Chiku Diaries

The bird soared the sky so wide, where the wind blows soft and free. It glided over the frozen lake, believing love was meant to be. The ice below was cold and thin, but shimmered like a beautiful dream. The bird flew low, so full of trust, unaware of the cracks unseen. Then came the storm with it's laughing eyes, and mummered sharp and deep. The ice it loved began to break, a secret it could no longer keep. The bird fell fast, its wings grew weak, the water pulled her tight. But the storm just stood and closed its eyes, "Ah, such a perfect sound tonight. How lovely, the way it breaks just right." Yes, the bird adored the storm, Not the bird, but the breaking he adored.

 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?

For you, I would save my last piece, let you warm your cold hands in mine. For you, I would wake before the sun, just to send the first good morning sign. For you, I would share the "equal" slice, yet somehow, yours would always be more. For you, I would trade my window seat, so you could watch the sky and soar. For you, I would wish on every 11:11, dig through jokes just to see you smile. For you, I’d let you pick the movie, even if it means sitting through it twice. For you, I’d swap my lavender for black, pause the drop of my favorite song. For you, I’d fill my notebooks with hearts, missing you when days feel long. For you, I’d change all my passwords, reminding to the day you came. For you, I’d learn every rap verse you love, just to sing along and say your name. For you, I would take the longest way, just to "accidentally" pass you by. For you, I’d write a thousand poems, turn whispers into lullabies. For you, I’d fold love into paper, tiny hearts in every sha...

 Dekhein toh yeh do shabd, lagte ek jaise, Lekin andar jo dekhe, samajh le faasle. Moh aur lat ke beech, hai akash-patal ka farq, Ek bas jism ka bandhan, ek prem ka tark. Moh toh lagav nahi, asani se chut jaye, Par lat woh agni hai, jo pagal bana jaye. Moh hai akarshan, jo nazar tak simat jaye, Lat woh pyar hai, jo rooh tak utar aaye. Hanikarak dono, par fark hai gehra yehi ahas, Moh chhup jaye sapno ke paar. Par jo chhule prem ki lat ka ras, Wahi samjhe jeevan ka asli gulzar. Moh hai ek dhund, jo pal mein dhal jaye, Lat woh ehsaas hai, jo rooh tak samaaye. Jisne apnaya ki ishq hi jeevan ki ruh, Wahi samjhe khud ko khokar milne ka sukoon.

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...