The Tunnel of Becoming

She walks alone, but not in fear,

Each step dissolves what once was near.

The walls are whispers, time-worn deep,

Of dreams that stirred while souls did sleep.

Isn’t it the way—from within, into becoming?

Isn’t it what a bud feels before blooming?

Isn’t it the story of nature in making—

A stillness before the miracle’s waking?

Light calls gently at the end—

Not as a finish, but as a friend.

A thousand selves she’s shed behind,

To meet the truth she’s yet to find.

For journeys start where endings glow,

And what we leave is what we grow.

She isn’t lost—she’s being made,

In shadows walked and light obeyed.

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Wholly Thine

I gave myself not piece by piece,

But like the dusk dissolves in night—

No claim, no name, no tethered voice,

Just silence tuned to sacred light.

No joy is mine, no sorrow too,

What comes, I wear like passing rain.

The sun may scorch, the moon may soothe—

I feel no pride, I bear no pain.

A flute I am, in breath Divine,

Played when He wills, in tone or pause.

No self remains, no “me” to seek—

Just service, song, and silent cause.

This is my path, my peace, my prayer—

To lose myself, and find Him there.

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What Time Left Unfinished

It was a quiet afternoon in Hampi. The sun fell gently across the ruins, casting long shadows on carved stones that had outlived kings and dynasties. I was walking with my guru—an architect by training, an excavator by passion, and a quiet philosopher when you least expect it.

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