Uncle Ji

A bundle of hawkers and hustlers,

The station is extremely busy today,

A colourful hustle at the platforms,

It has all the stirrings of a crazy day !

Birju dusts his tiny tea- stall,

Whistling washes the kettle's spout,

He wonders if he has enough milk,

As he gathers his gingers about.

His friend lajjo is a sassy lass,

She's fought all for her lucky spot,

She readies her mini samosas today

And turns the oil up a notch hot

And by the side of Lajjo and Birju,

Is the rickety wrought iron chair,

Uncle ji sits on it a little hunched,

Face a mix of hope and dispair.

Years and years ago a young boy,

Made his pretty lover wait in vain,

He broke the trust of his dear beloved,

And an escape on that evening train.

Years have passed , moons have gone,

Many trains have come, all have left.

The platform is loud bustle of colour

Which leaves his life more bereft. 

Same expression on the same face,

Day on day, year after year. 

Uncle ji sits around every day,

His eyes always hopeful, yet- bare. 

But Lajjo fries a couple of samosas,

Birju sparks his kettle, boils the tea.

Wrapping their love in a paper plate,

They smilingly serve it to Uncle ji. 

Piyu, 28.11.25

The Safe Place

The app said, close your eyes and breathe,

find where your heart feels safe to be.

She wondered what that place could mean,

a thought unformed, yet softly seen.

She closed her eyes, the noise grew thin,

and silence wrapped her from within.

No arms, no words, no borrowed grace —

just breath becoming her own space.

Where thoughts would rest, not seek, not chase,

where stillness wore a gentle face.

She found, beneath her ribcage deep,

the quiet place she longed to keep.

Active and Passive

Ms. Puri once stood by the blackboard,

chalk in hand, drawing arrows between subjects and verbs.

“Active voice,” she said, “is when the doer owns the doing.”

I loved that.

How language could feel alive —

how every sentence had a heartbeat.

Those were my Wren & Martin days —

neat margins, red-ink corrections,

and the quiet joy of getting every tense right.

I didn’t know then

that one day voice would mean something else.

That it would no longer be about verbs and structure —

but about courage.

Now I see it everywhere —

the active and passive not in grammar,

but in people.

The ones who speak, who act, who take charge.

And the ones who drift — quiet, agreeable,

living as if life were someone else’s story.

We’ve begun to mistake silence for wisdom,

indifference for maturity,

and detachment for peace.

Being passionate is seen as naïve.

Being guarded — sophisticated.

But oh, what a lie that is.

To live actively

is to take ownership of your own mess and magic.

To say I care even when it’s not cool.

To show up — not just when it’s easy,

but when it’s inconvenient and raw.

It’s to feel deeply.

To fail loudly.

To forgive.

To try again.

Living actively means staying awake —

to your heartbeats, to others’,

to the truth that no one else can live your life for you.

It means standing by your words,

being accountable for your silences,

burning with conviction

even when the world applauds the cold.

Because apathy is slow poison.

It dulls the soul,

and paints life in shades of grey.

And calm isn’t always peace —

sometimes, it’s just the absence of courage.

So speak.

Even if your voice trembles.

Love.

Even if it gets messy.

Be active.

Even when the world teaches you to fade.

For the grammar of life

was always meant to be written

in verbs that move.

Solitude

 Solitude

I wear detachment like borrowed skin,
a calm that hides the storm within.

The world believes I’ve let it go,
but hunger whispers soft and low.

A touch, a glance, a fleeting thread—
the ache survives where silence bled.

To cage the fire, yet feel its flame,
is solitude wearing another name.

Constant

The Miser Within

It’s not just about money.

I once knew someone who wouldn’t buy an extra helping of dessert — not because they were watching their weight or saving for something big, but simply because “what’s the need?” was their instinctive reaction to anything that felt even slightly indulgent. At first, you chalk it up to frugality. A sensible approach to life, perhaps. But over time, you begin to notice that this carefulness seeps into everything — into how they speak, how they experience joy, how they relate to people.

Because a miser isn’t just someone who won’t spend money. A miser is someone who is perpetually afraid of waste — of time, of emotion, of vulnerability. And so, they scrimp on everything. They’re hesitant to compliment someone even when they are clearly moved. They refrain from expressing joy too openly, almost as if happiness should be portioned out cautiously. Even love, even laughter, come with internal calculators asking — is this worth it?

It’s as if they’re living life like a balance sheet. Every gesture, every connection, every feeling is weighed and measured. What’s the ROI of going out tonight? Will hugging someone back make me appear too available? If I appreciate someone’s work, do I lose some of my own perceived worth? They look for returns before making even the smallest emotional investment — as though the goal is to make life end in the green.

But life doesn’t work that way. Some of the richest moments come with no measurable output. Some of the most generous actions bring no immediate reward. The best conversations, the deepest laughs, the warmest connections — none of these will ever come with a guarantee. Yet these are the very things that make a life full and lived.

What’s tragic is that miserliness, when it becomes a way of being, begins to alienate. People around such a person start feeling unseen, unappreciated, unloved — not because there’s a lack of emotion, but because everything is doled out in such small, cautious doses. The person holding back thinks they’re protecting themselves. In truth, they’re just slowly creating distance — between themselves and joy, between themselves and the world.

So here’s a reminder: don’t live like you’re guarding a vault. Be generous — not just with your money, but with your time, your attention, your words. You don’t always need to weigh the impact before giving something good of yourself. Say the kind thing. Laugh freely. Celebrate fully. Not everything has to make perfect sense. Not everything needs to be optimised.

Because life isn’t a spreadsheet. It’s a series of unrepeatable moments — and the most beautiful ones often show up when you stop asking, what’s the need? and start saying, why not?

The Random Call

 

Part 1
There are random people I know,
With myriad randomness to show,
Who would call me just whenever,

Text me maybe now, maybe never.
But not him. Nuh nuh, not once.
Was there ever a chance,
Of anything remotely unknown,
Any random randomness shown.

Every Friday without fail
Come rain, or snow, or hail,
As the clock struck five,
On his work-to-home drive,
He would always dial my name,
Our chat always the same.
“Oh hey, how do you do?
How has the week been for you?”
“I am doing good, how about you?
Did the week carry something new?”
Some weeks, “Same old, same old”
Sometimes there was news to be told.
Yet the weekly norm never broke.
Every Friday for sure we spoke.

Part 2
Till one such week. No call came.
The clock struck five all the same.
Yet, five became six, then seven, then eight
And it turned into an endless wait.
Ominous thoughts came down hard.
Worries started pumping the heart
Why wouldn’t the phone show his name?
Is it my-side or his-side to blame?
Oh! is it this? Or is it that?
Can't he drop a text or chat??
Friday came, and Friday went.
The worried heart tired and spent,
Stopped waiting for the phone to ring.
Resigned to whatever fate would bring.
Monday came, the clock struck two.
I had lost hope of hearing from you,
When suddenly my poor dear eyes
Widened with disbelieving surprise.

Part 3
“Oh hey, how do you do?
How has the week been for you?”
You said as if nothing had changed
As if this Monday was pre-arranged.
“I am doing good, how about you?
Did the week carry something new?”
I answered, without missing a beat.
My autopilot words on repeat. 
Then, "Why did you skip last Friday's call?
Did you perhaps take a fall?
Was it your brain, or liver, or spleen
Which made you break our routine?”

“Oh no such thing, all is just fine
Calling you had just skipped my mind”

Part 4
And with that, I can conclusively say,
Of all people who have come my way,
He turned out to be the randomest of all.
To beak our 30-year ‘Every Friday’ Call !!!