Daily scribble in Kannada
“Guruṁ vinā na margah,” they said—
But mine spoke not, just smiled instead.
Antarātmani, a voice did bloom,
Soft as chandana, in twilight’s room.
Dig not the dust, seek not the skies,
The path is carved where silence lies.
Is hridaya nāda too faint to hear?
Or drowned in māyā, cloaked in fear?
This Guru Purnimā, I bend and bow,
Not outward, but to the ātma now.
To his pāda, unseen, I cling—
And simply bhava, in everything.
When you pause, the world exhales—
a petal falls, a ripple stills,
and life, once distant, sits beside you
with a quiet, knowing smile.
When you race, the days blur past—
a flicker, a flash, no time to trace
the beauty etched in morning light,
the grace that hides in empty space.
When you feel, life breathes with you—
in sorrow’s hush and laughter’s sway,
each heartbeat echoes back a truth:
you were never meant to look away.
And when you dare to free your soul—
from shoulds, from fears, from needing more,
life gently lifts its veils of weight,
and opens you… from your own core.
Two shadows glide,
where silence breathes—
a hush of wheels,
on glassy streets.
The sky bends low,
to watch them pass,
its greys like prayers
in folded light.
No haste, no horns,
no need to speak,
just breath and time
in slow duet.
They carry dreams
that others left,
and journeys souls
cannot forget.
Perhaps the road
remembers all—
the ones who pulled,
the ones who rode.
Both pilgrims in
this fleeting world,
two rickshaws on
a silver ode.