बड़े और छोटे शहर

 

सच है कि जितनी लाइट्स
एक बड़े शहर के एक बिलबोर्ड पर होती,
उतने हमारे पूरी गली पर नहीं—
पर कहानी यहीं से शुरू होती है।

हम अपने छोटे शहर की मिट्टी की खुशबू लेकर
जब किसी बड़े शहर की सीधी, चमकती सड़कों पर चलते हैं,
तो लगता है धड़कन अलग है सही,
पर देश की कहानी एक ही है।

हमारे छोटे शहर में जिस हिम्मत से
एक लड़का एक लड़की को चाय–कॉफ़ी पर पूछता है,
उतने में तो एक बड़े शहर का लड़का
रात भर के प्लान्स आसानी से बना लेता है।

और वहाँ किसी शो के शुरू होने से पहले ही
कैमरे निकल आते हैं—
शायद इसलिए क्योंकि रील्स कभी–कभी
पल को जीने से ज़्यादा ज़रूरी लगती हैं।

हमारे छोटे शहर में BookMyShow नहीं,
पर बड़े शहर में कहानियाँ बिकती हैं—
लोग अपने दर्द को स्टेज पर रखकर
तालियों में सुकून ढूँढते हैं,
जैसे ख़ुशी भी एक टिकटेड इवेंट हो।

फिर भी, घर पे चाय–समोसे के लिए
कोई नहीं बुलाता,
और सालों से रहकर भी
बड़ा शहर कभी–कभी
अजनबी सा महसूस होता है।

कहता है बड़े शहर की चमक:
“यहाँ सब कुछ बिकता है।”
काश Blinkit से
दो प्यार के शब्द भी ऑर्डर किए जा सकते।

एक भाषा ने कभी हमें पराया समझा,
और दूसरी ने हमारे छोटे शहर को पिछड़ा बोला—
पर हम जानते हैं,
ना भाषा इंसान को छोटा बनाती है
ना शहर बड़ा।

क्या मॉल्स, PVR, ऊँची बिल्डिंग्स
और सपाट सड़कें ही ऊँचाई का माप हैं?
क्या भावनाएँ, रिश्तों की गर्माहट
और कल्चर का कोई मोल नहीं?

और जब हम सब सीना तानकर
जन गण मन गाते हैं,
तो क्या हम खुद को
सिर्फ़ भारतीय नहीं समझते?

अगर छोटा शहर पिछड़ा है
तो देश का कोई हिस्सा पिछड़ा है—
और देश हिस्सा–हिस्सा होकर नहीं चलता,
पूरा मिलकर बढ़ता है।

इसलिए हम आज भी गर्व से कहते हैं:
“हम अपने छोटे शहर से आए हैं।”

सच है कि जितनी लाइट्स
एक बड़े शहर के एक बिलबोर्ड पर होती,
उतने हमारे पूरी गली पर नहीं—
पर दिल का उजाला,
हमारे ही छोटे शहर में होता है।

                                                                                                                                   निहारिका प्रसाद

My Heart

 

I carry my heart to distant places

Only to numb the pain

Only to watch it rekindle

Pricking me again and again

I distracted it with pretty lights

Vibrant colors, breathtaking sights

But like a massive glacier crumbles 

Under its own weight

I cannot hold back my tears

Can one change their fate?

My heart is not glass, it is porcelain

Fragile and yet opaque

Concealing my tender emotions

And fears which keep me awake

As I click photographs for random strangers

As I smile, watching them smile

I wonder if I have to forge my heart

In iron, to mask the ache awhile

Or will you gallantly save it?

So the ice melts, with gushing of blood

Come, heal me softly, if only you could,

My heart, a green-leaved tender bud

Niharika Prasad

Trataka: Illumination of the Third Eye

The flame flickers as it consumes the candle,
I watch as it slowly devours.

Hungrily, the fire leaps up,
Unleashing its hidden powers.

The glow reflects within my eyes,
Becoming steady, calm, and constant.

My gaze holds firm, though my eyes water
Its brilliance burns, too potent.

In the silence of a pitch-dark room,
I stare deeper into its core.

The quiet deafens, the radiance divine,
I gaze—till I can gaze no more.

I close my eyes—darkness surrounds
Yet there it blooms, a flame so pure.

It rises at my Ajna, the seat of sight
You may call my inference premature.

But I know—it is mystical, divine;
I feel no fear, I feel no pain.

A rush of awareness, otherworldly, vast
A feeling I can barely explain.

It is no afterglow—clear, sharp, alive
An amber blaze—my trataka ignites today.

I chant, dissolving into the divine,
My third eye opens—its light leads the way.

Niharika Prasad

Everything Sells in Big Cities

 

In big cities, everything is for sale 
Love, faith, even a god’s tale,
Smiles are rented, tears are staged,
Even pain feels as if arranged.

Stories earn claps, not hearts,
Once born from wounds and broken parts,
Now under neon lights they shine,
Truth fades, dressed up as a line.

A man dying on the street,
Becomes a reel, not a heartbeat,
Empathy is lost in the filters’ glare,
People scroll, but do they care?

I went to a storytelling show,
Where heartbreaks are sold on flow,
And thought, even sorrow’s trade has begun,
Love’s loss is just another run.

Then came a boy from a small town,
She left him saying, “It’s not working now.”
He smiled and asked, “Is love a job to do?
A project that fails, when it stops pleasing you?”

Later, she wrote, “You’ve become a great storyteller,
I’m proud of you; you must feel better.”
He said, “Better? You think this is what I wanted?
These words were yours;  now they stand haunted.

I’ve changed, yes, I’m not the same,
My nights are quiet, but they don’t burn in your name.
Many still go empty, cold, and bare,
But they’re not spent in waiting, nor in despair.

In big cities, everything is sold,
Even poems once whispered, now told.
Words meant for one heart to hear,
Are performed for strangers, year after year.

Niharika Prasad

स्वप्न में आई माँ

 

मैं न मानने वाली थी, पर आज देखा सपना यू,

बड़ी-बड़ी तेरी आँखें, काले घुँघराले बाल सुना यू।

चाँदी के झुमके, नक्काशी जैसे, रोशनी का ताज,
भक्तों की आवाज़ें, ढोलक की थाप, मन में रच गया साज।

ओ माँ, ओ माँ, तेरी छवि ने कर दिया उजास,
मन में बस गईं तुम, हर सांस में तेरा आभास।

पंडाल की यादें लौटीं, बचपन के रंग, भीड़ और धुन,
न मानने वाली भी झूमी, छू लिया किसी तरंग ने जुनून।
न धर्म की डोरी, न नाम का दायरा, बस तेरा आभास,
धन्य मैं कि आईं तुम ऐसे, सीधी, सरल, प्यार भरी और उजास।

ओ माँ, ओ माँ, तेरी छवि ने कर दिया उजास,
मन में बस गईं तुम, हर सांस में तेरा आभास।

अब शहर की हलचल में भी, तेरे गीत का सुरूर है,
सपनों की रात में भी, तेरी छवि का नूर है।
मैं न पूजक, न पीछे चलने वाली — बस एक स्त्री, मान गई यू,
तुम आई थीं सपने में, और मेरे भीतर कुछ बदला सा जाता यू।

ओ माँ, ओ माँ, तेरी छवि ने कर दिया उजास,
मन में बस गईं तुम, हर सांस में तेरा आभास

                                                      निहारिका प्रसाद

The Truth of Love

There are countless poems on love,
All roses, soft wings, and butterflies;
But I must whisper what’s true, my friend 
That isn’t love, but only lies.

People hunger for the safety they lack,
The two build a world apart,
But that kind of love is only a disguise,
A secret shelter, a timid start.

They are like two beggars, hands held out in need,
When empty hearts search for a seed,
If they cannot give what heals within,
Love turns hollow, fed by want and greed.

Love is calm, a steady sea,
Shining light for those who’re free.
No chains, no reins, no puppet strings 
It's love that never clings

Racing hearts and sleepless nights 
These feel loud and teenage.
A glittering mirage is not true love;
Cheap applause belongs on the stage.

Only the one who’s full inside
Knows love is calm, a steady sea;
Only such a heart can mirror light,
A being whole, alive, and free.

Accept my faults, hold me whole;
Let our love fly like a kite with no strings.
No clutching, no ownership, no possession 
Darling, we are humans, not things.

Love is calm, a steady sea,
Shining light for those who’re free.
No chains, no reins, no puppet strings 
It's love that never clings

Niharika Prasad

The Philosophy of Meditation

 

I was reading Osho and could not help admiring his scientific approach and profound philosophy. He doesn’t speak in abstractions — he dissects the inner world with the clarity of a scientist and the depth of a mystic, showing us that meditation is not about belief, but about direct experience.

We often confuse silence with stillness. But the truth is, the moment you sit quietly, you realize silence is anything but quiet. The mind rushes in, thoughts tumble one after another, and suddenly you feel restless. That’s why people keep themselves busy — re-reading newspapers, scrolling endlessly, drinking, or drowning in distractions. Anything to avoid facing the inner storm.

The irony? This turbulence isn’t created by meditation. It was always there. Meditation simply makes you aware of it. The “minding” never stops — it’s the most basic process within us.

So when we chant, or repeat mantras, we may feel calm, but it’s just another occupation, another clever trick of the mind. True meditation begins when we dare to stay unoccupied. When we stop escaping and simply watch the chaos within. That’s when silence finally reveals itself.

---

                                                Niharika Prasad 

गणेश आरती

 

तेरे द्वारा निर्मित फूलों को, क्या करू तुझे ही अर्पण 

बस ऐसे ही मान लो मेरे दिल से नमन 

तेरे दिए रंगों से क्या बनाऊ रंगोली का चमन

कलाकारी नहीं आती , बस गा सकती प्रेम का वंदन 

तेरे दिए सुरों से क्या रचूं मधुर गीत का गगन 

स्वर का ज्ञान नहीं , बस तुझे निहारने में मैं मगन 

तेरे दिए ज्योति से क्या सजाऊँ अंधियारे का आँगन 

शिल्प का ज्ञान नहीं , बस प्रेम का दूँ दर्पण 

तेरे दिए सागर से क्या भरु अमृत का कलश 

विधि का ज्ञान नहीं , बस यही कश्मकश 

तेरे द्वारा निर्मित फूलों को क्या करू तुझे ही अर्पण 

बस ऐसे ही मान लो मेरे दिल से नमन 

निहारिका प्रसाद 

Living Alone: The Unseen Side of Freedom

 

Some people say living alone must be full of freedom, adventure, and endless enjoyment. I think they’re either joking—or just not looking closely enough. They see only the glossy, Instagram-worthy surface.

Because here’s the truth: at the end of the day, I come back to an empty room. Even if I play music, the walls echo back the loneliness. I keep a mental clock, making sure I’m home by 8 p.m., not because I’m tired, but because as a woman living alone, safety comes before spontaneity—especially when there’s no one to check if I made it back.

I keep a packet of emergency medicines tucked away, because when I fall sick, there’s no one to fetch me soup or remind me to take my pills. I wear a smile to work and deliver my best because personal struggles aren’t an excuse in the professional world. Every single day, I am forced to be my strongest version, not because I want to, but because I must.

And yet, my mind is a treasure chest of memories—each one tied to people. The chanting of Saraswati Vandana from a nearby school in Bihar. The impatient crowd grabbing pirated novels outside Connaught Place in Delhi. The vibrant kites dotting the sandy skies of Mangalore. Potato lovers filling the little Snack Shack café in Manipal. The dense green canopy flanking both sides of the road in Jamshedpur.

Living alone does give a certain independence. There’s no one else’s schedule to consider, no constant obligations. But there’s also a strange detachment—from families of people my age, from the sense of belonging to a shared community.

Festivals are the hardest. In a new city where the language feels foreign, I try to soak in the festive mood by visiting decorated malls. But deep down, I miss the chaos of decorating my home with family, the smell of homemade sweets, the warmth of familiar laughter, and that irreplaceable sense of protection.

As Haruki Murakami once wrote, “Loneliness becomes an acid that eats away at you.”

Maybe living alone is freedom, but it’s also a constant reminder of everything that makes belonging so beautiful.

---

Niharika Prasad

 

The Many Faces of Love

 

It never leaves — it simply learns to speak a different language.

We often talk about moving on as if love is something we can pack away in a box and hide forever, but love has a stubborn way of finding its way back—not always as we first knew it, but in a form we may never have expected. It doesn’t simply disappear; it evolves.

 The fiery passion of early romance may cool into the steady warmth of lifelong friendship. The butterflies may fade, but they leave behind the gentle strength of concern, care, and a quiet promise to be there. Sometimes, we think we’ve buried love deep within us, only for it to creep into the cracks of our heart in the form of memories—a familiar song, a passing fragrance, or a scene that plays out in our dreams. Even when it haunts us in ways that hurt, it is still love. Pain is not its opposite; hate is not its twin. Love, in its purest form, is simply too vast to fit into such narrow definitions. It exists in every chapter of life—in the gaze of a baby at its mother, in the unspoken understanding between lifelong partners, in the protective hand of a parent, and in the quiet companionship of old age.

 Love is the most beautiful emotion we’ll ever know, the foundation upon which our most complex feelings are built. It doesn’t fade into nothingness; it transforms, adapts, and lingers. We may lose people, but the love we’ve shared never leaves us. It just changes its form—and in doing so, it changes us too.

                                                                           Niharika Prasad 

I Wish For A Love

 

I wish for a love that will stay,
Long past the honeymoon’s fleeting day,
A bond that weathers every storm,
Through changing hearts and shifting form.

Not one who just praises my eyes,
For soon they’ll sit behind time’s guise,
But one who treasures the soul within,
Through every scar and every sin.

Not one who calls me flawless, sweet,
But names my flaws, makes me complete,
Whose duty is to help me grow,
To shape the best that I can show.

Not one who gifts me roses red,
But plants a garden here instead,
I seek no fleeting, fragile flame,
But love that time cannot reclaim.

I ask for no grand, empty vow,
For I’ve seen life and I know how
Promises fade, yet truth will stay
When love walks with you, day by day.

I wish for a love, so pure, so mild,
It holds the heart like a trusting child,
Untouched by games or sly temptation,
A quiet, steady, true relation.

Niharika Prasad

Meditation

 

I’ve been reading Osho lately, and one idea really struck me—meditation isn’t about what you do, it’s about how you do it.

If you’re saying your prayers every morning or night on autopilot, without really feeling the words, that’s not meditation—it’s just routine. Like a parrot repeating sounds it doesn’t understand.

Osho reminds us: whatever the act, do it with full awareness, and it becomes meditation. Most of the prayers we’re taught are in Sanskrit—a language beautiful, but barely spoken today—so often, we don’t even grasp their meaning.

Personally, I don’t pray. I meditate. And that is my prayer.
It doesn’t make me an atheist—it makes me present.

Niharika Prasad 

Poverty

 

Why Poverty, Strangely, Feels Beautiful

Poverty — the word itself feels heavy. It sounds harsh, like something everyone wants to run away from. But here’s the surprising part — there’s a strange kind of beauty in it. A quiet lesson that stays with you, long after the hard times have passed. Like the scent of rain on dry earth… even after the rain is gone.

Even today, I find myself doing little things differently — booking movie tickets at the counter instead of online, enjoying Sunday morning idlis at a roadside stall instead of ordering in, or bargaining with an auto driver over ₹10. It’s not about being stingy. It’s just... muscle memory of a life once lived.

I still remember sitting on the floor for meals, sharing food on a simple mat, because we didn’t have a dining table. Sleeping on a chauki — for those unfamiliar, it’s like a low, long wooden bed.

So yes, when I get excited about free sweets, or when a small kindness lights up my face — some may find it childish. But it’s not. It’s gratitude. It's the joy of having known what it means to not have, and therefore truly valuing what you do get.

That’s why I believe poverty, in its own quiet way, is beautiful. Not because of the struggle — but because of the strength, the values, and the lifelong humility it leaves behind. No matter how far we go, we shouldn’t forget where we started. That memory is not a burden. It’s a gift.

Niharika Prasad

If

 

If I bared my heart 

What would you do?

If I told you it was crystal

Would you break it too?

If I said I have been acting

I'm not as strong as I look

If this introvert shell is drama 

That my very nature, you mistook

If I shared my past, would you judge

Would you think I lie?

If I said I'm a bit complicated

Would you never try

If I said I live in a dream,

Will you wake me tomorrow?

If I ask to rest my head

A sweet comfort to borrow

If I said my life was a bit derailed

And only you could get it back on track.

If I confessed that I love you

Would you love me back?

Niharika Prasad

इश्क़

 

क्या किसी से इश्क़ तभी करते हो  

जब वह उसे लौटा सके?

क्या आपका इश्क़ एक शर्त पर टिका है ?

वह करे, तभी आप करे ?

इश्क़ में शर्त क्या?

जो एक धोके से ख़फ़ा

क्यों न उसे आज माफ़ कर दे 

जिसने दिल तोड़ा था कभी 

जिसके कारण आँखें नम हुई थी 

और इश्क़ से भरोसा उठा था तभी 

क्यूंकि उसकी गलती से बड़ा 

इश्क़ तो आपका ही सही 

और अगर वो इश्क़ था सच्चा  

तो फिर अफ़सोस ही नहीं 

क्या उसके बाद, इश्क़ ही नहीं करोगे?

अकेले अकेले ही गम सहते रहोगे?

अकेले रह, खुद से प्यार हो जाता है 

ऐसा कह, मन खुद को बहलाता है 

पर अकेले सिर्फ प्यार किया जा सकता है 

हाँ प्यार; 

पर इश्क़ नहीं 

निहारिका प्रसाद 

I Just Feign

 

I wish you would never ask me how I am,

Because the reply would be a lie

A lie to shield some hidden pain,

That I would mumble, without meeting your eye

Once the loudest voice in the room,

Now hunts for a desolate corner

With a desire to merge with the shadows,

That voice, now a silent mourner

Even though exposed to broader thinking,

Open minds of a liberated city life

My soul belongs to a small town,

And mixed thoughts of a bitter cold strife

Where a woman when, stripped of her identity,

As a mother, daughter or wife

Ripping off the last bit of respect,

Societal norms represent a knife

Don't ask me about my dreams

Because a woman must bury them

And replace her desires with someone else's

Nipping hers off from the stem

I must hide the dark truths of the past

As uttering them scares me again

Maybe too outrageous to be believed

So when you ask me, I just feign.

Niharika Prasad

Five States

 

As I reflect on my life, I realize that I have travelled nearly the whole country and lived in many cities. This is an attempt to recollect a few memories which have shaped me.

 

 

Bihar

 

My home

 

My story began in Rajgir, where we first stayed, then Patna and Begusarai.

As I mentioned in my previous blog, this story began with a struggle. A rented house beside a garbage dump, second-hand scooter rides, a terrace outlined by naked bricks and rods jutting out at places.

But a child is happy anywhere, so I was happy, swinging on the main iron gate with peeling paint as my mom swept the verandah. Playing with friends after school. Scolding my baby sister when she colored my homework copy. I had a best friend, attended birthday parties, school events and gossip. (Even though mom put an omelette in my tiffin that nobody wanted to exchange for treats like puri and cake). I hated that dad never gave us enough time and was cranky, but over the years, as we progressed and prospered, I realised that he had been busy in his struggle.

Later, when I returned to join a job in AIIMS, the most prestigious medical college, I was impressed by the equipment and the patient load. However, when I started to converse with patients regarding their complaints, I was reminded to stick to my own business. I wanted to argue back that asking and talking to patients was very much my business, but I was given a cold response.

 

People were conservative, but they were helpful. They were very simple by nature.

This is the place, no matter how rural, that was my home.

 

Uttarakhand

 

My first snowfall, my first experience living huddled up in a large dormitory and my first medal.

 

Being from a very humble background and fresh from a period of struggle, the shift to a boarding school in Dehradun, where upper-class society sent their kids, was sort of overwhelming. Popularity was gained from what brands one wore. In such a crowd, I was out of place. I earned the nickname ‘Begu’ (Begusarai). Initially, I was given a bed beside a habitual bed-wetter. I hated the chilly winters. I did not like walking on the pebbled bajri, which covered the entire campus.

I do have few good memories though, like sliding down the stairs on a nude mattress. Or like oiling somebody’s hair while somebody oiled mine. Flushing medicines when feigning illness to watch TV (only the hospital had one). Hiding tuck (snacks) in buckets, bushes or top of a ledge, when a sudden inspection. Pleading for extra pudding or cake in the mess. Being on the debating team. Listening to my English teacher read ‘Julius Caesar’ with great fervor and passion. Or like when my batchmates circled me to sing the customary traditional song when I was leaving. I passed out with multiple awards and scholarships.

 

Delhi

 

My first job

 

I have two contrasting experiences of Delhi, the first was the posh South Delhi school where I was shifted to just when I began adjusting to boarding. On my first day of class 11^th, a saw a girl walks up to her friend and slaps him on the butt playfully. She then went on to lament how her many boyfriends had been displaced due to the subdivision of the previous batch. We were now in section ‘A;’, the elite, intellectual class. On my way back, I saw a tall boy opening the back flap of a new fat guy’s old fashioned, double buckled, schoolbag. The guy simply closed it again silently. The boy laughed mockingly and opened it again.

I saw washroom doors opening and girls with styled hair walking out of them, like models. They wore skirts of length that my mother would have gasped at disapprovingly.

There would be a second time I would return to South Delhi, that was for a job in Vasant Kunj, a peaceful, decent area in the chaotic city.

 

But I have more memories of Hari Nagar, the crowded, dusty place that reminded me of home. Nestled in West Delhi, I stayed in a girls’ PG and took a rickshaw to the government hospital where I worked. As usual, I had not done my research before joining and was shocked at the mob of patients which flocked to the OPD. My work was mainly ultrasound, though they had an old CT machine on which only emergency head CT scans were possible. Liver abscess and alcoholic patients were the most encountered types of patients. That was my first experience of managing independently. I did not explore the city much because I was not smart enough to navigate using the metro and too scared to trust auto rickshaw drivers. (I do not drive to date)

A fat aunty owned the girls' residential stay and was always in good spirits. She scolded the girls who never returned at night on time, but she had a soft spot towards me. Maybe it was because I paid the rent on time.

 

 

Karnataka

 

My first love, first college and Radiology

 

I was lucky enough to secure a seat in the beautiful campus of Manipal and Mangalore, close to the sea. I spent the most peaceful years of my life here. I did well academically and enjoyed life to the maximum on the small, secure, and safe campus. Although I must say that that type of life is a bit far from the reality that students face later in life. Everything was at a throw distance, restaurants, canteen, pubs, shops, and the library. Although the library was never a place I visited, it was too sophisticated, too crowded for me.

 

Mangalore life was a bit more real and comparable to city life. There was a struggle, which was something I never felt in Manipal. Rushing to hospitals (yes, there were 5 of them), waking up in night duties, struggling with auto drivers in broken Kannada and receiving disapproving stares in return. But I had the solace of beaches, the temples were beautiful, the public was very simple and down to earth, and the locals were friendly. Radiology seminars, exams, and work kept me busy, and I grew to like the subject. Toxic and non-clinical at first, later, I felt it was the branch for me.

 

Later in life, I re-entered Karnataka, a few years in Belgaum, another beautiful city close to Goa. I should maybe highlight ‘Goa.’  Although it was a small city, it had all the facilities one could hope for. I went to Zumba classes, participated in marathons, and enjoyed the lovely weather the city brags about.

 

 

 

Maharashtra

 

My current job, my transformation and survival

 

When I first started living in Pune, I never thought I would survive alone. And so did someone at the hospital tell me- ‘You are not clever and smart enough to survive here.’ But I had no choice. As goes the quote- You never realise how strong you are, until being strong is the only choice you have.

 

I took an accommodation behind the hospital and slowly started to be absorbed into the environment. It was different. People minded their own business, nobody really cared what the other was doing, Good in a way, nobody to taunt me on personal matters, unlike my hometown. No fear of an auto driver taking a wrong turn on purpose, unlike in Delhi. Safe, peaceful and at the same time happening- that is Pune. I liked how an elderly man pedalled along the road on a bicycle, wearing a helmet. How two old ladies said ‘cheers’ as they clinked jars of watermelon juice in a café.

The food was not too great (compared to North India), the income was less for the cost of living, and there were many pavs (vada pav, keema pav, misal pav..).

 

Although I did not like the traffic. I missed a neighbour asking me how my day was. The city felt slightly cold. I tried to keep myself busy with work, Zumba, events and the second time I returned to Pune, it was because I had started having faith in the place. I felt I could survive here, and slowly, as I started exploring the place on my own, I realised a single lady can more than survive in this state. She can have a life of self-respect and freedom. Without family, partner and friends, I did it. And I fell in love again, this time not with a person, but a place.

 

 Niharika Prasad

---

Gratitude

 

There was a time when our family of four travelled on a second-hand scooter on the bumpy roads of a small town in Bihar. I stood right in front of my dad; my mom clutched my baby sister. And each time, at every jerk, my knees hit the metal carrier in front of me. It hurt.

 

Today we have cars and a driver. Today, I am an independent, single female. I manage my own expenses, finances, career, and trips. I enjoy the 24-hour electricity, which I was not lucky to have as a kid. I enjoy walking on the smooth, tiled floors of my workplace. I enjoy living in a metropolitan city. Although I am not afraid of returning to a small town, I know things will never be the same, like where I started my journey.

 

I write this post with gratitude. It is only now that I realise there is no fun in being born at the top of the ladder; the real fun is the climb, the struggle.

Niharika Prasad

Goan Charm

There is something about this place

Stretch of sandy beaches,

Warmed by rosy sunsets,

With a slow careless pace.

Something about its valleys, high

Where tall trees glow, 

Painted with fluorescent patterns 

Where hypnotic trance comes floating by

Something about its yellow homes

Remnants of the Portuguese era,

With wooden seats lining the porches

Sloping tiled roofs, instead of domes

Something about the tourist throng

Swarming the shores in style

The children building castles of sand

Braving the waves so strong

Something about the mesmerizing sunset

Speckled with colorful parasails

Occasional bursts of watery showers

Making jet ski riders soaking wet

Something about a broken shell

Which playfully nudges my sole

There is something about this Goan charm

Which averts a farewell

                                                                                                                     Niharika Prasad

Our Story

 

Our story is beyond perfection,

As untouched by the fingers of reality

Our story never dies

In the whirl between tenderness and brutality

A fabric spun with threads of your memories

I would cloak myself in my dark times

Or in thoughts of solitude sometimes

Try to figure us out in rhymes

They say if it stays, it is love

A tale of passion, unclaimed

On the contrary, if it ends, it is a love story

A transient dream, forever unnamed.

But ours is like a song with no lyrics

A soft hum in the distance

What never begins, is poetry,

An immortal existence.

                                                                                                                        Niharika Prasad

Only Different

 

The heavy earth spins, not unmoving for an instant

Although appearing totally still

The wind gushes, howling sometimes in storms

While standing calm, on a summer hill

The ocean leaps in giant waves

Yet appears timid on the shore

The flame of a candle flickers randomly

But slowly quietness does restore

Even the cosmos appear dark and quiet

Apart from the occasional birth of a star

The space interrupted by black holes

Sucking light from afar

The earth, the air, the fire, ether

And the water, blue

The five elements are dynamic

And so is my mind unpredictable too

It fluctuates like the climate

Jovial in bright summers, gloomy in the winter

But if the nature is itself inconstant

Fickle like my mood

Then I'm not defective, but only different

To say otherwise, would be rude

These clouds, these stars, the phases of the moon

Constantly shifting ocean tides

The flowers, they bloom and wither,

The sun, dawn and dusk it decides

Accept me, like you accept them all

I'm not flawed, but only rare

I'm volatile, a bit temperamental

I rise and fall, with none to compare.

                                                                                                                                Niharika Prasad

परन्तु लोग क्या कहेंगें?

 

सड़क पर खड़ा कुत्ता जोर जोर से भौंक रहा था

मैंने कहा, भई चुप हो जा जरा!

 

कुत्ता बोला, भौंकना तो मेरे प्रवृति में है

फिर मैं क्यों चुप हो जाऊ भला?

 

उसी तरह, बोलना लोगों की प्रवृति में है

क्या उन्हें कभी कोई चुप करा सका?

 

रेस्टोरेंट में पाव भाजी आर्डर किया

पर स्वाद जब ना पसंद आया

 

मेनू मँगा कर तुरंत, कुछ और आर्डर कर देने में

एक पल भी ना लगाया!

 

पर वहीं जब विवाह के बाद सालों सहना पड़ा अत्याचार

तब क्यों तलाक़ देने के नाम पे मन हिचकिचाया?

 

अरे परन्तु लोग क्या कहेंगें?

तलाक़शुदा नाम के सोच से ही जी घबराया।

 

 

शर्मा जी के बेटे को गणित में सबसे ज्यादा नंबर आया

पर हमारा बेटा यहाँ किसी काम का न आया

 

बेटा खेल और कला में तो अव्वल आया

पर गणित में अच्छे अंक ना ला पाया

 

अरे परन्तु लोग क्या कहेंगें?

खुद के जीवन से ज्यादा दूसरों में रूचि लेंगे। 

 

 

सुना है पड़ोस वाली को डिप्रेशन हो गया

वर्मा जी की पड़ोस वाली ने ढिंढोरा पीट दिया

 

जानते हो मैडम गोलियों पे है

जाने ऐसा क्या गम हो गया?

 

अब कोई सेलिब्रिटी तो नहीं

जो खुल कर बोल सके!

 

गांव में कोई गृहिणी जब डॉक्टर के पास गयी

बोली सर दर्द की कोई गोली दे दो जरा

 

डॉक्टर ने तुरंत एंटीडिप्रेसेंट दवाई का परचा लिख दिया

चार में एक, आज मानसिक तनाव से गुजर रहा

 

अरे परन्तु लोग क्या कहेंगें?

मानसिक विकार तो फुसफुसाहट में ही शोभा देंगे। 

 

फैशन के नाम पे आज फटे कपड़ों का ट्रेंड आया

लोगों ने फटाफट उसे अपनाया

 

सड़कों पर घुटने पे फटे जीन्स देखकर

भिकारी गर्व से खिलखिलाया ।

 

कहीं किसी की इंस्टाग्राम स्टोरी बनने के इंतज़ार में

बेचारा बर्गर ठंडा होते नज़र आया!

 

तो कहीं भरे हवाई अड्डे पर

किसी ने सेल्फी लेते, खुद से प्यार जताया। 

 

अरे परन्तु लोग क्या कहेंगें?

घूम के आया पर फोटो नहीं लगाया?

 

लोग क्या कहेंगें के चक्कर में समाज ने

खुद को फ़सा पाया

 

लोग क्या कहेंगें का फैला घना साया।

लोग जो कहते हैं, और उनकी विभ्रम माया!  

                                                                                                                                 निहारिका प्रसाद