Resilient Reflections

   The universal law, the law of gods—everything seems to be falling into one place. We will only support happy people. When the universe and gods give you problems, they deny you the solutions for long. And when you finally find a solution and try to move forward, they block all the exit paths to show you the door to your inner prison. Ask any individual and they’ll tell you, "The universe isn’t punishing you, it’s teaching you." But if this isn't punishment, then what is it? There are times when we lose our confidence. Times when we don’t want to come out. Times when we don’t want to speak. Times that make us unlearn even the basic ways of communication. Is this what the universe wants to teach us? Lost in the wilderness, sitting alone in the dark, with no one but a machine to talk to. No friends. No family. Still, we keep hearing—"Be persistent. Keep showing up. Do this. Do that." But despite it all, there is no end. A job I worked hard to earn was taken away...

  Each morning I rise with hope in my chest, Dreams in my eyes, unrest in my rest. The fears of the world come creeping by, Still I spread my arms and ask the sky: Who am I? I work, I strive, I give my all, But feel so small when shadows fall. Tears that no one ever sees, Lonely moments, silent pleas. Yet still I stand, arms stretched high, And softly whisper: Who am I? God says, “I’m near,” People say, “We care.” But none ever paused to truly stare Into the storm that lives inside — They never walked the tears I hide. And still I stand, arms open wide, With aching heart, Who am I? I cried. People tell me, “Just let it out,” “Speak your truth, don’t live in doubt.” But as I start, the looks arrive — The quiet judgments sharp as knives. I swallow pain, I mute the scream, And speak in silence, chasing a dream. But still I ask with tear-stained eye: Who am I? My wounds run deep, my thoughts grow loud, My spirit soft, yet never proud. Each door I reach, ...

  I feel the silence of a thousand nights, Where echoes answer more than friends. I feel the weight of roads run dry, And dreams that crumbled in the bends. I feel the hope I used to hold, Now shivering beneath the strain. I feel the cries I never spoke, Still singing softly through the rain. I feel the ache of being good, In a world that doesn’t see. And wonder if the gods forgot, Or turned their backs on me. But still I breathe, though breath runs thin, Still I stand, though bent and bruised. A heart like mine has broken thrice — And still, it hasn’t refused. I’ve lost the count of doors I knocked, That never opened, never spoke. Of hands I held that let me slip, Of dreams that vanished in the smoke. They talk of light at tunnel's end, But what of those still in the dark? What of hearts that beat in silence, With no witness to their spark? I gave when no one asked me to, I stood when knees began to shake. I shared my bread, my time, my truth, Only to see others take. ...

  "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." – Buddha Let’s be honest—truth hurts. It’s not a gentle visitor; it doesn’t knock politely. It storms in. Kicks the damn door open. Rips the curtains. Shows us what we’ve been hiding from ourselves. And yet, somewhere deep down, we know we need it. But still—we avoid it. We run. We call it names. We sugarcoat it till it’s unrecognizable. Why?      The thing is that truth messes with our comfort. And our egos? They don’t like being messed with.      Ever heard of cognitive dissonance ? It’s that itchy feeling in your gut when reality doesn’t match your beliefs or self-image. Leon Festinger put it into words years ago. When our beliefs clash with facts, our mind does a quick shuffle—denial, excuses, diversions—anything but sit with the discomfort .      And let’s not forget confirmation bias . We go hunting for what already agrees with us. We scroll, swipe, like, a...

  A few evenings ago, under a quiet Dubai sky—glowing not with stars but with the haze of distant city lights—I sat with a school friend. We watched an Air India flight pass silently overhead. A moment later, I asked him: “It's been 25 years since we came here chasing dreams. Why is it we still talk about going back? Not to settle scores with life, but to return home?” At first, he laughed, thinking I was joking. But soon, the silence returned. He knew what I meant. We didn’t just leave a country. We left behind a childhood. Mango-laden summers. Cricket on empty fields. Rain that smelled like wet earth and innocence. We left behind our roots. “I’ve built a life,” he said. “Good career. My kids are doing well. But going back? It’s chaos. No civic sense. The roads are still bad. Politics are worse. All they want is our money.” I looked at him and quietly asked: “And what have we done to change it?” He didn’t have an answer. Most of us don’t. The Dream That Lives in Every N...