Literature & Arts
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What does it mean to love — not merely to be stirred by another, but to be wholly transformed by something that dissolves the self? In India’s vast spiritual and literary inheritance, love appears in many guises: as tender devotion, mischievous play, fearless surrender, or a secret alchemy meant to strip away ego. From Krishna’s
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– Maq Masi They handed us religion—not a key, but a cage,a scripture wrapped in shackles,a heaven weighed with rage. They sold us politics—not a bridge, but a wall,dividing brother from sister,while they took it all. They fed us fear,called it truth,taught us to kneel,to doubt our own roots. But the storm in our veinswon’t
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What is seen, is all there is — no grand design, no silent watcher in the void’s indifferent sway. No ledger of deeds, no reckoning flame — only the cold turn of gears, the pulse of circuits keeping time, and the brief light of a thought before the dark reclaims it.
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Poem A rose is posed beneath the morning’s glow, Suppose it sparks the stars that softly show. Oppose the storm, let shadow’s rule depose, Expose the flame where silent passion grows.
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Indian dohas and chhappas, timeless rhyming verses, are treasures of wisdom, wit, and musicality. Dohas, two-line couplets often in Hindi, Urdu, or regional languages like Braj and Awadhi, and chhappas, six-line satirical poems in Gujarati, captivate with poetic devices such as chhand (metre) and alankar (figures of speech). Dohas typically have 24 matras (syllabic instants)
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Maq Masi I walk, I watch, I scrape my knees, I test the walls, I learn the keys. I trip, I stand, I curse the dirt— Each bruise a lesson, each burn a word. Wrong? I fix it. Slow? I speed. The trick’s to move—not just to read. Books don’t know how ice will crack
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-Poem Fiery words,arrows wild.Mouths unruled—soul defiled. Pause and thinkwhat you reveal.One sharp wordtakes years to heal. Hammer noton hearts so thin.Sickle cutsdeep within.
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We often spend our lives chasing aspirations—building grand dreams, projecting futures, and carrying the weight of wanting. From early childhood, we’re taught to wish for more, to climb higher, to always become. I was no different. For years, my heart wandered across desires: for traits I admired, for joys I imagined, for a self not
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by Maq Masi They preach, they rule, draw lines in blood— then whisper mercy while the graves grow. Lift their laws: the ink runs red. Their justice always points elsewhere.
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Poem I do not shout to be seen. I do not echo just to belong. I walk the backstreets, not because I’m lost, but because they’re mine. I carry no label, wave no flag, follow no script. My worth is not performance. My peace is not for show. They called me strange, difficult, too quiet
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