The life of a writer is that of a generalist. We are the jack of all trades. And that itself has lended me the most powerful insight: to be a learner, I just have to take the next logical step. As a proud generalist, I have broken down complex topics into simple terms and simple terms into clear messages, and clear messages into actionable, understandable items. One careful step, every time.
No voice, no noise.No reflection of oneself.No definition; none for assumption.I am not myself. Now here, now there.I pity myself.Now this, now that.I am not myself. Neither today nor tomorrow.I can’t portray the inner self.One’s thoughts, another’s actions.I am not myself. Neither from the rainNor from the draught.From where do I thenGlean myself? I am but a nameThat tiny nothingNeither more nor less.I remain myself.© Suyog Ketkar
Time that once was clueless,
Brought me down on my knees
Time, the all mighty, now
Tells my brave tales, too.
Life is a curious case of choices. The choices make us who we are. The choices may or may not be ours, but they do influence us a great deal. But, as we look at it closely, life isn’t any different than the game. And, so aren’t the choices. Such critical are the choices in the game that it can either make or break records or the name. One such
Writing requires you to dig out the priceless wisdom of doing and redoing the same stories as if your mind were a bottomless mine of never-ending thoughts.
Movies come and go, but only a few can mark their presence on the movie-goer’s timeline. Uri: The Surgical Strike marks its presence in the same way. The movie strikes the right message at the right time, and with surgical precision—for the pun’s sake. The patriot within me wants to rate it a complete 5 on 5. But, alas, for the careful watcher that wishes to nitpick. As you would’ve
Brought to thee
The stories that have
Countless stories within, the Self knows.
Who knows what’s more?
Smelt the magic of the rains—
The petrichor. Though,
Drenched, lost, drowned is
My conscious, helpless Self, to the core.
The evening strands of gleaming light—
Your fragrance it is, or am I
Afloat the love unbound?
Don’t bother bringing me back ashore.
The chirping of birds.
The rustling of leaves.
Thoughts that come and go.
A rhythmic lore it is, I am sure.
Turned orange, the evenings, again.
Silently mourns my soul.
Wilfully nervous, it tells me.
Could oneness be any pure?
When the scorching gusts of heat
Fade the tears in your eye,
Recite the songs of the Spring,
Believe that seasons change, ask not why.
When circumstances are bleak,
Your bivouac is left far behind,
Choose what you must—
That let me not remind.
When without the trails
Should You journey barefoot,
Seek sojourns within a companion
In whose heart you could stay put.
When You, and only You,
Represent souls in the strife.
Look within as much as without.
Surely, the only rule of life.
When the days are few
You count each one anew
Amidst the hellish weather that
Destroys your crop that’s but already few.
Remember, always, to stand tall
And present the challenges a full face;
That You are your own harvest:
Be that befitting reply; and the one with grace.
It is time we see that our kids are kids, and not report cards. Let them learn to respect themselves. Help them preserve their core. Etiquette and skills can (and will) follow.
Then, I loved brushing my father’s thick facial hair, Which, I was pranked belonging to my grandfather And which my father had stuck on his face. Now, a part of my daily schedule Is my own beard that equally isn’t few! Then, the miniature me, for whom, Everything looked big and formidable. Now, I laugh that nothing Is neither so shocking Nor so ignorable. Then, the unpaved trails to my