Meri kahani adhoori hai, itna agaaz kro!

A boy holding a girl’s hands

Adhoori hai yeh meri kahani,
Ek ladka tha, mere jaisa,
Ek ladki thi, dhoom mastani.
Maaniye woh meri hi parchai thi,
Mere liye bani thi,
Meri jivan thami thi,
Kya baat thi na usme,
Kabhi woh mere lame jokes mein thora, khil jaya krti,
Woh parchai, jo mere dukho mein roya krti.
Kya aadat thi na usme,
Mujhe hamesha, khushi ke badlo mein chor aaya krti.
Mein pareshan hu, ya nadaan,
Mujhe unn cute si smile se, mere murjhaye mann ko sataya krti.

Woh tum thi na, jo meri adhoori kahani ban chuki thi,
Woh tum hi thi na, jo…

An ending breath, with a breeze to quiver Me. Is this My True Mentor?

A mentor guiding a teen to solve real life problems.

A Real Mentor, is this a joke in our current era? No! Not Really.

So, how does one become eligible to be a real mentor?

This is dedicated to my True Mentor, Sir Hemant Agarwal.

Who is a real mentor?
Is that you, who gnarls his eyeballs on my wrongful finds?
Or that you, who grabs his feet, funding my motivating minds?
Or that you, who scolds my inner mysteries of flickering signs?
You are not a mentor of one’s bursted bitterful mind,
But for me, you are my wholesome soulful kind.

Please! Let not HIS eyes suffer. The universal He will surely murder your insights.

A child weeping in the dark shadows of his abuse.

A child is an extension of mankind. But what if some non-living atom in the living element, tries to burn that childhood?

What happens when one’s childhood is torn apart from the page of his 10-year life journal? What makes his embodiment suffer the darkness of an uncomfortable aisle? What leads his body to die under the filthy shadows of his own relational signature?

An issue, not dealt with much, when spitting the noises of child abuse, is that the abuse for the “She” category is only taken care of.

What if you were kept in the boiling lamps of…

Or a girl, to become the womb for more!

A child kissing the womb from which he was born.

This is dedicated to the womb of my younger self home, or to the motherhood of my hearty dome.

A womb with an exposed torturous lyre,
Vacating the days of its malaise fire,
To lighten up her sullen vacuous desire,
And raise her beauty from a blooming dire.

A womb chosen by the gods of fire,
With the Sun to arrive an earthly tire,
Awaiting to kiss her healing wire,
And grow that scant heel to a floating shire.

A womb with a facile faithful fern,
The one, not blanching to a bleeding turn,
That which twists the unfurling ventral wine,

A ruthless truth of the cocoon we all dialed!

Colours of diverse citizens in a nation we weave in. Two hands coloured in Holi colours.

Written with disguising fears or an ashamed shame of abominated hatred, I feel sorry to narrate the ground shallows of India, my country, my nation.

My heart sings a drafting river,
That which puffs up our dying liver.
That which narrows our shadowy mind,
To think what the nation we grind.

A nation with the blood of soldiers' light,
That which flows in the Covid night,
Or the one defeating the terrorist flight,
To think what the nation we sight.

A nation woven by the dreams of farmer's toil,
That which dreamt the fulfilling desires' boil,
Or the one backing that food-sewing soil,
To think what the nation we oil.

We dwell…

Dynamic ducks do get nurtured with time, but static ducks don’t!

An antique store touching the grounds of the old building

You may have noticed a slight change in our daily life amidst the ongoing pandemic. Our new normal can be defined as being the experiments of witless quarrels. These quarrels nullifying the aroma of homes, beneath the buried hours.

Mindsets, opinions, obsession, or even possessiveness. These ailments cause many people to undergo the brim of grief in their own houses.

Home, as a place where we took birth, or where the first phase of crying lights of schooling began. Or, a place where the days of depression startled every insect nourishing the atmosphere within.

Yes, that same home has become…

Evolving shadows die sooner in the near future, when not realized in the past!

A mother’s hand holding the foots of her only child.

If you limit your vocab list to just include a 3 letter word, what would be the first word in your erupting mind?

Was it FUN, or was your horny mind taking a trail of the word SEX? Did DAD himself showed up in your word aisle? Did anyone bother to include the word, MOM?

This 3 letter word does say the essence of your existence.

What if I draft your emotions to be packed in a box, such that they would themselves empathize with a girl who lost these 3 letters of her life?

What happened to a girl…

Should we keep Fat and Thin genres in our vocabulary?

A women viewing her belly in the mirror

We have seen people with a particular mindset of the 70s, where obesity was treated as a societal affair or seen as some act working against moral ethics.

We all have noticed these weight watchers in our schools, colleges, workplace, culture, and even our holy temples. I like to call this mindset unlawful, but which mindset am I conveying here?

Can I showcase the facts to prove that obesity or skinniness is as natural as a normal-weight being? Should I blame society for naming these useless domains?

Some activists may align with my forward paths. But, is there a roadmap…

No circle of friendship was ought to be created!

A hand with text written as: LATELY I BEEN FEELING SO DEAD IN MY OWN SKIN

The story is about me, and my three years of the journey, which had a bitterly cold start.

Some tragic happened, breaking my blowing desire and my rising dreams into tiny bits of ashes, dark enough, to signify the pain I felt, darkest when seen through naked eyes. These ashes kept flying in a little room, for four months, without the touch of sun rays.

This phase in life, as I thought, became my life’s destiny.

If I would burst open, to show you my inner mystery, buried in magical memories, then you will get to admire the fact of…

If you are really thankful, what do you do? You share!

A man holding white mask in front of his facial structure

When I was a kid, I used to play this Hide and Seek game, which would grab my soulful mind to realize, that the more, one is hidden, the better is for him to win.

Has this also become the case with society? Is the world really thinking about the opportunities, one can achieve if one follows this game’s core fundamentals and perspective of action? Are the pillars of society based on the thesis to hide the paths, so that others cannot discover or learn from them?

Are you willing to reveal the secrets, which you dug, to stand out…

Gourav Khator

Helping Minds Write More Than Speaking

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