#2 Subjective Musings


I shall rather use the photographs to speak for the background of all the musings.




Not just words, it seems the universe provoke the senses of my soul with every single glimpse of rhythm, image or sound. Poetry, they call it.






Trip to Mussoorie

To the Indian Meadows.


How can anyone be in north and not be in this beautiful place, the view from this is magical. Mussorie is really a beautiful place, it is a hill station located 3hours

from Dehradun.

After long time travelling in a bus and the view along the way is a fabulous feeling, after living in a hectic city with all the noises and pollution, going to a hill station will make you be in peace ✌🏼 I know am going to a cold place around 19•C during july so i was wearing my most comfortable joggers with my favourite shirt, I didn’t want to be uncomfortable while I was travelling for 6 hours in bus so while travelling it’s best when you wear what makes you the most comfortable.

Here are few pictures of Mussorie and it’s beauty.

It was cold and raining so i took a denim jacket and chose…

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To the parent of every color.


Black, is my colour, my identity.

It’s my shade of rainbow.

It’s the colour of my canvas to draw on.

Choosing it still means something to me.

It’s my symbol of completeness,

As it has it all. All shades!

It’s not sad, rather colours like “red” tear me apart.

Black is deep, it’s suspicious and complete.

For it is the colour of a poet.

It has got its own identity.

It’s a hope! It’s a believe!

After every night, what’s comes next ?

The rays of light, the charms of bloom.

So, what made you adore it more ?

Fair Black, Fair Life

(Ps: Photography Device- Phone’s camera )

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A Letter to Rabindranath Tagore

I am sorry, I don’t feel the love anymore. And I am sorry, the Nation has not even thought about the idea that you had in mind.

I just came across the idea. And I am a strong believer in what you stated, but I fear to input direct words in this letter, because it will be read by diverse minds united by the so-called concrete reality of hatred. They think they are Indians or Muslim or Hindu, you know. And not humans. They find it easy to suffocate morality and escape the rational from the world. They will rather rest in grotesque violence than to interrogate the cause of humanity.

Everything has failed, the scriptures provoke a very few of them on the right path. Literature has ironically become this social fragment of the concrete hatred that they call love. There are books about people falling in ‘Love’, books about killing and surviving. It seems as if, they write to induce more spark to the hatred and ‘Love’.

But, you knew this all along, right? That they will never understand the idea of India. The idea of a country which is not developed in terms of the West. I know you were there, at the time where people wrote poems about what India would be, but you are here right now, all along knowing how they continue to fail.

So, I don’t love the idea anymore, because, for an idea, it is impossible to be concrete as their ‘Love’, but for an idea of the Nation, it is supposed to exist at least in the minds.

I wonder, how many help it to exist, we are driven by different motives, now.  ‘Love’, material, blood, and breath. And some are purely driven by hatred, so they love the country, so much.

And some are purely driven by hatred, so they love the country, so much. Their love for the country is immense, the people who hate. Because hatred takes pride, power, and the most staunch discriminant mind.

And the third category is the most controversial to my understanding and I really hope that the nationalist inside you, don’t read this descript. The soldiers, the true nationalists, the innocent, they are victims of the politics that play around with the idea of the Nation. The ones who want to conquer the feeling of inhabitance and restrict the idea of the universe just because they are programmed to want the same.

How trivial the heads are gone, I write this idea, again. Not to be remembered, but to be slaughtered by words.


Sagar Arora

The Scars Faded In Dark

It was threaded to be this way,

A story that sang of their sins,

A lore that brought light to the scars,

A truth, trembling under the umbrella of her stars.

She was born in happiness,

But, the faith awaited grief,

She was brought up with kindness,

But, the sin pushed the heaven to her knees.

We all know a Noor,

The child who lived a little less,

And felt a little more,

The child who was sold from the shore,

Or the one who slept on the broken road,

Waiting for the cold to pass by,

But, afraid of the light that shall burn the sky.

There are many escaping her sight,

In the dark, her scares were never alive,

Let the light shine on the blood that she lost,

One moment to break the curse of the sin,

One hand to wipe the tears from the eyes,

One hope to let her feel a smile,

The expression that shall capture her fears from the night.

Gods of Love

The Fine Margin

Oh Aphrodite

Have I mistaken


Passion oozes

Skin grinds against skins

Breathing in the moist

Smell of holy union

Oh Cupid

Have I mistaken


My hands glide through her hair

Like black mares

Running in the dark

Oh the hair

Oh Venus

Have I mistaken


For faith



And lust?

Oh Eros

Have I mistaken


The Gods have spoken

They lay their wrath

On a mortal such as me

How dare I ask questions?

Squeamishly I stare down

At the Gods of love

They didn’t define it

Neither can I.

Don’t take my arms

Granted for skinny dipping

We don’t have to

Burn like embers to lay in ash

Do not undress

I saw you already

Changes I detest

From my dreams

You are perfect

From where I stand

You don’t have to come here

To break my heart

In my eyes you are


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