgue, but the darkness engulfed me, taking me into a trance. Paralyzing my feet and holding my breath, I stood there, staring at the door, wondering about the people who’ve lost their loved ones. The family crying at the reception—maybe their loved one is lying here, cold and dead.

In that moment, I was forced to relive my past again; my mind loves playing games, and the favorite game is to remind me of the day I lost my mother. The thought of cold, dead bodies reminded me of my mother’s cold feet. I still remember the rock-cold feet, the touch haunting me.

They say time heals all pain, but in moments like this, I am thrown back into my past, forced to relive the same day again and again. Standing outside the door of the morgue, I am forced to wonder how an autopsy is done. My own memories are my worst enemy.

Flashbacks

Randoms flashbacks during day
The nightmares at night
Your voice ringing in my ear
Your longing eyes
I’m reminded of your presence
At every waking hour
They say it gets better
But how much can a heart really take
Until it breaks apart
Until the burden is too much to bear
Until what once was close and dear
Starts causing pain and fear

Death and darkness

When you lose someone there’s chaos all around and for the first few days, everyone will console you, they’ll wipe your tears, and ask if you’ve slept. For the initial thirteen days, you’ll have people coming from all over the country to support or maybe to fulfill the formality, but after the thirteenth day, there’s no one around, and the silence is loud enough to engulf you.

The darkness seems a little dark, and the silence seems a little loud. Your own mind defies you and tricks you to escape facing the reality of losing a part of yourself. Their presence is felt and even their voice starts ringing in your ears, but the truth remains that where your lost one used to be, there now remains a blank space.

It took me more than a year to come to terms with the reality and allow myself to grieve over the loss. In the silence of the nights, or even in the middle of the days; when I am all alone or even when I am in a crowded room, I look for you, I crave your touch and I miss your presence. I regret the words I said, but I also regret the emotions unsaid. I often see you in my dreams, but even in those dreams I have lost you and I wake up with tears rolling down my cheeks.

Do you know what’s strange? Some people try to console you by saying “They must be so proud of you”, “They’re always with you”, or “They’re watching over you” but none of these words will bring you comfort but only act as a reminder that a part of your life is missing. The most important part of your life is missing and you cannot do anything about it. You can try to stay busy, try ignoring, try staying angry but as they say, you cannot run away from the truth for long it catches up to you and hurts like hell.

Sometimes, you even pretend to be happy but eventually, the masks fall off and you are forced to face your emotions. The darkness of death catches up to you and reminds of you everything you have lost. It constantly reminds you that the person you loved, the biggest part of your life is no more and you are still here to face the guilt, the regret, the pain, and endure the never-ending torment.

From the pages of my diary

Tell me it’s not really over
Tell me we didn’t just say goodbye
Tell me we can begin again
Tell me we’re worth one last try
Tell me that u miss me too
Tell me u think of me when u awake
Tell me I fill ur dreams at night
Tell me this is all a mistake
Tell me u love me
Tell me u need me
Just tell me something for the one last time…..

Robert Frost as a poet…

” The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

These famous lines are taken from Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by ROBERT FROST. A leader of the ” new era in American poetry”. He has written on almost every topic. He has illuminated things as common as woodpile and as uncommon as prehistoric pebble, as natural as the bird singing in its sleep, and as mechanist as the revolt of a factory worker. The main theme of his poetry is the despairing state of man in his life. His poetry lives with a particular aliveness because it expresses living people Robert Frost’s poems are the people; they work, and walk about, and converse. Frost preferred poetry that talked. He was always interested in rhythms of natural speech and also very interested in formal patterning and rhyme. Louis Untermeyer best describes his work as “poetry that sings and poetry that talks…his poems are people talking”.

Robert Frost was a well-known modern poet and classicist of a very high order. He does not aloof himself from contemporary society. Many do not consider him a modern poet because he chose traditional forms and structures. He used the traditional style of writing while exploring themes of alienation and isolation. Lynen observes: ”Subject matter is a poor measure of a poet’s modernity.” Frost’s poem retains their freshness, as they are less reliant on contemporary idioms, events, and people.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom, begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, homesickness, lovesickness. No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” – Robert Frost. Frost’s poems are rooted in the natural world but he was careful to point out that in his poetry man is always part of the landscape. The subject matter of the poem is described but the poems go beyond descriptions. Frost said ‘you don’t want to say directly what you can say indirectly.”

THEMES-

Frost was inspired by the Romantic and Victorian poets but he is not a Nature poet in the tradition of Wordsworth and Hardy. His poetry is concerned with the drama of man in Nature. Nature can be both friend and foe; both generous and malicious. Man’s relation to nature is also both together and apart. Nature leads the poet to an insight or revelation. Frost describes a world that is bleak and empty and cold, man is empty in the midst of nature. He focuses on the dramatic struggles that occur within the natural world such as the conflict of changing seasons and the destructive side of nature. Nature is not just a background but a central character.

Nature as a central character

Robert Frost reveals a good deal about his conception of the universe and external reality in poetry. What does a man do and how does he feel in a universe as dark as this? Despite the amiable socialization of man, he is single and alone in his fate. To him, life covers both the possibility of terror and the potential of beauty. Man is depicted as a figure of isolation in the landscape. Some poems feature speakers who actively chose solitude and isolation to learn more about themselves. Most characters are isolated in one way or another. He talks about man’s hapless position in the ever-changing world. The things that can’t be altered must be understood and accepted. “Let what will be, be”.

For Frost, a wild gulf separates man and nature, spirit and matter. In several poems, he stressed the otherness and indifference of nature. Individual man and the forces of nature are two different principles that separate them and must be respected.

STYLE-

Frost made a conscious effort to use ordinary language in his poem, through the use of plain, monosyllabic speech. Frost played the colloquial rhythms against the formal patterns of lines and verse and constrained them within traditional forms such as the sonnet.  He emphasized the importance of rhyme and metrical variety, observed traditional forms, and developed technical skills. He is especially noted for his achievement in blank verse encompassing his narrative monologues and dialogues.

WORKS-

A Boy’s Will is Robert Frost’s first book, and the title not only indicates the mood but pays a tribute to Longfellow who, in “my lost youth,” wrote: a boy’s will is the wind’s will. Critics were enthusiastic about a boy’s will but they were exuberant about North of Boston, which appeared about a year later. A Boy’s Will is the poetry that sings; North of Boston is poetry that talks.  “Whether in dialogue or in lyric, his poems are people talking…the man who talks under the name of Robert Frost knows how to say a great deal in a short space, just as the many men and women whom he has listened to in New England and elsewhere have known how to express in the few words they use more truth than volumes of ordinary rhetoric can express.”

The volumes that followed North of Boston marked a continual increase in the ability to make verse talk and sing. Sometimes the poems conversed; sometimes they made their own tunes; mostly they talked and sang together.

The Tuft of Flowers

“The Tuft of Flowers”, a poem in his first volume , expresses the whole spirit of human participation. even those who think they work alone, apart from others , have more in common than they know in common.

Four times Frost was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for the best book of poetry of the year, in 1924, for New Hampshire; in 1931 for Collected Poems; in 1937, for A Further Range; and in 1943, for A Witness Tree.

In all of Frost’s work, the reader sees a depth and level of human emotion encapsulated in verse a depth and level of human emotion that is not easily discerned by the eye, but rather felt and nurtured in the heart.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.”