Poetry, Quotes and Stories

As the saying goes, “When all doors close, another door opens.” But what if—on opening that door—you find nothing but a plain black wall staring back at you? What if the door that was promised to bring hope, light, and freedom turns out to be just an illusion—built upon a flat, cold, concrete wall that leads nowhere? I was once told that through that beautifully carved door, I would glimpse the world’s marvels—the golden rays of the sun, the silver glow of the moon, the shimmer of the stars. That I would meet people who would know me, love me, and share my laughter. I was promised a view filled with beauty, joy, and warmth. But when I finally opened it, all I saw was darkness. No light. No view. No promise fulfilled. Just a plain black wall. That’s when I realized—it was never a door. It was a mirage. A beautifully crafted illusion meant to deceive the longing heart. Life, at times, closes all the doors and offers us what looks like a new opening—tempting, charming, and full of hope. B...

Many summers, autumns, and springs have passed, yet it all feels cold, void, and chaotic.  The butterflies seem to have lost their way, the sky has faded out, and the flowers have refused to bloom.  The rain pours down, yet it has forgotten its song.  The mountains loom outside my window, not as guardians of strength but as burdens pressing against the horizon.  The stars have grown weary of shining. Every dawn arrives like a broken promise — light without warmth. I do not know when the nature will remember its rhythm,  I am not certain if the heart will relearn the language of rain,  Not sure when the butterflies will find their path,  Now aware if the sky will reclaim its blue, and Don't know when the flowers will dare to bloom again.  -Sumita

I came to Yuksom looking for solitude. What I found instead… was her. It started with a trek to an old, abandoned structure behind Dubdi Monastery. Locals didn’t talk about it, but it showed up on no tourist map. Cracked stones, moss-covered walls, and prayer flags that hadn’t fluttered in years. And inside that ruin—was a mirror. Oddly preserved. No dust. No cracks. Just there..as if, it was just kept or forgotten by someone.. a hiker maybe.  At first, I laughed. A mirror in the middle of nowhere? But when I looked in, my smile dropped. The reflection wasn’t mine. The girl staring back had my eyes—but not my face. She was younger, thinner, her hair braided in a style I had never worn. She wore an old-school chuba, like a girl out of time. I stepped back. So did she—but a second too late. That’s when I knew: she wasn’t copying me. She was watching. Frozen, I stared, heart hammering. Then—she lifted her hand slowly and traced a symbol on her chest. A Tibetan letter? A curse? I don't...

We remind each other— Of the sacrifices made, the time invested, The things lost along the way, As if love were a ledger, And kindness a debt to be repaid. But weren’t they done out of love? Out of an unspoken promise, To see joy light up their eyes, To make them feel cherished, To find our own happiness in theirs? Remember— The first glance that stole your breath, The hands that trembled before they held, The silent vows whispered in a gaze, The thrill of seeing their face after days apart, The butterflies, the stolen glances, The quiet urge to capture them in a fleeting moment. The gentle kiss placed on sleeping lips, The tears that traced your cheeks in longing, The hand held tight while crossing the road, The embrace that felt like home. Every act was never just for them— It was for the love you carried, For your  happiness that bloomed in their joy, For the way your heart found its rhythm In the echo of their laughter. Love was never about keeping score— It was about giving, f...

Women artists and songwriters should stop composing songs about men who have deceived them. Are such men even worthy of being immortalized in poems, songs, and other artistic expressions? ~Sumita

  The river trembles before meeting the ocean, fearing it will lose itself. But it cannot turn back—its journey is forward. Only by embracing the vastness ahead does it realize it’s not disappearing, but becoming the ocean itself. -Sumita

Time is a lot of the things people say that God is. There's always pre-existing, and having no end. There's the notion of being all powerful-because nothing can stand against time, can it? Not mountains, not armies. And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return.  And if time is anything akin to God, I suppose that memory must be the devil.

  I've often heard people say, "What's so fascinating about the Old Silk Route? It's just another road. But perhaps they haven't been close enough to hear the melodious calls of rare, vibrant birds playing in the trees, as if inviting you into a conversation with nature itself. Maybe they haven't marveled at the towering pine trees, so majestic and surreal, their hues shifting with every turn of the road, making the landscape feel like a dream. I doubt they've breathed in the intoxicating fragrance of wildflowers, their scent weaving through the air, casting a spell as you journey through the dense, untamed forest. And surely, they haven't surrendered to the weather—a weather so enchanting, it blurs your thoughts and beckons you to lose yourself in its beauty. They may have passed through, but they haven't truly  traveled  the Silk Route, nor absorbed its captivating aura. -Sumita

It is ALWAYS about what people can get from each other,  not unconditional equations like presence, inspiration, understanding  and just peace.

The Paradox of the Heap, also known as the ‘ sorites  paradox’, arises from the vague concept of when a collection of small parts becomes a whole. The classic example involves grains of sand: if you have a heap of sand and remove one grain, it’s still considered a heap. If you keep removing grains, at some point, it no longer qualifies as a heap. However, it's unclear exactly when this transition happens, since removing a single grain seems insignificant. The paradox illustrates the problem of vagueness in defining boundaries for concepts like "heap," challenging the notion of how we apply terms to vague situations without clear-cut distinctions.

One can know what lies beneath The deepest oceans of the world, Where the waters hold their breath, And hidden treasures are unfurled. In the densest forests, dark and vast, Where no light can ever pass, The secrets of the earth are found, Silent whispers all around. But not know what's in the hearts, Not know what's in the minds, Of the humans we walk beside, Their truths are hard to find. The language of nature we understand, But the soul of man slips through our hands. What’s there on the horizon's line, Where the sky meets the earth divine? We chase the dawn, we seek the light, Unraveling mysteries through the night. In the winds and in the rain, We hear the world’s soft refrain, But the heart of man remains unknown, A place where we can never roam. We decode the stars, the moon's soft glow, The rhythm of rivers that endlessly flow. But when we look into each other's eyes, The greatest mystery still lies... -Sumita

Sometimes we need someone who can save us from ourselves.  - Sumita

There is nothings called “Secrets” as such.  It is just that you are not on the priority list.  -Sumita

I cannot stress how important it is to be a little bit mad. I don’t mean angry. I mean strange. Weird. Bizarre. I mean that creative, passionate, wild thing romantics call madness. That thing that stirs the poet’s soul, or gives inspiration to the musician. Madness is the fuel that drives the mind of the mathematician as they discover equations that govern the universe, or the philosophers as they question their own existence. Madness is what gives activists their strength. Madness is the oppressed demanding freedom in the face of their oppressors. Madness is doing what is right despite the darkness surrounding you. Madness is daring. Madness is  human . I’m not saying you shouldn’t fear it. One should fear madness as one fears God. After all, it is holy.     -Sumita