English

Purple

For the world, you are many things. But for me— you are my calm, my comfort, my purple. 💜

English

For Love, For Self

Some people write to love. Some write to be loved. Some write for love. Some write to move on. But... Some people write to heal, To love themselves even more. Some write for strangers, Telling how pretty they were. Still, they also write because they love. —Shristi

Poem

No one but My Shadow

I dance with my own shadow, 'Cause there's no one to hold my trembling hands, or share soft gaze. I dance with my own shadow, 'Cause there's no one to match my pace, or move in the same sequence. I danced with my own

Between Shadow and Light

The road stretched ahead, quiet and unsure, guarded by trees that knew more than they showed. Shadows lay heavy, but they didn’t stop the light from falling through. It didn’t promise direction. It didn’t clear the path. It simply reminded me that even in uncertainty, something gentle

फ़र्ज़

किताबों के बीच रहने वाली मैं, मुझे किताबें उबाऊ लगती हैं कहने वाला वह। लोगों का ख़याल रखने वाली मैं, देश को बचाने के लिए अपनी जान न्योछावर करने वा

The Quiet Road

The road lay open, empty but not meaningless. Light touched the ground gently, as if reminding it that even silence has warmth. There were no signs, no clear turns ahead— only the understanding that not every journey demands certainty. I moved forward, not chasing an ending, but learning that sometimes

Hindi

खराब वक़्त

कफ़न ओढ़े हुए हैं दुनिया काफ़ी दिनों से कुछ मासूम बच्चों की खिलखिलाहट-ए-आवाज़ों के साथ। चाँद का भी वो आख़िरी नहाना, मुर्दा सूरज का वो दफ़्नाना, ता

Poem

Thoughts: The Silence That Speaks

The lost maiden, Wanders deep within, With thoughts of him, and what had drawn her in, She willed those thoughts to leave,  Recalling the torture she reprieved, The sheer panic and congestion,  As he stood towering, with bated aggression, Stocky, wide and unattractive,  Unloving the maiden with fierce refraction, He

Poem

Silenced

I have been stripped of my gift,  Of flawless words that I could sift,  Left with nothing but flesh on bones, And a mind that brims with unwanted ghouls,  And whilst parts of me may wish for release,  The release from the grip he has on my soul,  A grip

English

Reflections on Writing

Lately, I’ve been consumed by a single thought: I think I’m finally ready to write a book and publish it. Over the years, I’ve gathered snippets, stories, and reflections, fragments of moments that now feel ready to take shape. I can picture someone picking up this book

English

Metro conundrum

A boy aligns his little feet with the metro footsteps, as if the bigger ones would help him go faster. But they don’t, instead they turn him into a snail. I try to mimic him because I have nowhere to be.  Have you ever played that game where you

English

Only You

You move, and something in me realigns — like the tide remembering what it was made for. You are both stillness and fever, the breath I lose between the pulse and the echo. When you laugh, light burns through fog — a wound made radiant. Without you, the world keeps spinning, but