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