Chiku Diaries

First things first, a big sorry to everyone I hurt last year. I genuinely hope this year I can make more people smile. That said, I’ve never fully understood the idea of a “new beginning” just because it’s a new year. Isn’t every new sunrise a new beginning? If so, why don’t we celebrate that instead? They say the present is called a present because it’s a gift. Something we’re meant to live and enjoy. Yet by January 2nd, life goes back to the same routine. Nothing really changes. We just change the last two digits while writing the date. People carry so much stress and worry, yet still follow silly Instagram trends like eating grapes at midnight , hoping it’ll magically bring them love. Aren’t humans a little funny sometimes? (Yes, I did it too. And yes, I laugh at myself.) My mom always says how you behave on the first day of the year decides how the rest of it will go. That makes me wonder: if we can celebrate and smile so freely on one day, why don’t we try to keep that smile ...

Predictions are a normal part of us, guessing the next plot twist in a movie, or what marks we’ll get on a test. And most of the time, if we’re being honest, we’re right. If we’re logical enough, we usually know how things will play out. But no one tells you how dangerous it is to be right about your own heartbreak. No one tells you that sometimes the most painful part isn’t being left on seen, or being ignored, or walking past someone a hundred times hoping they’ll just look up once. The worst part is knowing it all in advance. Knowing this crush wasn’t going anywhere. Knowing your messages would sit unopened. Knowing you were signing up to hurt, but still doing it anyway. We set logic aside, ignore the signs, and let our softest parts take the fall. And when it happens, we don’t even get to say, “Lol, didn’t see that coming.” Because we did. We always did. So why do we still walk in with our eyes open, Knowing how it ends?

 I used to love cakes. Chocolate, mostly. Simple, sweet, easy to love. Now, I think twice before taking a bite. Not because I’ve stopped liking the taste. I still do. But somewhere along the way, the joy in it got replaced by guilt. People talk about body image like it’s about filters or magazine covers or influencers. But sometimes, it starts closer. Sometimes, it starts with someone, too close, pointing it out before you even notice it yourself. And not directly through side comments, looks, or the kind of silence that suddenly makes you feel too visible. It’s not just about food. It becomes about control. Saying no before anyone says something. Acting fine. Smiling through it. And pretending you're unaffected when the truth is, you've memorized every word that made you feel like too much. Yes, pressure can create diamonds. Everyone loves to say that. But sometimes pressure doesn’t build anything at all; rather, it breaks. Sometimes it just takes the fun out of cake. ...

 Puzzles are interesting, comforting at times, but frustrating when just one piece goes missing. That single gap is enough to ruin the entire picture. No matter how close we were to finishing, it still feels incomplete. Usually, the missing piece is somewhere nearby, under the sofa, stuck to your notebook, or sitting unnoticed on the table. And yet, you search the whole house, stressing over something that was never really far. It’s the same with us. Sometimes, one just craves for one missing piece, sometimes the piece is as simple as a hug, a pat on the back saying “you did your best,” or maybe sometimes it’s just as simple as a few hours of sleep. But instead, we search everywhere, thinking it’s money, validation. We dig so far outside that we forget to look beside us. Around us. Sometimes, the missing piece was right there all along. Luckily to some of us, they find their missing hug soon, which searching for something else, but for some, who actually crave for appreciat...

 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...

 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...

 I love lavenders too much. As a flower, as a color, as a feeling. To me, they are calmness, quiet warmth, a soft sigh of peace. Just the sight of them, even in a photograph, makes me smile. And yet, I have never seen a lavender in real life. Not once. Receiving them? A distant thought, moreover, I have never even been given flowers. My love for them is built on pixels and filtered frames, on Pinterest boards and fleeting reels. I admire them through the beauty the world has shown me, without ever knowing if that beauty is real. What if, when I finally see one, it disappoints me? What if its color is duller, its scent fainter, its presence less magical than I imagined? But then again, a flower cannot deceive. It is what it is, and that alone makes it enough. Wait, doesn’t trust work the same way? We know only fragments of a person, the side they choose to show through a screen, across a table, in fleeting conversations. And yet, with nothing but intuition, we trust. We hand them ou...

Just another word plain, overlooked. I searched for its meaning, found definitions stacked like bricks  to ask humbly, to plead, to seek alms. But none of them captured the weight it carries in the spaces where words are swallowed and hearts go unheard. If begging is merely asking peacefully , then tell me, don’t lovers beg without realizing? If this is what it means, then perhaps I, too, am a beggar. I have begged not on streets, but in silences. For presence, for kindness, for hands that do not slip away. I have begged for the well-being of those who never saw the storm in my own eyes. I have asked without speaking, lost without leaving, given without receiving. Life has a quiet way of taking, hollowing, emptying. And now, though I have shelter, though I have all that should make me whole, something remains missing something unseen, yet essential. So I wonder, is a beggar only the one with an empty bowl? Or can they also be the one with an empty soul?

They asked me, “What is love?” How can anyone truly define it? Without experiencing this nectar, I find myself without a real answer. If I had a lover, I might say that love is him. But instead, I cling to dreams  the hopes I call love.  To me, love is what makes you stay when the world tries to pull you away. It’s sharing the last bite of your favorite meal, even when you’d rather keep it for yourself. It’s the freedom to be your most raw self, without fear of judgment. It’s the warmth of a smile that lingers, even after arguments over the smallest yet most significant things. Love is when I’m gone, yet I live on into someone’s soul, someone’s memory. Love isn’t something you try twice; it happens just once, and when it does, it lasts forever. If it brings only pain and leaves you broken, it was never love. It’s amusing how people today dilute love’s essence into fleeting infatuations and shallow attachments.  True love is never one-sided. It’s two people holding ea...

 The word ‘word’ carries a weight beyond letters. It shapes how we see, how we feel, how we exist. I used to love words pretty, adorable, beautiful, magnificent, gorgeous. They felt like treasures, distant yet dazzling. Maybe that’s why they never belonged to me. I longed for deep eyes that others fell into, for skin they called flawless, for a face they deemed beautiful, and a body they envied. I wished for all the things that would make me visible, worthy, at least an option in their world. But instead, I was handed other words. Ugly. Failure. Useless. They say inner beauty is what matters, but we all know the truth. The world judges at first glance, and no kindness within can shield you from the distance their eyes create. For me, those cruel words became constants, firm companions. Even when I wanted them gone, they gripped to me like shadows. I dreamed of brighter words, the ones that spark joy and light. But the darker ones are what stayed, binding me to a side of language I ...

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.