Chiku Diaries

Today, as I was returning home along my usual route, something caught my attention. It wasn’t unfamiliar I’ve noticed it before, countless times but I never truly let it sink in. This time, though, I saw something more. The road I was traveling on wasn’t just a path, for it was a border. On one side, there were people who had everything they could ever need. Their wealth spilled over like it could never run dry, yet their smiles often seemed forced, their laughter fake, a corporate masquerade. On the other side, people struggled with nothing but each other, fighting blood and sweat just to scrape together a meal. And yet, somehow, their faces held a raw, unfiltered joy, a joy born not from possessions, but from presence. I stood there, wondering where I belonged. And then I realized: I was already exactly where I was meant to be. In the middle. The middle class. A strange in-between where I carried the weight of both worlds. I had enough to get by, but not enough to escape the grind. I...

Lost. Losing. Khona. What do all these words even mean? Usually, I write my pieces with both feeling and intent, to give shape to my emotions. But this time, it’s just my feelings, scattered and raw. No intent, no purpose. Just me and the weight of what I’ve lost. What I feared most came true. I lost to myself. And in the process, I gained something worse: a fear of losing anything else. Who would’ve thought that, in trying so hard to hold on to him, I would lose the real me? My love for him hasn’t faded, not by even a fraction of a percent. But sometimes, I catch myself asking: Why did I even love him? Was it because he simply talked to me? Was I so starved for love that the bare minimum felt like everything? He never reciprocated my efforts, my feelings. And now, I’ve fallen so far in my own eyes that I can’t love myself anymore. I can’t love him, either. Yes, it will hurt more than dying if I ever speak to him again. But somewhere along the way, I realized the truth: maybe I was n...

It’s one of the purest words I know, second only to another in my heart. A friend - a person who stands by you in your highs and lows, who never leaves your side, who supports you no matter what. Isn’t that what they call a true friend? I don’t know about others, but for me, that’s what friendship means. Yet, sometimes, this definition blurs for me, tangling itself with that of a lover. After all, isn’t it true that we ‘love’ the people we care about most? And we care deeply for our friends, especially our best friends. But when you add a romantic angle to this love, things get complicated. As I look around, I see people whose idea of love isn’t tied to someone standing by their side in the present. Their idea of love is often rooted in their past, somene they 'used to' love, an old flame, a memory, a ghost of what once was. Isn’t it strange how this generation twists something as pure as love? It scares me. Scares me to love, to care too deeply. What if the person I care for s...

It’s not just a question born in hovering moments of silence; it’s a shadow that follows me everywhere. Every action, every breath. Who am I? My mind and heart fight endlessly for the answer, yet the victor is always the same: my mind. It wins by feeding me names I never chose for myself—a failed daughter, a useless friend, an unworthy sister, a talentless student. Over time, I’ve grown used to these words, to my mind’s victories. It’s easier to let it win, easier to surrender. I even cheer for it because I know what happens when I listen to my heart. Once in a while, I give my heart a chance. I let it whisper its tender dreams, let it remind me of sweet moments that once meant everything. But it always ends the same, disappointment. My heart turns traitor, crushing the memories it once protected, tearing away the happiness I dared to hold. It leaves me raw, with a thousand reasons why I should never trust it again. So, my mind wins. Every. Single. Time. Bitter truths are still trut...

At first, I wasn’t planning to write about this. But the spark I was searching for the one that would shape my thoughts never arrived. For me, the spark is everything. It’s that one word, the soul of my writing, the catchphrase that ties it all together. And yet, no matter how much I searched, it stayed out of reach. But for this piece? I think I’ve found it. As I sat here, pouring time, effort, and frustration into finding just one word, a thought struck me: some people find their “the one” so easily.Effortlessly, as if they’ve stumbled upon some secret guide that shows them to what they’re looking for. Maybe it’s a privilege reserved for the lucky few, the ones who’ve cracked the code to life. And then there’s me struggling, not just for the word, but for the clarity that comes with it. But the real question isn’t whether I’ll find my “the one.” It’s how long I should keep searching. Or should I stop altogether? क्योंकि ये इंतज़ार, मुझे पागल कर देगा शायद। ~Majnu (Ps its not as good a...

Rust. Just a simple chemical process, right? But why is a self-proclaimed literature lover talking about science? Well, if we can talk to machines these days, why not draw parallels between science and life? I once heard that nothing in this world is permanent, not the plant on my balcony that I carefully nurture, nor the goldfish I’ve lovingly cared for. Everything eventually fades, leaves, or dies. But then I wonder, why haven’t feelings disappeared too? Perhaps they’re held together by an external force I have yet to comprehend. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hold on to the people I cherished. I tried wielding a power I didn’t understand, and perhaps that was my mistake. I called this piece Rusting because, in my view, feelings behave much like rust. When iron meets moisture, it corrodes, losing its original form. But some metals, like aluminium, develop rust that serves a purpose. Similarly, we are like those metals. For some, emotional rust strengthens them, transforming them into so...

Void Anne Frank once said, “Paper has more patience than people.” This quote often lingers in my mind. It led me to ponder: if you could transform into anything, what would it be? Scrolling through the internet, I found amusing answers, people wishing to become their favorite celebrities, pets, plants, or, in one peculiar case, a loaf of bread. Perhaps they saw unique value in those forms. When I asked the question to myself, my answer surprised me. I would become the void.Yes, the void. An intangible emptiness. The unseen air. I would exist everywhere, silently embracing moments of joy, laughter, and grief. I wouldn’t act or intervene, but as the void, I could be a space where people freely unburden their emotions, a quiet refuge for their innermost thoughts. And yet, I often wonder: if someone transformed into the air and heard my stories, would they understand me? Perhaps they would call me mad, as others do. But then again, perhaps I am. 

Once, I came across a question online: why do people dislike bitter things? I’m no philosopher, but I answered, bitterness feels unspoiled, raw, and pure. Black tea, black coffee, dark chocolate, they’re bitter, perhaps because they remain untouched, in their truest form. Yet, people often crave sweetness instead, something softer, easier to love. Perhaps that’s why he left. My love, like black tea, was too pure, too unfiltered, too bitter for him to savor. But I, a devotee of black tea, embraced his love as it was, both the sweetness and the flaws. I took it all in, and perhaps that’s what left me standing here, alone. Still, I wait, sipping my black tea, its bittersweetness my only companion, hoping he’ll return someday.

 I’ve seen people fear many things, heights, depths, attachments, and more. Some let their fears show, wearing them as plainly as the weather, while others hide them behind smiles and laughter. I’m neither of these. I don’t show my fears, nor do I cover them. I lock them away, acting as though they don’t exist.  What I fear the most isn’t being forgotten—it’s not even being considered. While others grieve not being someone’s priority, I wrestle with the emptiness of not even being an option. I don’t matter enough to rank anywhere. I simply exist, unseen and unnoticed, like a shadow fading at dusk. There’s a theory about how men never move on from their first love, forever seeking her reflection in others. The thought amuses me, but it also terrifies me. What if I’m never truly loved by anyone? What if I wait my whole life for something that never comes? Well, I can still wait and fade. And this my fear, will for sure erase me, and I’ll happily be wilted knowing I wasn’t killed...