Caps Lock Creativity

WHY ALL MUSLIM???  Bharat has been bleeding for centuries now, A rivalry that started when Arabs came to show us how. Islam entered, a new chapter began, But did it come with peace or a master plan? Today, terrorists don’t just kill, they defame, And the whole Muslim community bears the same blame. Is that fair? Was that the aim? Or is Pakistan laughing, fanning this flame? Look, there are those who live for Pakistan, Even though they’re in India, do you see the plan? But let’s not forget, there are Muslims too, Who love this land, being honestly true. Yes, it's rare, but it’s real, it exists, And we cannot erase it, no matter the twist. Pakistan dreams of chaos in our name, Using religion, sowing hatred, fanning the flame. The recent Pahalgam incident is crystal clear, Has ignited a hatred, a fire we now fear. Pakistan aims to divide, to sow endless strife, Unable to conquer by force, so they target our life. With a calculated plan, they stir the flame, Claiming religion killed Hi...

Time To Roar   Terror in Kashmir, it strikes again, Just when peace seemed near, it tore in vain. In Pahalgam, innocent lives lost in a blink, A cruel tragedy, enough to make you think. What did they do? Was there a crime? Were their lives a casualty of some twisted rhyme? Did they offend, provoke, or strike? Or were they simply living, just like you and I? Why this bloodshed? Why this rage? Are we trapped in a never-ending cage? It’s time to stop, time to ask, Time to look beyond this bloody mask. Yes, I am a proud Hindu, standing tall, But my demand isn’t hate, it’s justice for all. I seek no division, I seek no fear, Just a land where love and truth are clear. A Hindu land, where wisdom stays, Where ancient truths break all chains and haze. Not a land of sorrow, not one of despair, But a land of strength, where justice is fair. We’re not the ones who bow or break, We’re the children of a land that will awake. We’ve learned to rise, to stand, to fight, This is our time, we’ll set...

  Life – A Question Paper with No Option  ‘None of the Above’ Welcome to Earth, baby human version 1.0! Fresh out the womb, yet they ask—“ Why so slow? ” You blink, you breathe, you burp, you bawl,  But nah, no applause—" Did she say mumma yet at all?" From one to three, you’re basically a potato with emotions, But still, you're grilled with “ What’s she learned? ” promotions. Speak a syllable, walk a step— It’s a miracle if you aren’t labeled inept. Then four to ten—ah, school, the holy shrine! Where joy is taxed and marks define. " Which class now? "—like you’re a damn product line. Childhood? Oh that’s cute, but could you read this sign? Enter adolescence, eleven to fifteen, Hormones riot, pimples scream, dreams are caffeine. " What will you be? " they ask with delight— As if careers grow on trees watered by foresight. From sixteen to twenty, you grind and you gasp, Holding dreams like sand that slips through your clasp. " So… made it yet? ...

The Best Isn't Always Special  You know, the world has a weird obsession with the word “ Best .” As if there’s a universal rulebook defining what that “ best ” must look like, cost like, or feel like. But let me break it to you — The Best isn’t always the Best. What’s a diamond to someone who craves warmth over sparkle? What’s a five-star dinner to someone who just wants a plate of maa ke haath ka daal chawal? Let’s go back to the golden era of life — childhood. Remember those birthday parties? With balloons stuck on the wall using cello tape that could barely hold their breath? When your mom invited the entire “ mohalla ,” including that one aunty you couldn’t stand — let’s call her Aunty Show-Offa . She struts in like she’s here for a red carpet event, perfume strong enough to cause short-term memory loss. The gift? Wrapped so lavishly it probably cost more than your entire party decor. And inside it — a brand new noise-cancelling headphone. Branded. Sleek. Stylish. With the kind...

  Drafted   -paused, not erased Life — that mischievous author with an odd sense of humor — rewrote my story once again. Only this time, the edit made me smile. You know those cinematic breakdown moments when the playlist hits betrayal mode, and your coffee starts tasting like regret? That was me. All it took was a single message — short, sharp, and dressed as casual honesty: " Why are your expectations so high up? " Now, I wasn’t out here building castles in the air. Maybe a modest balcony with some fairy lights. But that line? That was a sniper shot disguised as small talk. No "lol," no soft landing. Just straight into my overthinking headquarters. Within seconds, I had convinced myself I was the emotional version of a spam call — unwanted, overly frequent, and mildly exhausting. The spiral began. I drafted a full-blown farewell — a poetic eulogy to a connection that I assumed had been declared dead. My thumb hovered over “post” like I was launching a nuclear code...