She leans from sky to fragile thread,
Not to be seen, but to keep them fed.
No hymns are sung, now vows are said –
Yet time bows low where her wings tread.
In a cradle of breath, on bamboo sway,
She brings the dawn in her own way.
Not with thunder, not with flame,
But with a hush that has no name.
Who says the sacred lies in stone?
Here, in silence, love has flown.
And if you pause, the wind might say—
She’s held the world in beak and clay.
“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.