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Santosh Jangam

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"Spark in the Crowd" In a bustling crowd, our eyes met, Love's sweet song, a silent set. Words whispered soft beneath the skies, A spark ignited, hearts in ties. Nearer we drew, words fell away, Distance veiled, longing stayed. In this moment, your warmth I yearn, Nurture love, darkness spurn. In an instant, the world transforms, Your gaze warms, love forms. Cherish this love, this time, Our journey, forever climb. ©Santosh Jangam #Poem The poem captures the essence of love at first sight, highlighting the instant connection, unspoken emotions, and the yearning for lov

"Spark in the Crowd" In a bustling crowd, our eyes met, Love's sweet song, a silent set. Words whispered soft beneath the skies, A spark ignited, hearts in ties. Nearer we drew, words fell away, Distance veiled, longing stayed. In this moment, your warmth I yearn, Nurture love, darkness spurn. In an instant, the world transforms, Your gaze warms, love forms. Cherish this love, this time, Our journey, forever climb. ©Santosh Jangam #Poem The poem captures the essence of love at first sight, highlighting the instant connection, unspoken emotions, and the yearning for lov

Santosh Jangam

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"Unspoken Love" In wordless realms, our bond holds sway, Emotions silent, yet they betray. Heart's desires, in stolen glance, Flames ablaze, in silent dance. Loyalty firm, yet mind does roam, Seeking solace, amidst tempest's foam. Touches speak, where words retreat, Parting joy, sorrows fleet. Laughter's call, with sigh embraced, In imperfect world, love's grace. Pleasure's dance, in transient trance, Thread of wisdom, in life's advance. I, star bright, in vast expanse above, Spreading peace, with steadfast love." ©Santosh Jangam #"Unspoken Love" The moral of the poem is that love speaks through silent gestures, enduring despite challenges, and offering solace amids

"Unspoken Love" In wordless realms, our bond holds sway, Emotions silent, yet they betray. Heart's desires, in stolen glance, Flames ablaze, in silent dance. Loyalty firm, yet mind does roam, Seeking solace, amidst tempest's foam. Touches speak, where words retreat, Parting joy, sorrows fleet. Laughter's call, with sigh embraced, In imperfect world, love's grace. Pleasure's dance, in transient trance, Thread of wisdom, in life's advance. I, star bright, in vast expanse above, Spreading peace, with steadfast love." ©Santosh Jangam #"Unspoken Love" The moral of the poem is that love speaks through silent gestures, enduring despite challenges, and offering solace amids

Nitin K. Ravi

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Unspoken Bond "I've always fancied girls who can make me feel young, both physically and emotionally. So, someone around 19-25 will do. Can I have one?" he pondered aloud in the dimly lit brothel. "I've hardly seen men going for immature ones," the Madamé retorted, to which he remained silent. "Bhagat, get him Celine," she instructed the man standing behind her. Bhagat motioned for him to follow, leading him through a passage to a room where Celine awaited. She appeared young, likely in her twenties, with dark hair, parted in the middle, big, dark, kohl-lined eyes, and a dimple on her left cheek. Tall with fair complexion, she wore a purple top, her lips as red as roses with cherry-like lip gloss. As they arrived, he noticed Bhagat and Celine exchanging glances before he was ushered in. Upon entering the room, he was struck by a painting on the wall, triggering a flood of memories. Shaking off the sensation, he found Celine sitting on the bed, legs parted, inviting him. After some awkward glances, she began to undress. "Let's break some walls today," he interjected before she could fully undress. "Sir, we are whores, and whores are not allowed to build walls around them, so there are no walls to break," she responded firmly. "But I see many," he countered, locking eyes with her. "We aren't allowed to make peace, do what you have come here for, and leave, mister," she insisted. He smiled, lighting a cigarette, and remarked, "I've been with many prostitutes, but you are different." "Everyone says the same," she laughed. "But not everyone makes you feel the same," he replied instantly. "Sir, prostitutes are not allowed to fall in love," she stated, meeting his gaze. "But men are allowed to fall in love with prostitutes," he reasoned. "There is hardly anyone left to fall in love with." A heavy silence enveloped the room until she finally spoke. "The walls of this room have witnessed enough chaos, tranquility, and different shades of skin" "We're more alike than you think," he admitted after a moment's reflection. "Have you also sold your body?" she inquired softly. "No, but I once fell in love with someone," he confessed tearfully and after a pause continued "She was fond of buying portraits. She had the same painting that hangs on the wall of this room. I've been to this brothel many times, but I've never seen the painting before. When I did, it reminded me of her." She grasped his hand tightly, offering solace. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he asked, "Don't you dream of being free?" "Dreaming is pleasant until it clashes with reality," she replied, turning away to reveal belt marks on her back, remnants of a failed escape attempt. "People usually come here for a little fun after work, to feel loved, or to satisfy their lust," she continued after a pause. "Everyone wants to love and be loved," he remarked. "Not everyone. We're not even allowed to mention that word, let alone wish for it," she asserted. "It's ironic how someone who makes others feel loved isn't allowed to dream of it," he mused. "Shall we proceed with why we're here?" she interrupted the silence, to which he responded, "No, I don't feel like having sex with you." "Then what do you feel?" she inquired. "I feel like I need love, not sex," he confessed and kept 3000 ₹ on bed. "Sir, I think you're in the wrong place. You can leave now," she insisted, returning the money he had left on the bed. "Let's hope we won't meet again," she added, turning away without meeting his gaze. "Why?" he asked. "Because it would be painful for you, and peaceful for me," she replied. "We'll meet again, in a world where there's fear but also courage. Selling your skin takes courage. Standing up for yourself takes even more." Saying that, he placed the money in a drawer near the door and exited the room. ©Nitin K. Ravi Unspoken Bond #Love #sad_feeling #Broken #ishq #Dard #Pain #SAD

Unspoken Bond "I've always fancied girls who can make me feel young, both physically and emotionally. So, someone around 19-25 will do. Can I have one?" he pondered aloud in the dimly lit brothel. "I've hardly seen men going for immature ones," the Madamé retorted, to which he remained silent. "Bhagat, get him Celine," she instructed the man standing behind her. Bhagat motioned for him to follow, leading him through a passage to a room where Celine awaited. She appeared young, likely in her twenties, with dark hair, parted in the middle, big, dark, kohl-lined eyes, and a dimple on her left cheek. Tall with fair complexion, she wore a purple top, her lips as red as roses with cherry-like lip gloss. As they arrived, he noticed Bhagat and Celine exchanging glances before he was ushered in. Upon entering the room, he was struck by a painting on the wall, triggering a flood of memories. Shaking off the sensation, he found Celine sitting on the bed, legs parted, inviting him. After some awkward glances, she began to undress. "Let's break some walls today," he interjected before she could fully undress. "Sir, we are whores, and whores are not allowed to build walls around them, so there are no walls to break," she responded firmly. "But I see many," he countered, locking eyes with her. "We aren't allowed to make peace, do what you have come here for, and leave, mister," she insisted. He smiled, lighting a cigarette, and remarked, "I've been with many prostitutes, but you are different." "Everyone says the same," she laughed. "But not everyone makes you feel the same," he replied instantly. "Sir, prostitutes are not allowed to fall in love," she stated, meeting his gaze. "But men are allowed to fall in love with prostitutes," he reasoned. "There is hardly anyone left to fall in love with." A heavy silence enveloped the room until she finally spoke. "The walls of this room have witnessed enough chaos, tranquility, and different shades of skin" "We're more alike than you think," he admitted after a moment's reflection. "Have you also sold your body?" she inquired softly. "No, but I once fell in love with someone," he confessed tearfully and after a pause continued "She was fond of buying portraits. She had the same painting that hangs on the wall of this room. I've been to this brothel many times, but I've never seen the painting before. When I did, it reminded me of her." She grasped his hand tightly, offering solace. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he asked, "Don't you dream of being free?" "Dreaming is pleasant until it clashes with reality," she replied, turning away to reveal belt marks on her back, remnants of a failed escape attempt. "People usually come here for a little fun after work, to feel loved, or to satisfy their lust," she continued after a pause. "Everyone wants to love and be loved," he remarked. "Not everyone. We're not even allowed to mention that word, let alone wish for it," she asserted. "It's ironic how someone who makes others feel loved isn't allowed to dream of it," he mused. "Shall we proceed with why we're here?" she interrupted the silence, to which he responded, "No, I don't feel like having sex with you." "Then what do you feel?" she inquired. "I feel like I need love, not sex," he confessed and kept 3000 ₹ on bed. "Sir, I think you're in the wrong place. You can leave now," she insisted, returning the money he had left on the bed. "Let's hope we won't meet again," she added, turning away without meeting his gaze. "Why?" he asked. "Because it would be painful for you, and peaceful for me," she replied. "We'll meet again, in a world where there's fear but also courage. Selling your skin takes courage. Standing up for yourself takes even more." Saying that, he placed the money in a drawer near the door and exited the room. ©Nitin K. Ravi Unspoken Bond #Love #sad_feeling #Broken #ishq #Dard #Pain #SAD

Sahaj Sabharwal

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EVENT CANCELLATION CHRONICLES  The event for which we all admired, Was cancelled because the God transpired. Everyone's feeling was hurt, especially of mine, Self-supporting like all is well, I am fine. Plan was not successful according to the plot, It was cancelled with a disturbing thought. The two situations seem alike, Just like rain flooding the kite festival type. No idea if the rain was muddying, Or if my eyes were flooding. Heart was broken, Unexpressed dreams were depressed, unspoken. All preparations seemed unrooted from depth, Hidden talent remained unexplored with death.  The situation seemed untrue, Maybe through God, there might be some benifit in this abandonment too. - Sahaj Sabharwal  B.E AERONAUTICAL ENGINEER (Jammu city, J&K, India) ©Sahaj Sabharwal #Man EVENT CANCELLATION CHRONICLES  The event for which we all admired, Was cancelled because the God transpired.

EVENT CANCELLATION CHRONICLES  The event for which we all admired, Was cancelled because the God transpired. Everyone's feeling was hurt, especially of mine, Self-supporting like all is well, I am fine. Plan was not successful according to the plot, It was cancelled with a disturbing thought. The two situations seem alike, Just like rain flooding the kite festival type. No idea if the rain was muddying, Or if my eyes were flooding. Heart was broken, Unexpressed dreams were depressed, unspoken. All preparations seemed unrooted from depth, Hidden talent remained unexplored with death.  The situation seemed untrue, Maybe through God, there might be some benifit in this abandonment too. - Sahaj Sabharwal  B.E AERONAUTICAL ENGINEER (Jammu city, J&K, India) ©Sahaj Sabharwal #Man EVENT CANCELLATION CHRONICLES  The event for which we all admired, Was cancelled because the God transpired.