Shishukunj

Perceptions

Everyone has them

about everything.

Yours can never be mine;

mine can never be yours.

We can never see through each other’s lenses;

each other’s instilled hierarchies,

each other’s way of thinking,

each other’s basis for judgment:

our perceptions.

Everyone thinks about things

but who thinks about everything?

Who thinks obsessively?

Who thinks ignorantly?

But, who doesn’t think at all?

We’ll never see through each other’s lenses.

Everyone wants success;

but what is success for her?

What is success for him?

What is success for me?

What is true success?

We’ll never see through each other’s lenses.

Everyone makes plans

but who actually follows them?

Who cheats themselves?

Who forgets?

And who tries to?

We’ll never see through each-other’s lenses:

our perceptions.

But were they ever truly ours;

or were they just superficial justifications shaped by others’ opinions?

Silver Nights

Sittin’ in my room on a dark night

Hoping I could freeze all my happy times.

Echoes of the past slippin’ in my mind

Slowly drifting towards the silver night

Maybe heard a sound calling me

I wish I could respond in my sleep

Writing my thoughts on a paper

Wishing to store all my memories

They fly up like vapours, can’t catch them

And in the silence I find peace alone.

Whispers of the night, fading with the dawn.

The Healing Power of Rain

When the sweet, pleasant petrichor

Soothes my mind and removes all pain

I ask myself, “What is there to abhor,

In the healing power of rain?”

My worries and woes vanish in thin air

As I cycle in the calm, cool rain

The wind comforts me as I declare

My desires amid the melodious refrain.

The wounded soul finds calm solace.

In the embrace of the cold raindrops:

The same rain that washes the face

Nourishes the fields of the crops.

The mind and heart delve into memories

As the rain pours from the sky

I get lost in recollections and reveries

As I sip some soup with a sigh.

There are times of joy and times of uproar

In history’s ride of bliss and pain

Yet the question remains, “What is there to abhor,

In the healing power of rain?”

The Noble Art of Tar-brushing

A Satire

Oh hail the sport of gossip grand,

The noblest pastime in the land!

Where whispers grow and morals shrink,

And halos tarnish in a wink.

Why face a friend and speak your mind,

When shade is thrown from far behind?

Much safer, too, to spread some spice—

Truth’s overrated; lies are nice.

To meddle is a gift divine,

A nosy nose in every line.

Who needs consent or quiet grace,

When you can snoop through every case

Label them! It saves the brain—

Why learn their story? Too much strain.

And judging? Ah, a royal skill,

No need for facts—just gut and will.

Sit on your throne, decree their fate,

Who cares if you just speculate?

It bonds us too—this sacred rite,

Of dragging names in day or night.

It fuels our chats, our smug delight,

While claiming we are always right.

So raise a toast, ye moral scouts,

To whisper wars and baseless doubts.

The world is best when viewed askance—

Now join the hypocrites’ dance!

Cracked?

Cracked walls let the light in,
Torn cloth is sewed;
Stopped clocks are charged;
Empty tanks are refilled,

A room perfectly crafted is blind within;
A cloth too perfectly woven never touches
the hand that sews of love;
Clocks with new batteries run better;
Tanks of fresh water taste sweeter.

Why Can’t I Time Travel?

Why can’t I time travel,

Decades before, to venture?

When people got to feel

The stronger magic of nature.

Why can’t I time travel,

To the time of British rule?

When wars occurred, and the soldiers,

Used guns and armours as tools.

Why can’t I time travel

When lived Ashoka the Great?

I wonder if even an advanced machine

Could let me go till that date.

Why can’t I time travel

When the Earth wasn’t even made?

It is such a wonderful thought

If I could, it would be so great!

Why can’t I time travel

When the gods and rakshasas were fighting?

Well, this is going too far

Still, it is fun dreaming!

Innocuous Universe, Where Do I Find You?

Somewhere amidst the cosmic drama,

There are parallels (stupefying mirrors),

That reflect (mock) our own lives,

Plain grasslands and horrifyingly lucid skies (banal like an everyday occurence),

Deities roam (they destroy Earths like our own).

God sits perched upon (not a throne),

A tree of time (it never withers),

A casual flick of his hand (unknowing; don’t blame him),

Sends thousands of galaxies into existential crisis (the human civilisation on the brink of collapse),

(Is this ignorance?).

God stands and the tiny ants (they are building greatness),

Tremble and break and die out like flames (they can only blame fate),

Their souls will curse the unfolding of their trivial lives (they don’t know it’s the same God they worship),

The footfalls of the deity echo as he turns to flicker the lights on,

He brushes his hand across a spiderweb on the light switch (he accidentally breaks the celestial bonds of time)

(That the spiders spent aeons making).

God looks up at the sky (he is a dreamer, too?),

And closes his eyes (eternal peace, frigid peace, ending another universe?),

He looks back upon his life (he is a monster just like his creation, indulging in ignorance),

He tries to find something to reason with (he is trying to fill the constant inner void).

(He wonders of all the destruction, his feigned guilt)

(How innocent, he understands the parallel)

(His life is merely an imitation, there is a greater power above him)

(Because he is a human, swept between fate and prayer).

When the Lights Go Off and a Hush Falls Over the Classroom

When the final bell rings, students rush out into the corridor—backpacks swinging, laughter echoing down the hallway like the final note of a well-played song. Chairs are pushed back, books closed, and lights click off one by one. The classroom, once alive with questions, chatter, and silent stares of concentration, now stands still.

But that stillness is not emptiness.

Even with the desks vacant and the whiteboard wiped clean, the room holds something invisible yet deeply present: the energy of the day. It lingers in the air—the whispered doubts, the brave attempts, the bursts of laughter over shared jokes, and the silent disappointments carried behind polite smiles.

When the lights go off, the classroom becomes a quiet keeper of stories—loud, silent, joyful, and aching.

That empty room has seen it all:

The child who finally raised a hand after months of fear.
The heated debate that ended in reluctant laughter and mutual respect.
The quiet student staring at a blank page, wrestling with battles no one sees.
The teacher staying behind, erasing and rewriting lessons, hoping to reach just one more mind. Classrooms do not merely witness learning. They witness life in motion.

What happens between the lessons often matters just as much as the lessons themselves. The quiet exchanges, the unseen growth, the small moments of kindness and courage—these are the real curriculum of school life. Education isn’t only about equations and grammar; it’s about becoming.

If we could truly hear what the empty classroom whispers after everyone leaves, what would we learn?

Would we hear:

The laugh that hid a deep loneliness?
The sigh of fatigue behind a top scorer’s smile?
The storm inside the child who never asked a question? The classroom holds these stories in its silence.

As educators, and even as students, let’s not forget: the school day may end, but the journey doesn’t. The learning, the emotions, the inner battles—all walk out of that room with us, unspoken but very real.

So the next time you leave a classroom, don’t just flick off the switch. Pause.

Let the silence speak. You might hear more than you expect.