The Lament of My Heart

 The Lament of My Heart

I have seen love slip through my fingers, not with a storm’s rage, but with the quiet cruelty of fading light. One moment, it was ours; the next, it belonged to only me.

Perhaps this is the greatest tragedy—not that love was impossible, nor that the world conspired against it, but that it ended only for one. I find myself standing in the hollowed-out remains of something once so vast, so consuming, and yet now reduced to a whisper in the corridors of memory. She was here once. Her laughter still lingers in the spaces where silence now reigns. And though she has left, I remain, tethered to what once was, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to step into what comes next.

I wonder if she felt it slipping away, or if love, for her, ended so gently that she never needed to mourn it. Maybe it was not an ending at all, just a quiet closing of a chapter she had already outgrown. I do not resent her for it. Love is not a prison; it must be held freely or not at all. But what does one do with a love unreturned, with words unsaid and tenderness that has no place to go?

They say time heals, that distance dulls the ache. But some loves are not meant to be forgotten; they become woven into the fabric of who we are. And so, I do not fight the memory of her. I let it stay, let it haunt me in the quiet hours, let it remind me that for a moment—however fleeting—I loved and was loved. And if that is all I am left with, then perhaps it is enough.

Love That Asked for Nothing

Why expect courtesy from me, or a pledge of allegiance? A madman has the right to lose himself—why should that be a surprise?

I had set forth the moment the thought of you took hold, and now, your face appears in the mirror like an echo of something lost yet never truly mine.

What fear should I have of wounds when my own steps have begun inscribing them? If madness knows no measure of loss, why would it seek restraint?

He who learns to love dearly finds beauty in all—then where does rivalry fit among those whose hearts are full?

She made me the centre of love and then walked away. But if hate finds no room here, what meaning would enmity hold?

And so, I stand here, eyes lowered, hesitant yet present—after all, I had considered this before coming, so why now ask for permission?

Come, beloved of a city that never truly called me its own—come and see what your indifference has made of me.

I had arrived with my heart resting upon my palms, offering it as if it were meant to be yours. But now that it has slipped, shattered—what grievance could I possibly hold?

The Arithmetic of Love

 The Arithmetic of Love

Time is a ruthless accountant. It neither forgives the principal nor waives the interest. It keeps track of every moment, every promise, every breath. And love? Love is no exception to this arithmetic. Every moment in love is a transaction—sometimes a gift, sometimes a debt, and sometimes a burden so heavy that even fate cannot clear it.

Some bonds are quiet, but their silence is profound. They do not speak in words but in nuances. That’s how it was with her—few words, yet every conversation a puzzle. I wished for some dialogues to stretch, for some feelings to unfold, but she always stopped just where hearts could have unraveled.

What use is recognition if I slip from her gaze and fall from her heart? What victory is there in being known when the one who once held my existence dear now walks past me like a stranger? To be accepted yet abandoned is a paradox too cruel to bear.

I knew that hoping for truth was a stubborn dream, yet my heart clung to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, a flower of affection might still bloom. But one who hesitates to offer even a smile—how could she ever hand over her heart?

Love’s paradox is such that even in leisure, I am occupied. A single moment is vast enough to hold an eternity, and I find myself lost within it. I sit idle, yet my mind is crowded with her presence.

The prison of memories is a peculiar one. No chains, no guards, yet an inescapable captivity. And I, too, have become its prisoner—so much so that the routines of life now seem foreign. I have forgotten that the world has its own rhythm, its own customs, which I no longer seem to follow.

Sometimes, I feel her footsteps echo in my heart. Some dust stirs within me, as though she is passing by—like a breeze that lifts the past and scatters it. And perhaps, I too will turn to dust—carried away by the wind, fading into a forgotten tale.

Love ends in the strangest ways. The same person who wields the dagger is also the one who bleeds from it. Perhaps I, too, have died, slain by the very wounds she gave me. And yet, somewhere within me, I continue to live—trapped in the prison of her memory, while time, as always, keeps its accounts—collecting both the interest and the principal.

Meaning of home

 

The journey, though arduous, has finally found its completion. Having passed through temples and shrines, my heart now feels like home—a sanctuary beyond stone and sanctity. The hardships of the path, the stories soaked in blood, and the melancholies scattered at every turn all weave together an image where my past still breathes. Those who witness my wounds gaze upon them as though, among all lovers, mine alone bleeds the deepest, the brightest, the most unguarded.

It is at least a solace that my home has now turned into a desert—vast, open, boundless. At the very least, it is better than being confined within walls and locked doors. Sometimes, I wonder whether what I have gained was ever truly mine, or if the echoes of my steps were simply meant to be lost amidst shifting sands.

The tale of my longing was heard till dawn, but the mention of my beloved far exceeded my own presence. Perhaps that is the only way a love story is told—with their name spoken in abundance and my existence reduced to a mere whisper. My teary eyes betray my silence, and I only fear that the healers may decipher my wounds, for I have long mastered the art of concealing them.

When they saw me drenched in sorrow, they laughed, as if to say—"So, you have finally drowned your home in the tide of your grief." And in that moment, I knew—what I called home was never mine to keep.

The Ordeal of an Expressive Lover

An expressive lover loves not in whispers but in symphonies, not in glimpses but in portraits painted with passion. They write letters that may never be read, sing melodies that may never be heard, and dream in colours too vivid for the world’s monochrome heart. They romanticise the mundane, find poetry in the ordinary, and surrender themselves to the art of longing—only to be told they love too much, feel too deeply, and expect too grandly.

Their love is an ocean, but the world is content sipping from puddles. So, they are left aching—not because they are unloved, but because their love often overwhelms, intimidates, or is mistaken for mere dramatics. They become poets of unreciprocated affection, architects of castles no one wishes to dwell in.

Yet, an expressive lover does not know how to be otherwise. They will always love in metaphors and devotion, in sighs that echo through time, in letters sealed with the fragrance of their soul. Even in heartbreak, they find beauty. Even in absence, they find meaning.

For in their very being, love is not a mere sentiment—it is existence itself.

Seven Seconds

 They say that in the final seven seconds before leaving this world, one’s entire life flashes before their eyes like a reel. In those moments, every unfinished and fulfilled dream, joy, sorrow, sin, virtue, longing, regret, and accomplishment unfolds before them.

It is said that before his eyes passed a boy, holding a broomstick like a bat, acknowledging an imaginary crowd like Sachin. Dressed in a leather jacket like Sunil Shetty, a matchstick clenched between his teeth, setting the world ablaze. Dancing like Govinda to "Saaton janam tujhkoh paate, gori dete nainan mein hum bas jaate!" Taking revenge for every injustice in the world like Mithun.

Changing the world in a day like Anil Kapoor from Nayak. Beating Usain Bolt while walking backward, winking as he does. Writing stories, turning every written tale into reality. Preserving love letters, touching them over and over. Watching the rainwater fill the paddy fields while lying on a cot.

Losing himself in a pair of incredible, hope-filled eyes. Embracing every longing, every wait, making peace with them once and for all. Writing Rekha on his palm like Bachchan, using a permanent marker.

Perhaps the last seven seconds truly belong to oneself. If not the reel of life, then at least the reel of death should be breathtaking.

A land drenched in time

We, the voyagers of longing, do waver oftentimes,

Life itself here treads so slow, in softened, muted chimes.

Not deep wounds, but the healing touch, unsettles me within,

For every gash that fate bestows, a balm awaits akin.

None await my steps today, no eyes in yearning dwell,

O cupbearer, pour! For time abounds, and moments bid me well.

Judge not my youth by years alone, nor age by greying strands,

For wisdom’s weight oft tips the scales, where knowledge sternly stands.

I am but counted, placed, and marked, like tokens on a board,

Yet I hold no will to move—while "we" are vast and scored.

The solace of release is scarce, the struggle ne’er subsides,

The torment of the soul remains, in tides that ever ride.

How long shall fleeting respite last, how brief this borrowed calm,

When cries of woe and grief resound, like ever-ringing psalms?

I dust the heavens' will away, defying sacred thread,

For Eve was but a fleeting tale, while Adam’s woes have spread.

We, entangled in worldly woe, in ceaseless toil remain,

Where love’s soft whispers call to us, but time resists its reign.

O Aish, sow not thy words in soil where sorrow sways,

For this is land too drenched in tears

—where earth itself decays.