Capturing the Politics and Poetics of Everyday Life....

The world loves finished products. But life was never meant to be factory-made. You are not here to fit a mould — you are here to create one. Don’t let the world dry you out. Stay soft. Stay experimental. Stay unfinished. Because shapelessness is not weakness — it’s possibility. Life is not a script. It is clay. Soft. Uncertain. Waiting. And you — you are the sculptor. Whatever the world may whisper about symmetry, about success, about the “right” shape of a life — remember: it is your hands that press into the yielding earth, your fingers that leave their quiet imprints. Do not look up to borrowed blueprints or prefabricated dreams. The world loves templates. It fears the unfinished. Look instead at artists, at writers — how they carve their own grammar, how they bend rules until rules begin to breathe. Their forms are never fixed. They are always becoming. The clay waits for you. For your pulse. For the heat of your imagination to move through its damp uncerta...

We fear online predators. We warn children about digital addiction. Yet we upload their bath-time photos and tantrum videos without hesitation. Is Kerala’s digital literacy failing its children? Childhood, Clicked: Do Children in India Have a Right to Digital Privacy? Do children below the age of 18 have a Right to Privacy in India — not merely as a protective shield, but as a constitutional right that carries agency and dignity? Or must one turn eighteen before one is entitled to constitutional personhood? These questions are not abstract jurisprudential puzzles. They sit in our living rooms, glow on our phone screens, and accumulate quietly in cloud servers. The 18-Year Threshold: A Convenient Myth? In India, the Right to Privacy has been affirmed as a fundamental right by the Supreme Court in the landmark judgment of Justice K. S. Puttaswamy (Retd.) v. Union of India. The Court recognized privacy as intrinsic to life and personal liberty under Article 21 of the Constitution. But her...

How many selves have we archived in the name of reason? How many lives have we postponed for the comfort of certainty? Sometimes the soul refuses postponement. Sometimes it trembles us awake. Sometimes life happens to you— not with drums, not with declarations, but in the hush between two ordinary breaths. It waits at the bend of an unnoticed street, in the pale afternoon of a forgotten day, in the fragile second when your guard slips. Around corners you have passed a hundred times, beyond cliffs you never meant to climb, it pulses— a rhythm too tender for reason, too luminous for logic— and suddenly the ground forgets how to hold your feet. What the world dismisses as your scattered murmurs, your chaotic wanderings, is only the heart knocking from within— insistent, alive. Those are not ramblings. They are the tremors of a soul long archived in the dust-heavy vaults of a carefully managed life. How many lives lie dormant in you— curled like unopened letters in the quiet labyrinth of r...

Before we called it love, before we named it anger, it was only a tremor in the chest — wild, wordless, alive. This poem is about what happens when language touches emotion — and what it quietly takes away. Emotions— deep, fresh, and tender like green shoots breaking through rain-soaked soil— arrive without grammar. They rise quietly, carrying the scent of earth, the tremble of first light, the fragile insistence of becoming. But language waits. It waits with its sharp tools— definitions, categories, conclusions. It gathers these wild stirrings into its boiling cauldrons, heats them, thickens them, pours them into shapes the world knows how to store. “Love.” “Anger.” “Jealousy.” “Desire.” Neat words. Solid containers. And something raw begins to disappear. The tremor before love becomes a declaration. The ache before grief becomes a statement. The unnamed hunger before desire becomes confession. Language smoothens the rough edges, trims the unruly corners, ...