My dearest bubs
Today I was solving math — numbers, formulas, responsibilities stacked neatly in front of me.
And suddenly, in between x and y, my heart interrupted.
I left everything and searched for that diary I hide like a secret and protect like a prayer.
The one no one knows about.
The one that carries the parts of me I don’t show the world.
I opened it…
and my hands started moving on their own.
My lips were whispering the words as if they were already written somewhere in the air.
When I finished, I just stared at the page.
And then I turned back to my older writings — the poems, the shayari, the half-born ghazals, the broken Hindi, the soft English.
And a thought struck me.
There was a time when I used to think writing comes out of habit.
Out of practice.
Out of passion maybe.
But now I understand — it’s not habit.
It’s not even just passion.
It is the unspoken world inside us.
The incomplete feelings.
The words we never say aloud.
And when we write… we don’t create something new —
we complete what was always unfinished within us.
Two or three years ago, I didn’t understand this.
I didn’t understand love.
Not the depth of it.
But when I truly felt it — the kind of love that feels like devotion…
like Radha–Krishna’s silent eternity,
like Shiv–Parvati’s unwavering union —
something changed in me.
The world looked softer.
Pain felt meaningful.
Silence began to speak.
Maybe love didn’t just touch my heart.
Maybe it rewrote my vision.
If I can write now…
if my words feel deeper…
it is because somewhere inside, I have learned what it means to feel beyond myself.
Maybe this is what love does.
It doesn’t just give you someone.
It gives you a new way of seeing everything.
And you, my bubs,
are the only ones who know that between exams and expectations,
between normal days and ordinary routines,
a secret poet is quietly completing her unfinished world.
— yours, always