Redhya

The Cyclic Nature of Existence Dear reader, you’ve been here before countless times — you just don’t know — reading these outlandish words, perhaps lying in your bed or sitting on an uncomfortable chair. Hard to believe, isn’t it? To comprehend what it is, loosen the grip on your belief system, just for this moment, and accept what you’re reading as true. It’s not only that you’ve read this before — right now having no memory of it whatsoever — but also that the act of reading these very statements in the same manner will repeat itself; there’s no end to this. Dear reader, you’ll find yourself here again like climbing flights and reaching the same floor — like हनुमान looking for राम’s ring, like Sisyphus rolling a boulder. It’s an unsettling thought. It is both a curse and blessing — that you remain unaware of the repetitive nature of occurrences. Each time you die, information vanishes and your consciousness ceases to exist. Some say “चेतना (consciousness) and आत्मा (soul) depart the

आषाढ़ माह के scorching summer days. The folds of the skin are covered in sweat. I’m in the dingy lavatory — minding my own business. I see. On my right side, the upright smoked cigarettes on the edge of the wash basin. A total of eleven — they haven’t been touched for ages. The eleven butts guard the white converging well well. Sitting on the English style toilet, the body suffering from exhaustion wants to sleep. Why don’t you just sleep redhya? The skin and bones droop; eyelids droop. The resting elbows crush the thighs’ skin, and after a point, it’ll hurt more than giving comfort. I realise — my life is full of chores. With zero motivation, I do few and keep a lot in the sink in the kitchen — like a pile of unwashed steel bowls and plates that are often explored by cockroaches around midnight. These creepy crawling nocturnal things leave crevices to fill their empty stomachs. Solitude makes you notice unnoticeable and sometimes makes you do things you generally don’t do. Of late, wh

नकार दो थोपी हुई आस्तिकता को। इसका तम्हारे जीवन में होना दर्शता है कि तुम एक समाज रूपी कारगार में मात्र एक बंधी हो। यह अज्ञान से ज्यादा हानिकारक है चूँकि एक अज्ञानी जैसा तैसे अपना जीवन निर्वाह करता है। परंतु एक थोपी हुई आस्तिकता - यह रोकती है तुम्हें वास्तविकता को समझने से। यह तुम्हें अपने भीतर छुपे सच से बहुत दूर ले जाती है। तभी Dag Hammarskjöld कहते हैं "The longest journey is the journey inward." जीवन को अनुभव तो करो। कब तक अचेतन और मूर्च्छा की अवस्था में पड़े रहोगे। यह तुम्हारा बिना जांच पडताल के हर बात में हामी भर लेना कहा की समझदारी है। Translation Reject the imposed theism. Its presence in your life shows that you are only a prisoner in the cage of society. It is more harmful than ignorance because one who is ignorant lives his life anyhow. But an imposed theism - it prevents you from understanding reality. It takes you far away from the truth hidden within you. That's why Dag Hammarskjöld says, "The longest journey is the journey inward." At least exp

हम समाज और उसके नियमों और तौर तरीकों से इतना ज्यादा प्रभावित है इस तरह से हमारे भीतर समाज रम गया है कि हम उस को चाह कर भी अपने से अलग नही कर सकते हैं। हम अपना जीवन इस Society और इस Institutionalisation के “न होने की अवस्था में” सोच भी नहीं सकते हैं। इतना डर ​​है हमारे अंदर — इतना संदेह है हमारे अंदर। आप यह देखिये — आप कुछ अनूठा करना चाहते हैं पर वह कार्य आप कर नहीं सकते हैं क्योंकि डर है कि क्या होगा अगर मैं Society के विपरीत जाता हूं तो। मैं ना तो रस्मों की बात करता हूं — ना मैं परंपराओं की बात करता हूं — और ना ही मैं संस्कृतियों की बात करता हूं। हालाँकि हम इन सब से बहुत ज्यादा घिरे हुए हैं। मैं बात करता हूं attachment कि। हम अभी अपने “वर्तमान-जीने-के तरीके” से इतना ज्यादा परिचित या अभ्यस्थ हो चुके हैं कि इस attachment से दूर जाना बहुत कठिन हो गया है। अगर हम बात करें freedom की complete Freedom की — आप जो चाहें अपने जीवन के साथ कर सकें यह ध्यान में रखते हुये कि कोई अन्य व्यक्ति आपके द्वारा किए गए कुछ actions से कष्ट में न पहुंचे। ध्यान से सोचिये, क्या वह कार्य आप कर सकते हैं? हाँ, यह

my mother a recreational collector she collects poly bags, plastic bottles, traumas, and at last her shattered self. a kitchen cabinet has been stuffed with an overlooked pile of translucent polymer bags, ropes, and empty mineral water bottles. perhaps, the rubbish pile reminds her of my childhood - the fading memories and her other progenies whom she couldn’t keep close. they had to be weaned off comfort. not her children but at least, she’s got her bags and bottles at one place. at some point in our lives, we knew each other better than ourselves. in my mind, her patterns were engraved; the way she’d say my name was the clue to her following sentence. we were experiences - consciousness magic - an evolutionary miracle wherein the creation and the creator had admired each other for some moments before she got old and wrinkled and i - estranged.

slip the agony in complex sentences and call it art. one feels the struggle, others see only comma splice. she says - erratic thoughts, stuttering words, and confused humans perhaps are misconstrued masterpieces. only if you perceive, chaos is a mess too beautiful to be put together. swimming in my mind’s ocean. am i dreaming or are these lights rather too low? if i were someone's dream, wouldn't it be a dark show? reality cuts me off. (it) disrupts the addictive imagination - throws me into a pool - walking-dead people. i don't know why i am here and what i'm going to do. therefore, keep your ordered world. let me be in this patternless universe with a few dots that are unconnected. listen carefully! a subconscious screams concealed pain & pleasure. around her finger, she twirls a few hair strands. damn! i smile and ponder - not to fall again. subconscious love; subconscious pain *** buy my books on amazon -  redhya

by sunsets on saturdays, lying in her bed, she'd consume a novella and three sesame honey toasts. her back hurt. were a rumbling stomach and a frail body what she overlooked? she preferred not to have romeos, still her clumsy desk had got brews and love letters addressed to fictitious characters and war heroes. she sought literary endings, conclusions, and closures to die for i, lost amongst a pile of books, am devoid of epilogues. the literature - professors had told her strictly to stay away from. her obsession - slow kisses near windows - peeking through cracked walls, the descending sun remained unnoticed while she’d imagine some moments of love. and dry roses lain between unfathomable verses. a word - she often came across but didn’t know the meaning of she totally forgot about her tinder account and wine glasses. the former was for smuts; the other for dying hope around her ankle, a black thread and an unread chapter on a dead kindle she’d bought ages ago. a lo-fi playlist sh