Nidhi Katoch blog

Sometimes we just want to sit and cry. I know I'm being a pessimist here but isn't it true? And we want our problems or sadness to go away with the tears cascading from our eyes. Sometimes I too like to cry. We all do. Whether men or women. But not everyone wants to accept in public. There could be any reason. I'm not gonna bother my readers but I've penned down the following poem while sitting by the condensed window. I'm still carrying the curse on my weighed down shoulders, All the wounds I've nursed again become open cuts and colder. Trapped inside the circle of time Morning-Noon-Night Never-ending is this climb, Don't know what is hurting more pain in my heart or shoe bite? Surrounded by the beauty which I can't see They say they want to be like me while I've never been me. Darkness arises  flows like a river in my veins They talk about advise As if they're the only ones with shattered dreams. Have I left people or have people left me? Am I ...

It was a summer night of June. I was walking on the terrace. A shower of rain had made the night humid as well. My whole body was smeared with petrichor. I wished for once everything would stop. These constantly moving vehicles on the lane below and those irritating sounds of fifteen second videos which were coming from the terrace of another building attached to ours. Sometimes I start to hate these videos serving us the entertainment we don't even ask for, we don't really want (and definitely I don't really need). Like every other person, I'm also guilty of recording and binge watching these videos. It's hard to ignore them as much as it's hard to stop inhaling the pollutants of the environment. The only way I could think of peace was to turn on my headphones. But music wasn't able to put me at ease. I failed to find something interesting to read on my phone. Then I decided to let the thoughts come to me and go. Whenever I can't control the situations ...

I'm weaving a story. The number of hitting backspace has surpassed the number of words written. I'm agitated, I think. I'm thinking, thinking hard but there's hardly any scenario I can remember. I usually twist real life incidents by my imagination and give them shape of fiction. Sometimes my writings are just rage or disappointment. Disappointment usually takes the shape of rage. I hate this word Rage. I hate the word Hate. I don't like these words but still practice them in real life.  Again I hit the backspace, this time I hit it so hard that whatever I wrote get erased. It seems that weaver needs rest. But why? When are we ever allowed to rest? How hard we might try to present our progressive mindset but the reality is we don't ever leave our backward thinking. By backward, I mean we judge others through the lenses of prejudice. What our family/ societal environment inculcate in us, it's hard to get rid of that. We want to be modest, or atleast want them...

  'I have never been a good friend, never gave my time to them. But what about the time I needed for me? I have always respected my personal space. Perhaps more than others! Why do I never feel like sharing my personal life with them? Why do I not ask for favour in trouble? Why? After talking about their sadness they felt relaxed but when I needed the mental support where were they? Oh yes, I never told them! I tried my best to keep them but how can I let others violate my priorities, my personal space, where no one is allowed, except me. Shall I ever be able to find that friend? Probably never.' I was fussing over this when I lost my hold on my diary and it fell down. The old and dry rose petals, bookmark and some torn pieces of paper. 'Is this diary or some old treasure that is coming out so much?' I laughed over my own joke. I gathered everything up and placed them on their places. Torn paper in dustbin, bookmark in some random book and rose petals went back to diary...

After being fed on silver spoon you talk about state of mind,  But do you ever realise the person out there can't even afford that?  The heaps of gold you waste  on your trash, and tag it as diamond,  I want to ask you when will you remove this humbug from your soul?  You say you own the light,   Oh thief you're the one who stole it  from the moth who flies around it during night.   You vaunt about your privileged fights,   but you're merely robbers  who rob the  fragile flower's   pride and rights.   

In a hollow dark room of my soul,  There lies a question, Who always asks me, "Why this moving stagnation?" Gazing at the dark night sky  And the melting clouds The music of heaven is thunderous and loud. This music asks me about my long lost old dream, that I have strangled  in an invisible pile of insecurities. Flower that dies without bloom,  while yearning for sunlight, Filled my heart with gloom. The flower screamed and asked me  about my deserted desire, I used to keep in the dark room of soul, the flambeau and its fire.