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I found Calcutta. Delhi and Bangalore were already home when I found Calcutta ✨ waiting for me, as if it had always been there. I’ve realized that home isn’t just about a place, the years you’ve spent there, or even the comfort it offers. It’s about the people who shape your experience, who make you
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I’ve been speaking for us: I love you. You love me. I know you feel it too, Though the wires and chains hold you back. You feel it, Even when the words won’t come. So I speak them for you. “Babe, I didn’t know it was the last time You held me while I hugged
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If it makes sense to you, Even if you cry, you plead, you lose your mind, Do it. I had my family’s art, their stories, their hands in mine. I could turn some part of my pain into something. You might not have that. And that’s okay. You don’t have to make anything. You’ll find
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For Her, Like a Girl from the ’60s When she falls in love,the world goes quiet.Everything fades,except the feeling,All bare. Her eyes fill with curiosity.Goosebumps rise,like her body’s asking,how did you take me backto when gravity was no science? Back to the black-and-white films her parents loved,when love was in the air.They slow-danced to Lata
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If you listen closely, the majority is snoring, and the powerful are dancing to its tune. I watch these World War II films, stories of Indian independence, and I see people who look just like us giving orders against humanity, more importantly, taking them. – And I see it now too. – People like me,
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Things that take off should land gently. Especially the ones carrying hearts, memories, and dreams. They deserve to return as beautifully as they left. My heart aches with every update on this tragic event. Somewhere, a family is unable to accept that their loved one wasn’t the one who made it home. Thinking maybe they
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You cannot unchain me only to chain my femininity and call it equality. I was never meant to do things like a man. I’ll do them my way: soft, wild, and wholly mine.
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We’re sitting in the middle of hell, wondering about heaven, or worse. And the worst? To stay here, and try to make this place a little less cruel. Not for someone else. Just to quiet the noise in our own hearts, to prove we’re not entirely selfish. This hell numbs you. It demands you forget
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I was dating this boy once. Boy who slept with a bolster. I’d get so annoyed sometimes, So we made a deal: Three nights with his dear bolster, Four with the slightly needier one, The moving, breathing bolster. Me. Now I sleep seven nights without him. So I bought myself this extra cushiony, life-sized pillow.
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They bury our purpose, our days, our reason for being, so they can serve their own. They sell their purpose and ask us to forget ours. Our weekdays vanish, and they make us feel that having weekends is a gift. They give us just enough time to rest, but not enough to find ourselves. Just
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Clueless Ink 