Caps Lock Creativity

  Sākhyam You know what’s funny? We spend years thinking that friendship is about hanging out during breaks, tagging each other in memes, remembering birthdays, and sitting next to each other in class. We often picture a friend as someone from our age group, someone who shares our vibe, our college, our batch, or maybe even just our favorite songs. But life—thankfully—is far more poetic than that. As I grew up, I realized that friendship isn’t confined to shared lunchboxes or selfie folders. It’s not limited to who knows your current crush or who texts you "reached home?" after a hangout. A real friend doesn’t always laugh at your jokes but they understand your silences. They don’t just say, “I’m here,”—they stay when everyone else walks away. Friendship is not a tag; it’s a presence. A presence that believes in you when you don’t. That disagrees with you, corrects you, but still stands by your side. That doesn’t fuel your ego but nourishes your growth. Sometimes, your truest...

 Mondays With Meaning  Oh, it’s Monday . Tilak on forehead, mantra on tongue, you walk barefoot to temples, chanting names of the one called Pashupati Nath, Lord of all creatures, right? All creatures… except the one on your plate, of course. Tomorrow the same lips that whispered prayers will now sip gravy made of screams. The same hands that folded before a deity will scroll through menus with roasted bones. Devotion on weekends. Dissection on weekdays. What a divine balance. You fast during Shravan, skip meat for a month like it buys you a lifetime of innocence. But what happens when the calendar flips? Is your compassion date-bound? No, no, don’t worry. You don’t kill them yourself. You only fund the massacre while someone else becomes your butcher proxy. You didn’t hold the knife, but the blood still clings to your hunger. Oh, you call it “ just food ”? Strange… I call it a funeral. And let me guess, you love animals too.  Shares reels of puppies, you cry when a stree...

More Than What I Post I often find myself tangled in this strange web of emotions where my heart says don’t make new connections, but my soul, ever so soft, ends up weaving new threads anyway. I become the " best of friends " to people I never even planned to speak to. It’s not out of need or selfishness — NO. I don’t keep them for favors. I keep them because I fear the guilt of letting go, the whisper of “ wasn’t that wrong of you? ” echoing within me. Because the more hands you hold, the more hearts you promise not to break. And I? I make promises without knowing I did. At times, I adore this nature of mine, the one that blooms like spring in everyone’s garden. But when winter strikes and I find myself alone, the cold feels unforgiving. It's not a loud kind of loneliness, it's the silence that screams the most. I’m not desperate for company. I find peace in solitude too. But sometimes, I wish someone would just sit beside me, not to talk, not to solve, but to simply...

  Just One More  She wasn’t the kind who warmed up easily especially not to strangers with display pictures and digital footprints. The idea of making friends online felt like holding fireflies in closed palms: beautiful but brief, bright but never certain. But then came him. A chat request turned into conversations that slipped into her nights. She didn’t notice when "just talking" became a ritual, and how her laughter began to echo in his texts. They didn’t rush. They talked. About little things that felt like everything, childhood scribbles, parents, career worries, unfinished dreams, what makes them feel alive, what keeps them up at night. And somewhere between all the backspaces and full stops, a soft bond was tied not with promises, but with presence. Eventually, the idea was thrown into the air, casual and dangerous — let’s meet. Not through screens. Not pixel to pixel. Real. Like coffee mugs sweating on a table. Like air shared in the same silence. She wanted it and ...

 Crafting The Broken  They talk of love like it’s a river, deep, wild, forever flowing. But my kind of love? It wasn’t a river. It was a clockmaker’s workshop at midnight that's intricate, and full of forgotten pieces ticking in different corners. I didn’t fall into it. I assembled it. Each time I was broken, I picked up the parts. Not to glue them together with desperation but to restructure the rhythm of how I’d be loved next. What about the ones like us, who once carried heartbreak like a second heartbeat, but one day decided: “I will not let this sadness become my identity.” So instead of sitting in a room echoing with "why me," you quietly rearranged your life like tidying up a house no one visits but you still want it to feel like home. There’s a version of me the world will never meet. The one who waited in the backseat while someone else took the wheel of my heart, only to crash it into silence and leave me stranded with headlights still on and no goodbye. But th...