Vartika's World

The seasons keep changing outside, but in my room, it is always late September. A strange, stretch of time: neither summer nor yet winter. Just a long inhale that never gets to be exhaled. There’s only one portal to the outside world: a tiny window. It lets in slivers of light, moments of wind, just enough to remind me that the world is still alive. Just enough to keep me that it moves on with or without me. What about the door, you might ask? The door is not for me to use. It’s too much of an opening. Too much air, too many possibilities. Too much exposure. If I opened it, the fragile insect that’s been growing inside me for some time, that secret, that feeble trembling being, might not survive. This insect is strange. It keeps me sane and drives me mad at the same time. I don’t know if it’s my conscience, or my soul. But I do know this, it throws a new tantrum every day. And oddly, each tantrum gives me a reason to live just one more day. It thrives in the dampness of autumn, feeds...

Lipstick smudges in the corners of the wilted pages of my favorite book tell a love story. One I ache to step into, to breathe its air, taste its grief, and suffer the horrors of actually living as a possible human being. My own life feels like that of a stone with a pulse, unmoved except when I live vicariously through the fictional souls crafted by real people whose own lives, weren’t enough to satisfy the tragedy of being human. So I’ve rented an apartment in fiction, tucked away in my head. I live there like a tenant, paying rent in illusions, wallpapering the walls with borrowed dreams to hide a void too vast and too dark to step into.

Dear Diary, Today, I tried making a recipe—just like Mum. I failed. Dear Diary, Today, I tried something new. It wasn’t perfect. But I savoured the process. And, truth be told, it wasn’t half bad. We spend our lives chasing perfection— Striving to get things “just right,” Holding our breath for the best possible outcome. But somewhere along the way, we forget: There is no such thing as the best. In theory, a cricketer in a T20 match could score 720 runs— Six runs off every ball. Perfect. At least on paper. But we don’t account for no-balls, wides, strike rotations, the chaos between deliveries. Life is just like that match. Wickets fall. People leave. Wide balls happen. And sometimes, those we thought were forever Turn out to be seasonal flus— Brief, burning, gone. Nothing is permanent. And there is no universal rulebook on how to live. No perfect method. No flawless recipe. The only way to live life right Is to live it for real. To show up, imperfectl...

On the walls of delusion in my mind,   There hangs a portrait of reality.   I often walk past it,   Sometimes stopping to give it a long, lingering stare.   But only from a distance—   I am intrigued by its details,   Yet overwhelmed by the chaos it brings.   This is the world I am meant to inhabit,   Yet how can I belong to it   When I am truly here,   Stuck between worlds?   A tap on my shoulder—   I turn to find a version of myself,   A whisper: “You don’t belong there.”   Now, I stand at the edge,   Caught between fighting my reality   And embracing the one I long to join.   I delay, but time never waits.   The moment is here,   I must step into the real world now,   Face its chaos head-on.   So I push forward,   Drawing closer to the reality I’ve feared,  ...

Cheers to being comfortable in your own skin Cheers to those stretch marks that identify growth and gain  Cheers to that uneven skintone that makes you human and not a mannequin Cheers to those pimples that give you a red flush and ensures that there is blood flowing in your veins  Cheers to that crooked smile which makes it even more real than it already is Cheers to those hidden and unhidden scars holding sweet sour and bitter memories  Cheers to those dark circles that remind you of sleepless nights of hardwork  And a great round of applause for that feeling of anxiety and uneasiness that makes you feel your heart in your chest

आज कॉलेज से घर जाते वक्त सड़क पर पड़े सूखे पत्तों को देखा तो पता चला पतझड़ आ गया है। सर्दियां पूरी तरह से जा चुकी है और मौसम में गर्माहट होनी शुरू हो गई है। यूंही पत्तों को निहारते मेरी नज़र ऊंचे खड़े सूखे पेड़ों पर पड़ी मानो वो मुझसे कुछ कहना चाह रहे हो। दो सूखी टहनियां मानो जिंदगी का सार बता रही हों। उन पेड़ों को छुआ तो वो सूखे सूखे से थे जैसे शोक में डूबे हों पर कुछ देर ठहरने के बाद मैने जाना कि सिर्फ ऊपरी परत सूखी थी और अंदर से वो अभी भी नर्म थे। इससे मैने जाना कि वो पेड़ दुखी तो हैं पर अंदर से बैसाख के इंतजार में हैं। उन पेड़ों से पांच मिनट की मुलाकात ने मेरा दिन उम्मीद से भर दिया। मुझे जीवन में एक किरण दिखाई दी कि चाहे वक्त कितना भी खराब क्यों न हो उस पर उदास होना गलत नही है पर अंदर से उम्मीद हमेशा रहनी चाहिए कि सब ठीक हो जाएगा। जैसे पेड़ बाहर से कितने भी सूखे न हों उनके अंदर की नर्माहत उन्हे जिंदा रखती है और जब वो नर्माहट खतम हो जाती है तो पेड़ मार जाता है वैसे ही मनुष्य के अंदर से जब उम्मीद खतम हो जाती है तो वो मर जाता है और उसके जीवन का कोई मतलब नहीं रह जाता।