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We’ve all known people whose behaviour puzzles us — the colleague who dominates every conversation, the friend who constantly seeks praise, the family member who withdraws at the first hint of conflict. At a glance, we shrug these off as quirks: “That’s just how they are.” But often, beneath the surface, these reactions reveal deeper,
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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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A man must wonder, if he still possesses a soul, why history repeats its sorrows with such mechanical regularity. We call it war—the ultimate breakdown of words, of reason, of grace—yet every generation inherits it like a birthright. It arrives not with fanfare but with justifications, clothed in language so ornate that the blood beneath
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At the heart of international law lies a simple but unshakeable premise: human life is inviolable. To kill a person unlawfully—whether in times of peace or war—is a crime. Yet, as modern conflict has evolved into something increasingly asymmetrical, politically polarised, and digitally amplified, the legality of killing, and even the incitement to kill, requires
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Human history is not only a record of inventions and empires—it is a story of ideas. From the philosophical streets of Athens to the quiet ashrams of India and the riverbanks of ancient China, humanity has long sought meaning not only in how we live, but in why we live as we do. These questions—about
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– Maq Masi You pour a cup of tea. Steam rises. Somewhere, quietly, something is shifting. Not a riot. Not a declaration. Just a whisper: “Form is emptiness; emptiness is form.” It sounds cryptic. Perhaps poetic. Or even absurd. How could such words—so weightless—change the weight of history? Yet, they already have. In my youth,
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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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How do powerful men speak when their power begins to slip? How does the tone shift when they realise influence is no longer control — and performance no longer persuasion? I’ve been observing the public rhetoric of Elon Musk and Donald Trump across recent months, and what I’ve seen is not confidence. It is confusion.
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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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Maq Masi Blog 