chaiNboli

 My pain can't be measured Within the space between your Thumb and index fingers . Your embrace is a Warm scented grave , Where lemon trees have Monkey eyed children Climbing and singing. You feed them your wasted tea, Illuminate them to a yellow Found only in sea. I salivate on the Solitude you enjoy , Knitting my loneliness Into the wing of an eagle. You wrap blanket over baby wipes, Feed tulips a fat spoon of honey, And makes  the sky carry Two small black moons. You call me a knife, Perfectly knowing am only good enough to cut  ribbons and butter, Not throats and hearts. You murder my marine life. You scatter me like seeds Over the rocks of a beach, And tell me to grow. You guide the roots: But am a desert.

  If I walk to tides Will it be a comfort ? You look at me Like you know my darkness. Like you know that am a singer of a forgotten empire. While I am the ruination, Not the song . I am a soiled chest Where birds sit to enjoy a nap. And then fly away, Criticising the lack of warmth. Am a stinking quilt, defending the theory of rain Only to be forgotten at the sight of a sun ray . So If I walk into the tides, Call it homecoming. Not Madness.

I was watching an Instagram reel. A man sat in a train with his little daughter while the child's mother did everything she could to make the baby laugh. The little girl giggled without restraint, and the father looked at the woman with a softness that needed no words. It was one of those ordinary moments that somehow held an extraordinary kind of love. I found myself smiling at complete strangers. The hopeless romantic in me, however, felt something else too. Jealousy. Not the bitter kind. The quiet kind. The kind that whispers, "I hope someone looks at me like that someday." Then came a notification. A message. From someone I used to know. Someone I once considered the center of my world. My ex-boyfriend. He wrote something along the lines of, "You'll always be a loser. What gives me peace is that I'm not with you anymore. By the way, I'm getting married." Not those exact words—they were in our mother tongue. Forgive my translation. But...

8.04.2026 Am in my late twenties..  so if you , ever ask me what this beautiful, long,tragic life taught me.. if you want me to point out a word of wisdom .. then i i will sit cross legged and tell you that, I have realized that everyone is going to hurt you. Not just once, not just in ways you can predict, but in ways that arrive quietly and stay longer than you expect. It is not always loud. It is not always something you can point out at. And it's no ones fault. People change. You change. Preferences change. Dreams change. Some people leave with reasons, with explanations that give you something to hold onto. Others leave without a word, slowly becoming unfamiliar until they are no longer there at all. And some stay, but not in the way they once did, not with the same presence, not with the same care. And somewhere in all of this, you get hurt... By people. By yourself. By everyone. By everything. Again and again and again . In different ways, but in a similar way. And weirdly e...

 A city with a royal past and restless present—palaces that still remember crowns, streets that forget faces too quickly.  I arrived here 7 moons and 3 rains back,like a sentence unfinished, carrying myself in a bag that still smells like the place I left behind. A new city of voice and noise. The walls here do not remember me yet. They stand like strangers pretending not to stare. My hostel room is small—smaller than the thoughts that refuse to sit still. The fan above me keeps circling like a tired prayer, as if it forgot what it was asked to cool. I lie beneath it anyway.  There is a loneliness here that does not announce itself. It simply arrives, sits beside me, and behaves like it has always belonged. Outside, life is loud in unfamiliar languages. Inside, I learn the shape of my own silence again. The bulb light is my room is blank in that specific way new places are—polite, uninterested, waiting to decide what kind of person I will become here... And then— A...

 Days are passing quickly now. Like a bird who forgot the day of migration until the last minute. Seasons are changing. My favourite kurthi is fading. Books are yellowing. Roses in my neighbour’s garden are falling. And me… I’m thinking about everything and nothing. About the stain of turmeric on your collar. About my mother’s fingers that got cut while preparing lunch. My father’s phone which is a bit slow and crashing. The clumsy stranger who stops and stares at me sometimes: unafraid. The precise angle of a hand while pouring tea. The bent of God’s ears, if He ever listens to my prayers. A wandering grief I bottled yesterday with no address. The letter a stranger sent me two years ago. The hum of a K-pop song I can’t remember. A half-dissolved name I want to forget. The sweetness of the chocolate cake I got last Christmas. A memory diluting its colours. A martyred dream with anklets. And— The ghost of a conversation I never had. The way rain knows exactly when to arrive and when...