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