Once upon a time, I had a lone star, the one that shines brightest even in an otherwise dark sky. The lone star symbolised hope, it meant that even on the darkest night of my life, there would always be hope. I could fall even from the sky because I knew that someone would catch me, but for the first time ever I am scared to fall.
The sky is empty, and all that remains is darkness, a dark cloud looms over my head, and the darkness is waiting for me with its mouth wide open, ready to swallow me whole.
I have been running away from it, fighting it, dreading it all because I saw the Lone Star but can you really change your destiny? I guess not! Because I tried everything but fate seems inevitable now.
Maybe I was destined to fall, maybe the flicker of Lone Star was just my imagination, maybe hope doesn’t exist, maybe….
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.
Munshi Premchand, often hailed as the “Upanyas Samrat,” is more than a literary figure; he is a phenomenon. His writings transcend the boundaries of time and language, continuing to resonate deeply with readers today. But what is it about Premchand’s work that makes it so timeless, so universally relevant? How do his stories, penned a century ago, still manage to hold up a mirror to the realities of modern-day Indian society?
Munshi Premchand
A Legacy Rooted in Reality
Born Dhanpat Rai in 1880, Premchand’s journey from a humble government schoolteacher to one of India’s most iconic writers was shaped by the socio-political climate of the time. His writings reflect a society struggling with colonial rule, poverty, corruption, and rigid social hierarchies.
Yet, the questions he raised remain startlingly relevant even today. What has changed? Or, more disturbingly, has anything changed at all?Premchand’s works force us to confront the uncomfortable truths about the society we live in.
Through his characters, he exposes the moral decay, the deep-rooted corruption, and the inequalities that still persist in India. His works are not just narratives; they are social commentaries that compel the reader to think, question, and introspect.
The Power of Simplicity: Panch Parmeshwar
Panch parmeshwar
For many, the introduction to Premchand’s literary genius comes through his short story Panch Parmeshwar, a deceptively simple tale about village life, friendship, and justice.
The story centers around two lifelong friends, Jumman and Algu, whose friendship is tested when one is appointed as a village judge in a case against the other. In its simplicity lies its brilliance—Premchand’s ability to illustrate complex moral dilemmas through the lens of everyday life.
In contemporary society, where personal biases often influence decision-making, Panch Parmeshwar asks: Can true justice ever be achieved when human emotions are involved? In a world where power and wealth often skew the scales of justice, how much progress have we truly made?
Corruption’s Tight Grip: Gaban
Gaban by Munshi Premchand
As I grew older, I encountered Premchand’s novel Gaban, a scathing critique of greed and corruption. Ramnath, the protagonist, is a man trapped in the pursuit of wealth and status, leading him down a dark path of moral compromise. What struck me was the eerie parallel between Ramnath’s journey and the corruption we witness in contemporary India, whether in politics, business, or even in personal relationships.
Quotes by Munshi Premchand
The novel raises an unsettling question: Has corruption become an intrinsic part of our society’s fabric? In a country still grappling with large-scale scandals, Premchand’s depiction of a man’s slow descent into dishonesty feels eerily prescient. Despite the progress we’ve made, how much of our societal structure still echoes the corrupt systems of Premchand’s time?
The Shroud: A Reflection of Social Rot
The story that truly unsettled me, however, was “Kafan” (The Shroud). I read it in college, and its raw portrayal of human desperation left me deeply disturbed. In the story, a woman dies in childbirth, and her husband and father-in-law, too poor to afford her funeral, decide to spend the money they collect on food and alcohol instead of a shroud.
Marginalised women of the Indian society
What makes Kafan so impactful is its portrayal of moral degradation born out of poverty. When faced with extreme deprivation, human ethics and emotions blur. While reading it, I couldn’t help but draw a parallel to a real-life case I had heard of—a housemaid neglected by her family in her final days, much like the wife in Kafan. This resemblance forced me to ask: Has society truly progressed if such inhumanity still persists?
Are we still turning a blind eye to the marginalized, just as society did back then?
A Mirror to Indian Society
Quotes by Munshi Premchand
Premchand’s stories are not just confined to the pages of literature; they are a mirror that reflects the soul of Indian society, both past and present. In every tale, Premchand poses a question to his readers: Are we any better than the society he described?While modern India may pride itself on technological advancements, economic growth, and global recognition, the issues that Premchand highlighted—corruption, poverty, social inequality, and moral decay—remain pervasive. His works challenge us to consider whether true progress has been made or whether we are simply covering old wounds with new bandages.
Premchand’s Relevance Today
Why does Premchand’s work continue to resonate? Because the issues he wrote about—corruption, poverty, injustice, and social inequality—are still very much a part of our reality. Premchand’s works are not just stories; they are moral questions that demand answers. Are we truly progressing as a society, or are we simply spectators in an endless cycle of human suffering and injustice?
Quotes by Munshi Premchand
In today’s fast-paced world of social media, where bite-sized content dominates, Premchand’s in-depth exploration of human emotions and societal issues may seem out of place. Yet, his work offers something that much of today’s literature lacks—depth. His stories compel us to look beyond the veneer of modernity and ask ourselves uncomfortable questions. If the same social ills persist today, then how far have we really come?
By revisiting Premchand’s stories, we not only reflect on the past but also challenge ourselves to engage with the present. His works serve as both a mirror and a guide, reminding us of the progress we still need to make.
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.
They think I tell the truth But I hide it in the pages of my diary For the truth is deep, dark and teary They pretend to know it all But they know nothing at all For I hide it all In the pages of my diary But is it all in there? Or still hidden? Some secrets of the soul Some traumas on the aching soul Well, it’s the secrets that make me whole
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
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.
The things is you don’t need to be a vampire to feel heightened emotions. If you keep living the same day again n again in your mind, you feel it with more intensity everyday. It hurts a bit more every time. The most powerful one being grief and guilt.
Poetry, Blogs, and Books 