Soliloquy #Infinite

Tonight, fever has taken my voice. Words sit somewhere within me, unformed, unreachable. I drift in and out of a heavy, uncertain sleep—never quite here, never fully gone.

A thought slips in, quiet but insistent:

What if I don’t wake up?

Would it matter?

The body would finally rest—no ache, no weight. But the soul… I cannot say. Does it find peace, or does it wander, still carrying questions it never resolved?

My parents would shatter. My brother too. A few friends would feel the hollow for a while. And then—life, in its unyielding way, would continue. Work would move forward, indifferent. The papers under review would find other hands, other names. Some random calls, if they came, would arrive to silence.

Strange, how everything that feels urgent dissolves so easily in this thought.

But something lingers.

Has the soul learned what it was meant to?

That, somehow, still matters.

Those who hurt me did their part with quiet precision—just as those who loved me did theirs with equal intensity. Pain, it seems, is always given a purpose, almost glorified as a tool for growth. But why is suffering held so sacred? Why is joy not granted the same power to transform?

Perhaps both shape us, in ways we rarely understand while we are still inside them.

If tonight were to be the night, I think I would let go of it all. Every hurt, every weight—I would forgive it, release it, unburden myself.

There is a chill within me now, and my thoughts blur at the edges, softened by the ache in my head. Sleep calls again—gentle this time.

It feels warm. It feels safe.

I think I will rest.

Goodnight.

PS: I love orange 🧡 

I Am Love

There is a stillness that comes
when the spine of the soul straightens;
purpose settles in like breath,
alignment hums beneath the skin.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Just right.
In that silence, I feel held
as though the unseen has learned my name,
as though the dark itself
has been instructed to keep me safe.
Once, I thought the gem always knew its worth
I was wrong.
It had to roll...

through dust that dulled its edges,
through mud that clung and whispered 'less'
Friction led it to the abode of light.
Rock-bottom was not the end
It was the base that let me stand still long enough
to notice the weight of my own life,
the miracle of breath returning
after it had almost forgotten me.
The greatest dream I carried shattered loudly—
glass in the chest
echoes of 'what could have been'.
I mourned it like death,
not knowing it was a doorway.
Because beyond the ruins
waited a dream with wider arms,
one that did not ask me to disappear to belong.
Destiny does not shout.
It reroutes.
Now I shine—not because I escaped the dirt,
but because I survived it.
Now I trust the fall—
for only after losing the ground
did I learn how high I was meant to rise.

When Illusions Fade

The ladder I climbed for years

turned out to lean on a crumbling wall;

every rung a quiet bargain

paid in compromise and pain.

I stepped away...

before the wall succumbed to gravity.

Now I live in a house built of borrowed strength 

my parents’ hands still warm

in the corners of unopened boxes,

their faith folded between kitchen plates.

The new work is smaller than my hunger once was,

but it arrives each morning like bread —

plain, sufficient, undeservedly kind.

Love, meanwhile, dissolved like ink in rain.

I had always known the letters were wrong,

but I kept reading...

hoping meaning would rearrange itself.

It never did.

My body has begun speaking in accidents —

an angry staircase breaking my ankle,

the road rising to make me fall,

the sky tilting when I move ahead alone.

Still...

somewhere beneath the bruises,

a stubborn pulse continues its rehearsal.

Winter keeps misplacing me,

yet I notice...

the trees are already swaying

ready to embrace the joy of spring.

An End With A Promise

Today, I am not just bidding farewell to the year 2025, but also to the people I have worked alongside for the past four and a half years. Wherever life has taken me, I have been fortunate to meet kind souls, and for that, I carry immense gratitude. I was met with warmth and patience while I found my footing—while I did the quiet, uncomfortable work of looking inward, unlearning, and navigating a few wrong turns. But I feel that the soul upgrade is complete now. This chapter must be shed so the next one can begin.

The universe has its own language—it nudges, repeats itself, insists. This year, the signs were relentless, almost overwhelming. I may not know where I am headed, but I trust that I will arrive exactly where I am meant to be.

MIV will always hold a tender place in my heart. I was a clueless, scared, and naïve girl when I landed in Manipal in June 2021. The head of the institute took me under his wing—shielded me, guided me, and gave me the space to grow into myself. I still remember my first day: he picked me up from the guest house, brought me to the institute, introduced me to everyone, and walked me into my cabin. He made sure I was comfortable, that nothing stood in the way of my work. It was especially kind of him to understand that I might be feeling lonely in a new place, far from home, on my first birthday in Manipal. He got me a chocolate—a small gesture that became a precious memory. I was blessed with diligent juniors and kind seniors who felt less like colleagues and more like family. There were highs and lows, as there always are, but through it all, work became my ikigai. I will eternally be grateful for who I became at this place.

Life, in many ways, was exactly what I had once wished for—a small, cozy home close to work, a kind landlady, a helpful neighbor, and the luxury of a quiet life untouched by noise or pollution. It was perfect, for as long as it was meant to be. But endings, no matter how gentle, are inevitable. Even in comfort, the soul grows heavy when it is denied what it truly seeks. Both my personal and professional worlds slipped into a limbo, and I recognized it the day I chose self-love over complacency—when I refused to drift along simply because it was easy.

Now, it is time to move—to leave behind what once felt like home and walk toward where my soul can breathe again. We are given just one life, shaped by the courage of our choices. The soul always knows the way; all we are asked to do is trust it enough to take the leap when it calls.

On A Day Like Today

I knew the texture of my days there—

the familiar components of the table,

the weight of the chair,

I knew what tomorrow would ask of me.

I stayed because the floor was steady,
even when the ceiling pressed lower with time.
Stability can feel like kindness
when fear is louder than desire.

But something in me kept knocking—

a quiet insistence,
a restlessness that learned my name.

I began to notice how often I exhaled
Only before I went to sleep.

So I left with trembling hands,
not because I was fearless,
but because staying had begun
to cost me more than leaving ever could.

Beneath the fear,
there is a pulse—
the unmistakable rhythm of becoming.
I am learning that uncertainty
is not emptiness,
it is space.

I am meeting myself
without a title to lean on,
without a badge of legitimacy.
And still, I remain.

One day, a door will open
because I knocked as myself;

One day, a door will open

And tell me that it's where I belong.

Duliajan and Chrysanthemums

When I picture winters in Duliajan, the first thing that blooms in my mind is a riot of Chrysanthemums and Dahlias—so many colours, so many shapes, each one seemingly painted by a different mood of the season. My favourites were always the multicoloured ones, little explosions of joy. Mother made sure the garden was at its very best in winter; every corner shimmered with blossoms.

And it wasn’t just the flower beds. The kitchen garden thrived too, full of vegetables of every kind. Fruit trees framed the house like gentle sentinels. We even had an orange tree—its branches heavy with tiny sunbursts. And the lemons! Their fragrance was so fresh, so sharp and uplifting, as though the air itself was smiling.

Unlike now, I loved staying outdoors then, wandering around the house, searching for blackberries hidden under leaves and shadows. The girl I was truly believed magic lived in everyday things. Writing about it now is the simplest way to travel back; a handful of words is enough to unlock whole worlds of memory.

Winter afternoons had their own rituals. One of my favourites was slipping into an oversized hand-knitted sweater—mother’s warmth looped into every stitch—and settling down on sun-warmed blankets spread outside. I’d sit there peeling oranges, relishing every bit of it, including the seeds!

Christmas had its own kind of magic. I’d look forward to meeting people, tasting the homemade cakes and pies that only my mother could bake to perfection. There would be a club gathering too, and I always waited for the jam session. I could never dance, of course, but I loved standing at the edge of the floor, watching the band play. Somewhere inside me lived the soft hope that one day I’d have a band of my own.

Life, however, chose a different path and I became a serious physician scientist. Yet those dreams remain luminous, untouched by time. Winters and chrysanthemums—they were, and still are, beautiful.

Duliajan and Queen's Crape-Myrtle

Duliajan will always hold a piece of my soul. I remember the many rainy days—how I would watch from the window, mesmerized by the gulmohar and queen’s crape-myrtle blooms. Splashes of yellow, violet, and enchanting mauve shimmered against a grey backdrop. How I wish I could be wrapped in that soulful beauty again.

I remember sitting beneath the vast, starlit sky, tracing constellations and counting the moments when the moon slipped behind drifting clouds. Sometimes I would see flashes of orange in the sky. Sometimes I would hear the distant bell ring. The breeze carried the fragrance of plumeria and nyctanthes. Looking back, it feels right to say that my entire childhood in that quaint little town was a gift. The people were warm and loving; the whole town felt like one large family. Home was, in every sense, a haven.

I remember the countless car rides with my parents—my head tilted against the backrest, watching the streetlights with a silly grin, or quarreling with my brother and immediately complaining to the adults. I lived those moments fully, without knowing how precious they were. Today, when I look back, I’m simply grateful I was there.

And somewhere in its quiet corners, I hope Duliajan remembers me too.

PS: This is dedicated to someone who inspired me to cherish the good in life - Anita Aunty!