Chiku Diaries

 Such irony. Such satire. I’ve always wondered, how can something that ends still be called happy? Doesn’t the very word end carry a weight of loss, of fading away, of something slipping beyond reach? How can an ending be anything but bittersweet? It’s not like watching a tsunami swallow the world while you sit in your room, smiling, letting the water take you away without panic. No, let’s not go that far. Take something as simple as an ice cream cone. The last bite, the chocolate-filled tip of a Cornetto, is the best part, the moment of pure joy. But even that moment, the one everyone looks forward to, ends. The taste lingers for a while, sweet and familiar, and then…it fades. Just like everything else. Isn’t that what life is too? A series of moments that bring happiness, only to pass? We meet people, we laugh, we love, and somewhere deep down, we know, it won’t last forever. Yet we still let ourselves enjoy it. And when it ends, we’re left with memories, a faint aftertaste of jo...

 Who wouldn’t want a superpower? Time travel, invisibility, telepathy; the possibilities are endless. As kids, we all fantasized about having one, imagining ourselves as heroes of our own stories. But what if I told you that I actually have a superpower? The power of invisibility. No, not the kind that lets you slip through walls or move unnoticed in crowded rooms. Mine is different. Like an unseen guardian, I help people, listen to their unspoken words, hold space for their emotions, and make them feel lighter. I wouldn’t call myself a hero, but I try, try to be there, to be present, even if I remain unseen. And for all of this, in return, I get… nothing. Yes, you read that right. My superpower is my curse. Because just as I listen, no one listens to me. Just as I see others, no one truly sees me. I exist in the background, a fleeting presence, forgotten in the spaces between conversations. And the thought of being visible again terrifies me; what if my presence is a burden? So, I...

 Every year, I take the local train, grab a vadapav, and let the ocean at Marine Drive remind me of how small I am. It’s a ritual, a fleeting moment where the city's chaos hums around me, yet I feel at peace. Coming from a tier-two city, growing up in the quiet hum of middle-class reality, I have always fantasized the big city, the lights, the towering buildings, the endless crowds. While people debate over mountains or beaches, I have always rooted for cityscapes. Who wouldn’t love a big window or even a small one, sitting by it with a cup of coffee, a cat curled up in their lap, just watching the lights flicker and people rush by? When I shared this dream with a friend from Noida, he simply said, "It’s not always what you think." And suddenly, it hit me, perspectives . They shift; they differ . The things I romanticize might seem trivial or exhausting to someone else. But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. People prioritize different things, and that’s okay. Because somet...

 I look at myself just to see, How much I gave, how much I lost. I loved too much, so carelessly, Yet never stopped to count the cost. I look at myself just to see, A pile of failures, sharp and clear. Not due walls too high, but missing keys, For doors I couldn’t reach for fear. I look at myself just to see, A map of scars, but not from war. Not battles fought, but flaws the in me, A truth I could not hide anymore. I look at myself just to see, No gift, no skill that sets me free. Yet still I ask, will I ever be Able to love myself like me?

Jab aane wali thi mai yahaan, Sabke chehre the roshan jawaan. Jaise Ganga ka pani uchalta jaye, Meri aane ki khushi sabko sukhaye. Umeed thi aur sapne bhi the kayi, Ki Har muskurahat meri pehchaan ho. Par kismat ne likhi thi kahani kuch aur, Meri duniya mai aya ek anjaana mod. Na khil saki ped ke upar, Lekin socha neeche bhi jee lungi safar. Apni khushbu se sabko lubhaungi, Chaahe neeche hi sahi, bas muskuraungi. Thodi si umeed chuti zaroor, Par dil ka jazba raha mazboot. Vasant ka pehla jhoka jo aaya, Mujhe bhi khilne ka samay dikhaya. Par na upar, na neeche khili, Bas beech mein ek kali si mili. Fir bhi maine rakha vishwas, Socha apni pehchaan banalungi khaas. Patjhad aaya, sabne dekha, Neeche khile phoolon ka hua samman. Upar ke phool bhi tareef ke haqdaar, Aur mai? Mai rahi anjaan. Koi tareef na, koi burai, Bas beech mein kho gayi jaisi ek parchhai. Sabke kadmon tale mit gayi nishani, Aur yaadon mein bhi na rahi meri kahani.

 All I ever knew about love was built on the little things sharing moments, making each other feel special, caring deeply, and obsessing over the smallest details. Love, to me, meant tying their shoelaces so they wouldn’t trip, dreaming of a life together, adding a heart to every love you text, and crafting bouquets not of flowers but of emotions. Love was loud, expressive, and undeniable. But the love I received was different. He introduced me to a love that existed without constant reassurances, without sweet words or playful gestures. A love that did not thrive on attention, nor require grand displays of affection. It was a love that remained quiet, always receiving but never truly returning, a love where warmth was scarce, and yet, somehow, it still held me in place. Yet, despite everything, I still love him in the only way I know how with presence, with depth, with a heart that doesn’t count what it gives. But sometimes, I wonder if love should feel this way like whispering in...