“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.
A few months ago, I caught myself staring at a flickering cursor on an empty screen. No deadline. No urgency. Just an unsettling stillness. It wasn’t quite sadness, and it wasn’t burnout.
It was languishing—that quiet fog that dims even the good days, where presence is replaced by mere persistence, and joy becomes a distant visitor.
Oddly, I wasn’t alone in it.
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.