Tag Archives: love

Aaati Hai Lajja

(And every time, I wish she wouldn’t.)

She doesn’t knock.
She just enters. Uninvited.
Like an old relative who knows where the weakness in the door lies.
Aaati hai Lajja — shame, silence, suppression… wearing the face of tradition.

I met her in stories long before I met her in real life.

She was there in the tales of Sati — when young brides were burned alive on their husband’s pyre.
They called it devotion.
No one called it murder.
They called her “pavitra” (pure) — not “trapped.”
Lajja watched quietly — as always.

She showed up again in the ghunghats… in the burkhas… in the eyes lowered not out of grace, but fear.
And for some of us — like the Krishna Dasis — she wore iron chains.
Temple women, gifted to gods, but given to men.
Devotion became a disguise for sexual slavery.
But no one called it that.
Lajja stood there too — hiding behind religion, applauding patriarchy.

And then, there’s the kind of pain that’s stitched into skin — and silence.

In some conservative Muslim sects, young girls — sometimes as little as 7 — are held down while a blade cuts off the clitoris.
They call it purification.
A cleansing.
But it is what it is — a castration.
A brutal lesson that she was never meant to feel pleasure.
Because a woman who can feel… might also want.
And wanting, for them, is the worst kind of shame.

And Lajja? She stands right there — not weeping, not angry. Just watching.
Like she’s seen it all before.

But I truly met her when it came to me.

When my own wedding was arranged, and the conversation turned to “expectations.”
Furniture. Gold. Car.
I remember my fingers trembling. My heart felt small.
They weren’t just marrying me.
They were negotiating a transaction.

And I said no.
I said NO.
I called it off.

That night, Lajja visited again.
Not for them — for me.
People said, “Shaadi ke din se pehle mana kar diya? Log kya kahenge?”
What will people say?

Funny how no one asked — What if she had said yes and burned later in silence?

Lajja came the night I bled on my first period.
When the elders said, “Don’t touch the pickle.”
She came when I didn’t bleed on a bedsheet — and they questioned my “purity.”
She came when a man whistled at me in a public place, and my family told me to cover up.
She came when a friend got raped — and someone said,
“She shouldn’t have gone out at night.”

Lajja doesn’t discriminate — caste, class, age, or language.
She lives in jokes about alimony.
In whispers about divorced women.
In eye rolls at working mothers.
In silence when your boss “accidentally” touches your waist in a meeting.

Every time I rise — she tries to sit me back down.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

She is not mine to carry.
She never was.

The shame was never mine — it was just handed down, carefully stitched into rituals and respectability.

And now, I’m done wearing it.

If you see me now — bold, loud, tired yet still standing — know this:
Lajja aa toh jaati hai…
But now?

I don’t offer her tea anymore.
Because Lajja doesn’t come from within me…
Lajja aati hai — because of the society I live in.

  • Richa ❤

🎬 Title: “Flat mein silence hota hai… Ghar mein Mumma.”

(Tonight 8 PM – Evening Sip with Richa ☕ | Ek baat un sab ke liye jo ghar se door hain)


[Scene: Delhi. Wintery evening. Office almost empty. Richa is shutting her laptop, wrapping up for the day. Kabir (her teammate) walks in with his bag half open, still sipping chai from a paper cup.]

Kabir (smirking):
“Oye Richa di… ghar jaa rahi ho?”

Richa (shrugs lightly, without looking):
“Nahi yaar… flat jaa rahi hoon.
Ghar toh Bareilly mein hai… Mumma ke paas.”

Kabir (laughs, teasing):
“Haww! Flat aur ghar alag ho gaye ab?”

Richa (half smiles):
“Flat mein bas fan, bed aur fridge hai…
Ghar mein Mumma ka daant, roti, aur…
Rajma chawal ka woh extra spoon pyaar.”

Kabir (sips chai, quieter now):
“True that…
Main bhi jab se shift hua hoon Dilli,
ghar pe woh sunday wali chai nahi mili.
Mumma bina bole samajh jaati thi…
ki mujhe strong chai chahiye aur silence.”

Richa:
“Mere flat ka silence toh noisy lagta hai.
Aur Mumma…
roz 5 baar call karti hai.
Sirf poochhne ke liye — ‘kha liya?’
Main haan bolti hoon… woh bina kuch bole phone kaat deti hai.”

Kabir (nostalgically):
“Same same…
Meri maa bhi bas check karne ke liye call karti hai,
‘Beta, dinner ho gaya?’
Jaise phone nahi… ek heartbeat check ho raha ho.”

Richa (laughs slightly):
“Tujhe pata hai?
Main aur Mumma har baar Bareilly mein Urvashi wale golgappe khane jaate the…
Main samajhti thi woh meri craving poori kar rahi hai,
par aaj tak nahi pata chala ki Mumma ka favorite kya tha.”

Kabir (stares out the glass window):
“Meri Mumma toh bas wahi banati hai jo main bolta hoon…
Apni pasand batati hi nahi.
Bas mera favorite banake khush ho jaati hai.”

Richa (softly):
“Woh Mumma hi hoti hai…
apni pasand ko tum mein daal ke jeeti hai.”

Kabir (nods, with a smile):
“Tu lucky hai… Bareilly se hai.
Mere toh ghar waale Meerut mein hain…
Par Mumma ka pyaar toh pin code nahi dekhta.”

Richa (eyes soft):
“Bas dar lagta hai…
kahin time haath se na nikal jaaye.
Mumma hamesha kehti hai —
‘Office ki tension maar goli… ghar aa ja…
Chali jaaungi ek din bina bole… tu dekhna.’”

(Both silent for a moment. Lift arrives. They step in slowly.)

Kabir (looks at phone):
“Phone charge pe lag gaya…
par tu bhi lag jaa kabhi call pe…
Kabhi sirf ‘Mumma’ bolne ke liye.”

Richa (half-smile, but heavy-hearted):
“Flat toh aaj bhi wapas jaaungi…
par ghar?
Woh toh Bareilly mein reh gaya hai…”


[Text fades in as lift closes:]
Tonight, 8 PM — Evening Sip with Richa
Ek kahaani un Mummaon ke liye…
Jo khud kuch nahi kehti, bas sab kuch de deti hain.

🎬 Title: “Flat wapas jaa rahi hoon… Ghar nahi.”

(Tonight 8 PM — Evening Sip with Richa ☕ Hinglish | A tribute to every Mumma ❤️)


[Scene: Delhi. Corporate office. Late evening. You’re quietly shutting down your system. Sounds of chairs moving, few murmurs. A colleague (junior male) walks over with his coffee mug.]

Colleague (lightly):
“Richa di, ghar jaa rahi ho?”

You (still focused on shutting your laptop):
“Nahi yaar… flat jaa rahi hoon.
Ghar toh Bareilly mein hai… Mumma ke paas.”

Colleague (smiling, playful):
“Flat aur ghar… same hi toh hai?”

You (pausing, softly):
“Flat mein AC hai, fridge hai, silence hai.
Ghar mein daant hai, roti hai…
aur Mumma ka pyaar — bina shabdon ke.”

Colleague (a little quiet now):
“Yeah…
Main jab hostel gaya tha na…
Mumma roz tiffin mein chhoti chitthi rakh deti thi —
‘Thoda dhyan rakhna, zyada so mat, zyada bhool mat.’”

You (smiling, nostalgic):
“Aww…
Meri Mumma bhi roz 5 baar call karti hai —
‘Khaana kha liya?’
Aur bina kuch sune, phone rakh deti hai.”

Colleague (with a small laugh):
“Unhe farak padta hai bas… bolne ki zarurat nahi padti.”

You:
“Exactly.
Aur pata hai…
Main aur Mumma jaate the Urvashi wale golgappe wale ke paas.
Main samajhti thi woh mujhe khila rahi hai…
par aaj tak nahi pata chala, unka favorite kya tha.”

Colleague (nodding, with feeling):
“Meri Mumma bas rajma chawal banati rehti thi mere liye…
kabhi nahi bola ki unka kya favorite hai.”
(small pause)
“Apna sab kuch toh hummein daal diya unhone.”

You:
“Tu samajh gaya…” (with a warm look)
“Yeh sab kehne ki zarurat nahi hoti, par jab koi samajhta hai na… halka lagta hai dil.”

Colleague (genuinely):
“Haan…
Tumne bola na — jab tak flat nahi pahuchti,
Mumma sooti nahi?
Meri Mumma bhi same hai…
Main der se call karta hoon toh keh deti hai — ‘Ab aaya na yaad?’”

You (smiling faintly):
“Pyaar ke style alag hote hain… concern wahi hota hai.”

Colleague:
“True that.
Tu Delhi sambhaal leti hai…
main Mumbai.
Par Mumma dono ki raaton ki neend same chura leti hai.”

You (light chuckle):
“Mujhe Mumma har baar kehti hai —
‘Office ki tension maar goli… ghar aa ja.
Chali jaaungi ek din bina bole… tu dekhna.’”

(Lift dings. They walk slowly toward it. Comfortable silence follows. Emotional heaviness without drama.)

Colleague (gently):
“Phone charge pe laga dena…
kyunki Mumma ki awaaz bina,
dono ka dil low rehta hai.”

You (softly, as you step in):
“Flat Dilli mein hai…
Par ghar?
Ab bhi Bareilly mein hi hai.”


[Fade out. Text appears:]
“Tonight at 8 PM | Evening Sip with Richa ☕
A heartfelt Hinglish story for every grown-up kid…
And for every Mumma, jinki duniya hum ho.”


🎬 Phone Charge Pe Hai, Par Dil Low Hai

(Scene: Delhi office, shift wrapping up. You’re slowly packing your bag. A junior colleague comes by, sipping chai.)

Colleague (teasing):
“Richa di, ghar jaa rahi ho aaj?”

You (smiling faintly, still organizing stuff):
“Nahi yaar… flat jaa rahi hoon.
Ghar toh Bareilly mein hai, Mumma ke paas.”

Colleague (laughing):
“Bas wahi toh, same hi baat hai na?”

You (looking up, a bit wistful):
“Nahi yaar, flat mein fridge, AC, silence toh hai,
par Mumma ki daant, roti, aur pyaar nahi hai.”

(They start walking slowly together.)

You:
“Roz jab office se nikalti hoon, toh Mumma ka phone aata hai,
‘Khaana kha liya?’
Main kehti hoon ‘haan’, aur woh bina kuch bole phone rakh deti hai.
Aisa lagta hai jaise check kar rahi ho, meri beti zinda hai ya nahi.”

Colleague:
“Roz itni baar call karti hai?”

You (chuckling):
“Haan, 5-6 baar. Kabhi lunch ke liye, kabhi bas yunhi.
Aur end mein woh line nahi bhoolti:
‘Chhod office ki tension maar goli, ghar aa ja.
Chali jaaungi ek din bina bole, tu dekhna.’”

(You pause, smile with a little ache.)

You:
“Main aur Mumma Urvashi golgappe wale pe golgappe khane jaate the…
Par pata bhi nahi chala Mumma ka asli favorite khana kya hai.
Bas mera favorite, rajma chawal, woh banati rehti hai,
apna kuch batati hi nahi.”

(A soft sigh.)

You:
“Woh chhoti-chhoti baatein, woh apne-apne pal, kahin beech mein kho gaye hain.
Waqt aise nikalta jaa raha hai, aur main bas un yaadon ko dil mein thoda sa sambhaal ke rakhti hoon.”

Colleague (softly):
“Phir bhi tu Dilli mein sab sambhal leti hai na?”

You (smiling softly):
“Sambhal toh leti hoon, par sab kuch toh yahaan nahi hai—
job hai, freedom hai, salary hai,
par ghar nahi hai.”

(Lift dings. Door opens. You step inside slowly.)

You (quietly, almost to yourself):
“Phone charge pe hai, par dil low hai.”

  • Richa ❤

Reflections on Chokher Bali and the Modern Woman

Last Sunday, I had the opportunity to witness a stirring performance of Rabindranath Tagore’s Chokher Bali at the Shri Ram Centre (SRC) in New Delhi. Since then, the play has been constantly circling in my thoughts—unraveling layer by layer, as I reflect on its deep portrayal of human emotions, relationships, and the quiet yet powerful rebellion of a woman seeking identity beyond societal labels.

Chokher Bali tells the story of Binodini, a young widow—intelligent, passionate, and emotionally complex—who finds herself entwined in a forbidden relationship and moral dilemmas. What struck me most was how relatable she still feels, even more than a century after Tagore wrote her. Binodini isn’t just a literary character—she is a mirror, still reflecting the struggle of many modern women caught between what they feel and what they are told to be.

In today’s world, women like Binodini are often given dismissive labels: “the other woman,” “homewrecker,” or “the third wheel.” Their emotional needs, inner conflicts, and layered personalities are flattened into moral judgments. The modern-day Binodini might be working, independent, and emotionally aware, but she’s still navigating the difficult terrain of relationships, desire, and social expectation. Much like Binodini, today’s women are still punished for expressing love outside the “acceptable” boundaries and are too often shamed for choosing themselves.

Let me be clear: I do not support infidelity or three-way relationships. They often bring pain, distrust, and emotional upheaval—not just to those involved but to everyone around them. And yet, Chokher Bali forces us to look beyond the black-and-white. It invites us to see the emotional voids, the longing for understanding, and the ache for love that lead people into complex, even morally grey, situations. It doesn’t glorify them—it simply presents them as they are: raw, flawed, and human.

Relationships, then and now, remain complicated. We like to think we’ve evolved, but the core of human connection—love, betrayal, longing, and loneliness—hasn’t changed much. The ordeal of relationships today includes new complexities: emotional unavailability, unclear boundaries, commitment fears, and the societal pressure to present perfection while hiding the pain beneath. Binodini’s vulnerability, her yearning, her moments of rebellion—all resonate with women today who are tired of being boxed into roles that don’t account for their full emotional truth.

Yet, there is also growth. Unlike Binodini, women today are beginning to reclaim their narratives. They talk about their feelings openly, they choose to walk away from what hurts them, they define love and success on their own terms. There is a long way to go, but the conversations have started—about choice, mental health, emotional labor, and equality in relationships.

What makes Chokher Bali timeless is its brave depiction of a woman as neither saint nor sinner, but simply human. Watching this unfold on stage made me realize how important it is to revisit such stories—not just to honor their literary brilliance, but to see how far we’ve come and how much we still carry from the past.

This write-up, then, is more than a reflection—it’s a bridge between Binodini’s world and ours. Between a woman silenced by tradition, and today’s woman still learning to speak her truth, even when the world doesn’t want to hear it.

  • Richa M ❤

Chalo kuch likhte hain aaj (Let’s create magic today)……………..


“Boondon Ke Moti”
– A Monsoon Love Story –

The clouds hung low over Mumbai, heavy with unsaid words and the promise of rain. The city was slowing down, as if pausing to listen — to the rhythm of falling droplets, the hush of tires on wet roads, and the whispering breeze that danced over Marine Drive.

Rohan sat on the sea-facing wall, his legs stretched out, a steaming cup of chai warming his hands. His jeans were damp, his shirt clinging slightly to his back, but he didn’t mind. This spot — their spot — always made the rain feel softer somehow.

She came walking toward him, barefoot, holding her sandals in one hand, her long hair wet and tangled by the breeze. Richa, with her soft brown eyes that always looked like they were holding a secret.

Rohan smiled. “You’re late.”

“I was in a taxi,” she replied, slightly breathless. “The window was fogged up and the rain was racing down in little trails. Looked like boondon ke moti.”

He chuckled, handing her the second cup of chai. “Still turning traffic into poetry, I see.”

She took it with a grin, sitting beside him so close that the warmth of her skin cut through the chill of the monsoon. A gust of wind swept past, tossing her hair across her face. Without thinking, Rohan reached out and tucked it behind her ear. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world outside their bubble of chai and drizzle fell away.

“I used to think love needed drama,” she said quietly. “Big gestures, big words.”

“And now?”

“Now I think… it’s this.” She looked out at the sea, the endless grey horizon. “Rain in my hair. Chai in my hands. You next to me. Nothing to prove. Just… here.”

Rohan was quiet. He took a sip of his chai, still looking at her.

“I think I’ve been falling for you for a while now,” he said finally. “Every time you showed up here. With wet hair. And metaphors. And that look in your eyes.”

She smiled, and then — slowly, naturally — leaned her head onto his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. The sea kept singing, the city kept breathing, and somewhere nearby, someone was humming a tune that sounded an awful lot like Iktara.

They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t have to.

Some stories don’t arrive with thunder.
Some just walk barefoot in the rain, holding chai and love like it’s the most natural thing in the world.


“Boondon Ke Moti” — A Monsoon Love Story (Dialogue-Driven Version)

The sky over Marine Drive was soft grey, like someone had drawn a curtain over the sun just to let the rain speak.

Rohan was already sitting on the sea-facing wall, holding two kulhads of chai. He looked up as she arrived, barefoot, the hem of her kurta damp and her long hair untamed by the breeze.

Rohan:
“You walk through the rain like it was made for you.”

Richa:
(smiling)
“Maybe it was. Or maybe I just like getting wet for the right reasons.”

Rohan:
(holds out the chai)
“One of those reasons being this?”

Richa:
(takes the cup)
“Chai in the rain is a love story on its own.”

Rohan:
“Agreed. But it’s less dramatic when you’re not running for cover.”

Richa:
“Who says I want cover? Some things are better felt, not avoided.”

A breeze flutters her hair into her face. She brushes it away, but it keeps returning. Rohan gently reaches over and tucks it behind her ear.

Richa:
(surprised but soft)
“You always do that.”

Rohan:
“What?”

Richa:
“That thing… like you’re allowed to touch silence and it won’t break.”

They sip quietly. The sound of waves and rain around them is calming, like a song only they can hear.

Richa:
“I was watching the rain on the taxi window. It slid down like pearls. Like boondon ke moti.”

Rohan:
(smiling)
“You make everything sound like a poem.”

Richa:
“Maybe I only speak this way around you.”

A pause. Their eyes meet, and it holds longer than either expects.

Rohan:
“I’ve been falling for you, you know. Slowly. Steadily. Like this rain.”

Richa:
“I know.”

Rohan:
(startled)
You do?

Richa:
“Yeah. Because I’ve been falling too.”

She leans her head onto his shoulder, gentle and sure.

Richa:
“I thought love had to be loud. Fireworks. Grand scenes.”

Rohan:
“And now?”

Richa:
“Now I think… maybe it’s chai and quiet conversations in the rain. Maybe it’s this.”

A long pause. The camera would pan out now — if this were a film — but they don’t move. The sea crashes, someone in the distance hums a tune that sounds like “Iktara.”

Rohan:
“You’re going to turn this into a story, aren’t you?”

Richa:
(grinning)
“I already have.”

Evil Eye (Nazar) Is Real: A Personal Reflection on Love, Separation, and Unseen Forces

There are moments in life when you feel a deep connection to someone—one that goes beyond mere words and actions. It feels like a bond that defies explanation. You don’t need labels for what exists between you, because it’s not something that can be confined to the boundaries of a typical relationship. And yet, no matter how strong the feelings are, something always seems to go wrong when you start to experience true love. It’s as though an invisible force steps in, intervening at the very moment you begin to open your heart.

For me, this force is something I’ve come to understand as the evil eye—or nazar. I can’t explain it fully, but I’ve experienced it in a way that’s hard to ignore. Each time I start to feel love, something happens. It’s like a cycle I can’t escape. As soon as I open up to someone, there’s a shift. We part ways, and everything changes. It’s as if the universe conspires against the purity of that connection. And I can’t help but wonder: Is it the evil eye at work, or is it simply the way things are meant to be?

In many cultures around the world, the evil eye is believed to be a curse that’s cast through a jealous or envious gaze. It’s not always intentional. Sometimes, it’s a thought or feeling directed at you without malice, but with such intensity that it disrupts your path. The effect of the nazar is said to cause misfortune, and in some cases, it can sever bonds that seem unbreakable. Could this be what’s happening to me? Every time I discuss my past or try to reflect on my present with someone, it feels like I am somehow inviting disruption into my life. The moment I share my feelings, the connection starts to fray.

It’s strange because, even though we live separate lives, there’s an undeniable pull between us. Our souls feel intertwined in a way I can’t fully explain. There is an unspoken telepathy that links us, a bond so strong that it transcends distance, time, and even words. We may not be together physically, but on some deeper level, I know that we are still connected. That’s the power of this relationship that doesn’t need a name, that doesn’t require a definition. It exists beyond conventional boundaries.

And yet, it hurts. It hurts because I miss him. I miss the connection we once had. It’s like we’ve both been thrown onto different paths, and I have no idea when or if our lives will align again. I don’t know when we will be able to talk again, or if we ever will. It’s as if some invisible force is keeping us apart—much like the evil eye people talk about in folklore.

In this moment of uncertainty, I wonder if the evil eye is real, or if it’s just a way to make sense of the forces beyond our control. But I can’t ignore the coincidences, the way things seem to shift when I start to feel love, or when I talk about someone who means so much to me. Maybe it’s a sign that we need to protect our hearts, be mindful of the energy we share with others, and be cautious about how much of ourselves we expose to the world.

Whatever it is, I can’t help but feel that there’s more to this than meets the eye. And until I understand it fully, I will hold on to the belief that the evil eye might be more than just a superstition. It might be a reminder that some things are just too sacred to share, and some connections are meant to be protected from the world’s gaze.

  • Richa ❤

In the silence of love, the loudest heartbreak echoes – Sahiba’s Perspective

Tere naam naal loki jod’de ne yaari
People associate your name with loyalty/committment

Mere naam naal jod’de gadaari ve
People associate my name with betrayal

Ajj vi mashook dhokhebaaz main kahawaan
Even today people call me a dishonest lover

Saukhi siweyan ch vi na main vichari ve
I can’t rest in my grave, such is my helplessness

Kehda das daag (3) ve main ishqe nu laaya
What stain did I put on love?

Tere layi main das hor ki kara, ve mirzeya
Oh mirza, what else could I do for you

Je tu mare naal main maraan
In your death, I have died too. “

I was never meant to be a prisoner of my own heart, but here I am. If they ever remember me, they will call me traitor, coward, heartless. They will say I did nothing while he bled — while Mirza bled out under the very sky we had once dreamed beneath. They won’t know that I loved him. That I loved him with a ferocity that would have shattered the world had I dared to speak it aloud.

My name is Sahiba. Daughter of a house that demanded loyalty above all, duty above all else. I was raised on a diet of obedience, whispers of power, and the relentless pressure to bend, to submit. The men of my family, they ruled with iron fists. And I? I was nothing but an extension of their will, an heir to the name of Jalal, a woman meant to stay quiet, to smile, and to serve.

But life, it finds ways of sneaking past even the tightest defenses. That was Mirza. A storm. A wild thing. He came into my life like a flash of lightning — bright, intense, uncontainable. From the first moment we spoke, I knew he would change everything. He was not bound by the chains that held me, not bound by the roles we were born to play. He was a man of freedom, and he showed me a world I had only dared to imagine. He made me feel alive — truly, madly, alive.

And I fell. I fell with every breath I took.

But we both knew the price. Nothing in this world is free, not even love. I was promised to another, my fate already sealed by the blood that ran through my veins. And so was he, bound by the weight of his own burdens. Yet we loved, desperately, like thieves in the night, stealing moments, kissing in the shadows, as though the sun itself would never rise.

And then, when it all came crashing down — when the men who sought to destroy us struck their final blow — I could do nothing.

He was there, lying in front of me, blood staining the earth beneath us. I could taste the salt of my own tears as they mingled with the dirt. His eyes, those eyes that had seen the world differently, those eyes that had looked at me as though I was more than just the woman I was born to be — those eyes flickered, dimming. And all I could do was watch.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I couldn’t make the choice, not then. To save him would have been to defy everything I had ever known. To save him would have meant to betray my family, to betray everything I had been raised to uphold. I stood frozen, paralyzed, with the weight of my loyalty to them crushing me, suffocating me.

He was dying, and all I could think of was what would happen if I crossed that line. If I defied everything for him. If I took his hand and ran, would we have lived? Or would they have come for us both, dragging us to the edge of the earth and beyond?

I made my choice.

And that choice was silence. A silence that I have carried in my chest ever since.

They say loyalty is what you do for the ones you love. But no one tells you that loyalty can feel like a knife in your soul, twisting deeper with every second that you do nothing, that you watch as the world rips apart the person you swore to protect. My silence cost him his life.

I know how they will remember me. I can already hear their voices, their accusations, their pity. How I didn’t move when he needed me. How I let him die.

But what they don’t know is this: I was loyal to him, always. Even in that moment. Even in my silence.

Because the truth is, I loved him too much. I loved him so much that I couldn’t bring myself to drag him into the darkness I was already drowning in. I couldn’t let him face the same fate I would have faced. I couldn’t let him be destroyed by my family’s anger. So I did nothing. And in that nothing, I lost him.

And after that night, after the finality of his absence, I couldn’t bear to stay. My soul — it withered without him. The walls of the world I had built around myself began to crumble, and I could no longer walk through the halls of the house I was born into. The house that was never meant to love me.

I wandered for days, though the days meant nothing. The world became a blur, all light and shadow. I could feel the weight of his absence, his last breath, pulling me into the abyss with every step I took. I was drowning — drowning in my guilt, my love, and my failure.

And then, one cold night, when the stars were hidden behind a veil of clouds, I laid myself down, beneath the same sky we had once shared dreams under. It wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t a choice. It was just the end that had always been coming for me.

They will say I died by my own hand. They will say I was weak. But no one will understand. No one will know the burden I carried, the love that tore me apart, the silence that ate me alive.

I am not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But in my heart, I know the truth. I loved him — I loved him fiercely. And in the end, I was faithful to him. Always.

And that, I hope, is enough.

  • Writeup by Richa Mehndiratta

The Monk and the Bull: A Journey of Detachment

In a small, sleepy village tucked away at the edge of a dense, untamed jungle, there lived a young man named Aryan. He was once a simple farmer, a son, a husband, and a father. Life had been quiet, peaceful, and full of the rhythmic routine that all villagers knew. Aryan was content with his family, till one fateful day when a long-forgotten custom came calling—one that would forever alter his path.

The Ritual:

In Aryan’s village, every few generations, the elders would conduct a ritual. It was a solemn tradition: at least one member of every household had to renounce the material world and take the path of a monk, dedicating their life to spiritual pursuits. The belief was that such a sacrifice would bring prosperity and blessings to the entire village. Aryan’s time had come.

His family protested, his wife wept, and his children clung to him, but the ritual was unchangeable. Reluctantly, Aryan left his family behind and walked into the unknown, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision.

When he arrived at the monk school, a humble stone building at the edge of the jungle, Aryan’s mind was clouded with thoughts of his past life—his wife’s soft smile, the laughter of his children, and the simple joy of tilling the soil with his own hands. The school was quiet, peaceful, but his mind was anything but calm. The other monks around him seemed so at ease, so detached, but Aryan’s heart was still bound to the world he had left behind.

He tried to meditate, he studied the sacred texts, and he chanted mantras, but no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always returned to the life he had lost. He could not shake the feeling of longing—the feeling of “Moh”—the attachment to the people and the things he had left behind. Moh, the attachment to worldly desires, had become his undefeatable enemy, and no amount of effort seemed to dissolve it.

The Jungle Walk:

One evening, feeling overwhelmed by his internal struggle, Aryan decided to leave the monk school and roam the jungle. He thought the solitude might help him clear his mind. The jungle was alive with sounds—the distant cries of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the gentle hum of the wind. But in Aryan’s heart, there was only turmoil.

He walked for hours, his mind drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions. Why had he left? Was it worth it? What if he never saw his family again? The noise of the jungle seemed to grow louder and louder, almost as if mocking him. The deeper he ventured, the more isolated he felt, as if the jungle itself were closing in on him.

It was in the midst of this frustration that Aryan noticed something odd—a figure standing quietly near the edge of a clearing. It was a cow, but not just any cow. This was a majestic creature with an otherworldly presence. Its coat was golden, and its eyes were deep, as if they could peer into the very core of his soul. It stood there, calm and still, in the midst of the chaos of the jungle.

The Meeting:

Aryan approached the cow, feeling a strange sense of peace wash over him. Without thinking, he spoke aloud, “I don’t know how to let go. How can I forget everything I loved? How do I release this attachment? It feels impossible.”

The cow’s gaze remained fixed on him. And then, as if the animal could understand every word, it spoke.

You are torn because you are clinging to what is fleeting.” The cow’s voice was deep, but gentle, carrying an ancient wisdom.

Aryan blinked in surprise. “Did you speak? Are you… are you a spirit?”

The cow nodded slowly. “I am not a spirit, though I carry the wisdom of the eternal. My name is Nandi, and I have witnessed many who, like you, struggle with the ties of the world.”

Aryan’s heart skipped a beat. Nandi? The name echoed with some distant recognition. It was the name of Lord Shiva’s divine bull, the loyal companion, the embodiment of devotion. But how could this be? Was this truly Nandi, the sacred animal of the gods?

Nandi seemed to read his thoughts. “Yes, I am Nandi. Not in the form you know, but in the way you need to see me now.”

Aryan fell to his knees, overwhelmed. “Please, help me. I cannot forget my family. I cannot stop thinking about them. My heart is in turmoil.”

The Lesson of Detachment:

Nandi regarded him with kind, knowing eyes. “Aryan, attachment is like the roots of a tree. The deeper the roots, the harder it is to pull the tree from the earth. You have lived a life tied to the world, and now you are being asked to uproot yourself. But remember, detachment does not mean abandoning what you love—it means understanding that love is not bound by proximity. It is eternal, as I am to Shiva, and you to your family.”

Aryan looked up, confused. “But how can I live without seeing them, without holding them, without hearing their voices?”

Nandi lowered his head, as if considering his next words carefully. “The love you have for your family is not lost. It is transformed. When you free yourself from attachment, you free them too. You allow them to live their own lives, as you must live yours. By clinging to them, you only create suffering—for yourself and for them. True love is selfless, not possessive. When you let go, you create space for them to grow, and you, too, will grow. The bond remains, but the suffering disappears.”

Aryan’s heart ached with the weight of these words. “But I don’t know how to let go. The more I try, the more it hurts.”

Nandi’s eyes softened. “It is not about forgetting. It is about accepting. The world is impermanent—your family, your life as a farmer, even the jungle around you will change. But the essence of love, of connection, that is eternal. You must learn to detach, not from love, but from the idea of ownership. When you own nothing, you are free.”

Aryan stood up, feeling a wave of understanding washing over him. He had been seeing his family as something to be kept, something to possess. But the true meaning of love was not in possession—it was in the freedom to love without expectation.

The Ending:

As the night began to fall, Nandi’s form shimmered like a golden light, and with a soft gaze, he began to fade. “Remember, Aryan, detachment is the path to freedom. And freedom is the only true way to experience love. Let go of the moorings, and you will sail toward your true purpose.”

With those final words, Nandi vanished into the jungle, leaving Aryan standing alone but at peace. The jungle no longer felt oppressive; it felt alive with possibility. Aryan understood now that his journey wasn’t about leaving his family behind—it was about embracing his love for them without the chains of attachment.

He made his way back to the monk school, his heart lighter, his mind clearer. As he walked, the sounds of the jungle seemed to sing a new song, one of freedom, love, and acceptance. Aryan knew that the path of detachment was not easy, but it was the only path to true peace.


The Lesson:

The lesson Aryan learned that day, through his meeting with Nandi, was that detachment doesn’t mean abandoning the world or the people we love. It means understanding that love is not bound by the limitations of time or space. By letting go of the need to control or possess, we free ourselves—and those we love—allowing love to flow without boundaries.

By : Richa Mehndiratta !

Disclaimer :
This is a fictional story created for entertainment purposes. The characters, events, and dialogues presented in this story are entirely products of the author’s imagination and should not be confused with or associated with any religious texts, mythological figures, or traditions. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The story is a creative interpretation and has no direct connection to the actual mythology or spiritual teachings.

Hindi Translation :-

संन्यासी और बैल: एक वियोग की यात्रा

एक छोटे, शांत गांव में जो घने और अप्रतिबंधित जंगल के किनारे बसा हुआ था, वहाँ एक युवा व्यक्ति था, जिसका नाम आर्यन था। वह पहले एक साधारण किसान था, एक बेटा, एक पति, और एक पिता। उसका जीवन शांत था, सुखमय था, और उन सभी ग्रामीणों के जैसा था जो दिनचर्या में रमते थे। आर्यन अपने परिवार के साथ संतुष्ट था, लेकिन एक दिन ऐसा कुछ हुआ जिसने उसकी पूरी राह बदल दी—वह एक प्राचीन परंपरा थी।

रिवाज:

आर्यन के गांव में हर कुछ पीढ़ियों में एक रिवाज था। यह एक गंभीर परंपरा थी: हर घर से एक सदस्य को सांसारिक जीवन का त्याग कर संन्यास लेना होता था, और अपना जीवन आत्म-ज्ञान की ओर समर्पित करना होता था। यह विश्वास था कि इस बलिदान से पूरे गांव को आशीर्वाद और समृद्धि मिलती है। अब, आर्यन का समय आ गया था।

उसका परिवार विरोध करता रहा, पत्नी रोई, और बच्चे उससे लिपट गए, लेकिन रिवाज अनिवार्य था। अंततः, आर्यन को अपने परिवार को छोड़कर अनजानी राह पर निकलना पड़ा, और उसका दिल भारी था।

जब वह संन्यासी विद्यालय पहुंचा, जो जंगल के किनारे एक साधारण सा पत्थर का निर्माण था, आर्यन का मन अपने पुराने जीवन के विचारों से भरा हुआ था—उसकी पत्नी का मुस्कुराना, बच्चों की हंसी, और अपने हाथों से धरती को जोतने का साधारण सुख। विद्यालय शांत था, शांतिपूर्ण था, लेकिन उसके मन में शांति नहीं थी। वहां के अन्य संन्यासी आत्म-निर्भर और अलग दिखाई देते थे, लेकिन आर्यन का मन अब भी उलझा हुआ था।

वह ध्यान लगाने की कोशिश करता, धार्मिक ग्रंथों का अध्ययन करता, और मंत्र जपता, लेकिन जितनी कोशिश वह करता, उसका मन हमेशा उसी जीवन की ओर लौटता—वह जो उसने छोड़ा था। वह मोह, संसारिक इच्छाओं से जुड़ी वह विकट जड़, अब उसका सबसे बड़ा शत्रु बन गया था, और कोई भी प्रयास उसे शांत नहीं कर सका।

जंगल में भटकना:

एक शाम, जब वह अपने अंदर के संघर्ष से थक चुका था, आर्यन ने निर्णय लिया कि वह संन्यासी विद्यालय से बाहर जाएगा और जंगल में कुछ समय बिताएगा। उसने सोचा कि अकेलेपन में शायद उसे शांति मिल सकेगी। जंगल आवाज़ों से गूंज रहा था—दूर से बर्ड्स की आवाजें, पत्तों की सरसराहट, और हवा की हलचल। लेकिन आर्यन के दिल में केवल उथल-पुथल थी।

वह घंटों जंगल में भटकता रहा, उसका मन उलझन से भरा था। मैंने क्यों छोड़ा? क्या यह सही था? क्या मैं कभी अपने परिवार से मिल पाऊंगा? जंगल की आवाज़ अब उसे और अधिक कष्ट देने लगी, जैसे वह उसे चिढ़ा रहा हो। जैसे-जैसे वह जंगल में और गहरे जाता, वैसे-वैसे उसे अकेलापन महसूस होता गया, जैसे पूरा जंगल उसे घेर रहा हो।

तभी उसने कुछ अजीब देखा—एक छानव में खड़ा हुआ कोई रूप। यह कोई साधारण गाय नहीं थी। यह एक शाही रूप की गाय थी, जिसका शरीर सोने जैसा चमकदार था, और उसकी आँखों में कुछ ऐसा था, जैसे वह उसकी आत्मा की गहराई तक देख सकती हो। गाय शांत और स्थिर खड़ी थी, जंगल की हलचल के बीच।

मुलाकात:

आर्यन गाय के पास गया, और उसे अजीब सी शांति महसूस हुई। बिना सोचे-समझे, वह बोला, “मुझे समझ नहीं आता, कैसे छोड़ूं? कैसे अपने परिवार को भूल जाऊं? इसे छोड़ना कितना मुश्किल है!”

गाय की आँखें स्थिर थीं, और फिर, जैसे वह जानती थी कि आर्यन क्या कहने वाला है, गाय बोली।

तुम इसलिए उलझे हो क्योंकि तुम उन चीज़ों से जुड़कर बैठे हो, जो अस्थायी हैं।” गाय की आवाज़ गहरी थी, लेकिन सौम्य, जैसे प्राचीन ज्ञान की धारा।

आर्यन चौंक कर गाय की ओर देखता है। “क्या तुम बोल रही हो? क्या तुम… तुम कोई आत्मा हो?”

गाय धीरे से सिर झुकाकर मुस्कराई। “मैं कोई आत्मा नहीं हूं, बल्कि मैं वह ज्ञान हूं, जिसे तुम अब समझना चाहिए। मेरा नाम नंदी है, और मैंने कई ऐसे लोगों को देखा है जो तुम्हारे जैसे मोह में बंधे हुए थे।”

आर्यन का दिल अचानक से तेज धड़कने लगा। नंदी? यह वही नाम था, जो भगवान शिव के पवित्र बैल का था, जो हमेशा उनके साथ रहता था, जो भक्ति और श्रद्धा का प्रतीक था। क्या यह सच में वही नंदी था?

नंदी ने आर्यन के विचारों को पढ़ लिया और धीरे से कहा, “हां, मैं वही नंदी हूं, लेकिन तुम्हें मुझे इस रूप में देखना होगा, जैसे तुम अब देख पा रहे हो।”

आर्यन झुकते हुए बोला, “कृपया मेरी मदद करो। मैं अपने परिवार को कैसे भूलूं? मैं उन्हें छोड़ नहीं सकता। मेरा दिल भारी है।”

वियोग का पाठ:

नंदी ने उसे प्यार भरी दृष्टि से देखा। “आर्यन, मोह एक पेड़ की जड़ों की तरह होता है। जितनी गहरी जड़ें, उतना ही कठिन होता है उस पेड़ को उखाड़ना। तुमने संसारिक जीवन जिया है, और अब तुम्हें खुद को इस जड़ से उखाड़ने का समय आ गया है। लेकिन याद रखो, वियोग का मतलब यह नहीं है कि तुम जो प्यार करते हो, उसे छोड़ दो—बल्कि यह समझना है कि प्यार अस्थायी नहीं है। यह शाश्वत है, जैसे मैं शिव के साथ हूं, वैसे ही तुम भी अपने परिवार के साथ हो।”

आर्यन ने चौंकते हुए पूछा, “लेकिन मैं उन्हें बिना देखे, बिना छुए, बिना उनकी आवाज़ सुने, कैसे जी सकता हूं?”

नंदी ने सिर झुकाया और फिर कहा, “प्यार तुमसे खोता नहीं है। वह रूप बदलता है। जब तुम मोह से मुक्त होते हो, तो तुम न केवल अपने आप को, बल्कि उन्हें भी मुक्त कर देते हो। तुम उन्हें उनका जीवन जीने की स्वतंत्रता देते हो, जैसा तुम अब अपना जीवन जी सकते हो। प्यार हमेशा बना रहता है, लेकिन दुख खत्म हो जाता है।”

आर्यन का दिल अब भारी था, लेकिन एक समझ का आभास होने लगा। “लेकिन मैं कैसे छोड़ सकता हूं? जितना मैं कोशिश करता हूं, उतना ही दर्द बढ़ता है।”

नंदी ने हल्का मुस्कुराया। “यह भूलने के बारे में नहीं है। यह स्वीकृति के बारे में है। दुनिया अस्थायी है—तुम्हारा परिवार, तुम्हारा किसान जीवन, यहां तक कि यह जंगल भी बदल जाएगा। लेकिन जो प्यार है, जो संबंध है, वह शाश्वत है। तुम खुद को मुक्त करो, और तुम उन्हें भी मुक्त करोगे। जब तुम किसी चीज़ पर अधिकार करना छोड़ दोगे, तो तुम असल में स्वतंत्र हो जाओगे।”

आर्यन खड़ा हुआ, जैसे ही उसे यह सब समझ में आया। उसने अब जाना कि परिवार को छोड़ना नहीं है—बल्कि उस प्यार को समझना है, जो बंधन से मुक्त होता है। वह अब मोह को छोड़ने के बजाय, स्वीकृति की ओर बढ़ने वाला था।

अंत:

रात के समय नंदी का रूप हल्का सोने जैसे चमकने लगा, और जैसे ही वह गायब होने लगा, उसने आर्यन को एक अंतिम दृष्टि दी, “याद रखो, आर्यन, वियोग स्वतंत्रता की राह है। और स्वतंत्रता ही सच्चे प्यार को अनुभव करने का एकमात्र रास्ता है।”

इन शब्दों के साथ, नंदी गायब हो गया, और आर्यन अकेला खड़ा था, लेकिन अब शांति महसूस कर रहा था। जंगल अब उसे दबाव नहीं महसूस हुआ, बल्कि उसने इसे एक नई संभावना की ओर बढ़ते हुए देखा। आर्यन अब जानता था कि वियोग की राह आसान नहीं थी, लेकिन यही सच्ची शांति का रास्ता था।


सीख:

आर्यन ने उस दिन, नंदी से यह सीखा कि वियोग का मतलब संसार से दूर भागना नहीं होता—यह समझने का नाम है कि प्यार उस पर निर्भर नहीं है, जो पास है। जब हम किसी से मोह को छोड़ते हैं, तो हम स्वतंत्र हो जाते हैं, और यही स्वतंत्रता ही सच्चे प्यार को अनुभव करने का रास्ता है।

By : Richa Mehndiratta !

Disclaimer :
यह एक काल्पनिक कहानी है, जिसे मनोरंजन के उद्देश्य से लिखा गया है। इस कहानी में पात्र, घटनाएँ और संवाद पूरी तरह से लेखक की कल्पना हैं और इसे किसी भी धार्मिक ग्रंथ, मिथक पात्र या परंपरा से जोड़ा नहीं जाना चाहिए। किसी भी वास्तविक व्यक्ति, जीवित या मृत से इसका कोई संबंध नहीं है। यह कहानी एक रचनात्मक व्याख्या है और इसका वास्तविक मिथक या आध्यात्मिक शिक्षाओं से कोई प्रत्यक्ष संबंध नहीं है।