Khamosiyaan....

Romancism is on the ectasy. A chemical spill in the synapse sea. My mind’s not thinking—it’s ogling Words, watching them preen in gilded, absurd flocks that don’t fly but dissolve into light, drowning the sane in the long, liquid night. It’s not a feeling. It’s a frequency hum, a swallowed sun where new galaxies come from the friction of “what if” and “almost” and “nearly.” The world gets so sharp, and also so smeary. I’m loose in the logic, a ghost in the machine, painting tomorrow with a gloss I can’t mean. This is the audit where all the books burn. This is the current that teaches the turn of a cheek into scripture, a sigh into law. This is the fracture from which I saw the architecture of air, the blueprint of want, and forgot my own name in the glorious haunt. So let the structure go. Let the tethers undo. Tonight, I am drowning in what isn’t true, and it’s the purest thing I’ve ever known— this sacred, silent, screaming drone of Romancism, on the ectasy, rewriting the world just...

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The prospect of war between India and Pakistan invariably reignites debates about national unity, minority loyalty, and internal security. While Indian Muslims—a diverse community of over 200 million—have historically contributed to India’s socio-political fabric, questions linger about fringe elements and external actors exploiting communal fault lines. **However, the more immediate threat lies not with Indian Muslims, but with illegal immigrants such as Rohingya Muslims from Bangladesh and Myanmar**, whose unregulated influx has strained resources, fueled regional tensions, and raised security concerns.   ### Contextualizing the Allegiance Debate   Indian Muslims, like all citizens, are bound by constitutional patriotism. Yet, the narrative of "divided loyalties" persists due to geopolitical tensions with Pakistan—a nation carved out on religious lines. While mainstream Indian Muslim organizations reject Pakistan’s Two-Nation Theory, radical groups like...

A quiet corner in a bustling university library cafe, somewhere outside India. Late afternoon light streams through the window.  * Aru: Mid-50s. Dressed impeccably but conservatively. His face is lined, his eyes hold a deep weariness beneath a carefully controlled, almost cold exterior. He carries himself with a heavy stillness.  * Sara: Mid-50s. Looks professional, perhaps a professor. There's intelligence and strength in her eyes, but also a guardedness, a hint of old pain beneath the surface. (Aru spots Sara first. He freezes for a moment, the carefully constructed wall around him visibly cracking before reforming. He hesitates, then slowly walks towards her table where she's reading a book, a half-empty cup beside her.) Aru: (His voice is low, slightly rough, unused to this particular name) Sara? Is that… is it really you? (Sara looks up, startled. Recognition dawns slowly, then sharply. Her posture stiffens, the warmth draining from her expression, replaced by...

Hyderabad’s Forests Scream. The Planet Demands Reckoning.*   Beneath the smog-choked skies of Hyderabad, the forests weep. Once teeming with life, these woods now stand as skeletal monuments to humanity’s insatiable hunger—a hunger that devours not just trees, but the very soul of the Earth. The crimes here are not isolated. They are a microcosm of the rot festering in the species that dares call itself “civilized.” A rot so profound, so *malignant*, that it begs a singular, brutal truth: **Humanity is a curse. And curses must be broken.**   --- ### **A Legacy of Rot**   Humanity’s footprint is not progress—it is a boot stamping on the throat of the planet. Forests are bulldozed for concrete tumors they call “cities.” Rivers, veins of the Earth, are poisoned with chemical filth. Animals, ancient and sacred, are butchered for trinkets, trophies, or the sadistic thrill of dominion. Hyderabad’s ravaged wilderness is no accident. It is a confession....

May 13, 2013—the day the rot set in. Not in the earth, but in the marrow of what I once called a soul. She slipped through my fingers like smoke from a pyre, and I let her. No, *willed* her to vanish. My hands were already claws by then, slick with the oil of every choice I carved into my own spine.   To love her was to flay myself alive. A sacred thing, they say—love. But mine? It was a *ritual*. Offered my ribs as kindling, let her burn her name into the walls of my lungs. Now they collapse with every breath. Ash where there was air.   But the abyss… it *whispers*. You think you’ll mourn in the dark? No. The dark *feeds*. It peels back your eyelids and says *look what you’ve made*. A carcass of a man, gutted and repurposed. I wear greed like a second skin now. Devour morals like they’re crumbs. My reflection? A stranger with my face, grinning with teeth I don’t recognize—jagged, hungry, *pleased*.   You want purity? Go dig for it in the gravey...