The Right Station or the Wrong Train?

 I’ve been thinking about two proverbs.

The first is Japanese: “If you get on the wrong train, get off at the nearest station. The longer it takes you to get off, the more expensive the return trip will be.”

The second is Indian: “Sometimes the wrong train takes you to the right station.”

At first, I saw how beautifully complementary they are. But they left me with a swarm of questions. When I make a decision-when I get on a “train” how am I supposed to know if it’s the right or wrong one? How do I know if the result is what I truly need?

What if I’m cursed to always pick the wrong train and end up at the wrong station, bearing the cost alone? What if I never even realize I’m on the wrong train? Or what if I do realize it, but I have no idea where the “nearest station” is to get off?

And what about the other side? What if the wrong train does take me to the right station, but I don’t recognize it when I arrive?

It all makes me wonder. Isn’t the purpose of life simply to not give up? To just keep trying? If that’s the case, why should I care so much about what train I’m on? Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I just want to keep going, trusting that in the end, I’ll figure out what I need.

                                                                                                                                    ~Dee

MY ONLY

 You were the name I never said aloud,

The laughter behind my bedroom door.

High school halls and late-night rain,

Your eyes were home, though I wanted more.

You left before I could turn around,

Life moved faster than we knew.

I wrote your name in fading ink,

But growing up erased the view.

We met again when the frost had settled,

Not in spring, but in stillness and grey.

Words we swallowed, pain we borrowed,

All came back on that quiet day.

Was it fate, or just forgotten timing?

Was it love, or something we outgrew?

But when you smiled through the silence,

I knew the frost hadn’t taken you.

You were the warmth I kept behind walls,

Pretending I didn’t care at all.

I watched you grow from far away,

Too late, too proud, too afraid to fall.

Now we share the same four walls,

Mornings blurred with silent tea.

I reach for cups you touched too long,

And wish you’d reach again for me.

Sometimes love hides in the ordinary,

In mismatched mugs and late replies.

But frost can’t kill what bloomed in memory

It only waits for clearer skies.

So we met again in the hush of frost,

Not as strangers, but something true.

Not the fire of first confessions

But the ember I still saw in you.

And if this time, we move more slowly,

I’ll stay, no matter what we do.

Because love that lives through silence

Was never really through.

I fall in love

 I fall in love every day, every minute,

Every time I see him, my heart skips a little.

Maybe that’s what love is.

He smiles when his friends crack a joke,

And I catch myself wondering

Will he ever smile like that because of me?

Maybe that’s what love is.

The quiet comfort of a warm cup of tea,

The way it feels like home before you even take a sip.

The shift from rolling my eyes at love songs

To actually listening to the lyrics.

Once, I thought it was all cringe

The stolen glances, the late-night texts,

The way people lost themselves in love.

Now, I catch myself wanting it too.

I cry a lot, but I am productive

The torn papers,

a room in disarray,

tears drying on my face

but the work still gets done.

Crying myself to sleep,

yet waking up to push forward.

Falling apart at night,

building everything back by day.

Is this all I dreamt of?

Maybe not.

But maybe this is how I keep going.

I break, I mend, I create.

Maybe this is just my way

to cope, to heal, to move.

I cry a lot,

but I am so productive. 

                                                                                                                                                       - Deepika

Tacenda

 Not out of fear,


but because not everything


needs to touch the light.


Some thoughts bloom in the dark,


stay hidden,


like the pulse beneath a wrist,


like the whisper in a crowded room


that no one hears,


but everyone feels.

These are the words


we carry in silence—
because once spoken,


they might break us.


So we let them drift,


become part of the air,


the moments that slip away


without notice.

And in that silence,


we speak everything.

Sisters in Blame, Victims in Silence

 They said my dress was the problem, but what about my sister’s?

She was just a child, wrapped in cloth to stay warm in the cold.

Another sister, a doctor, wore a coat to save lives—was that the problem?

They said I was out at the wrong time, but what about my sister?

She only stepped out for lunch—did she deserve what happened?

Now, they blame my sisters, calling them wrongdoers instead of victims.

But it doesn’t matter how old they were, what they wore, or what they did.

As long as they are women, they are blamed when men do wrong.

My eyes beg for justice, but it is denied.

Is this place safe for anyone?

Or are we just imagining a world where truth and fairness exist?

In reality, the wrongdoers walk free,

And the victims are treated like criminals, forced to suffer.

Shame on us for living in a world like this.

-Deepika

Love

 I hate love.

Nah, I love love.

Love that speaks without words.

Silence does the work.

No need to pretend.

They prioritize, understand, and wait.

Movie nights, shared playlists, and book talks.

Remembering every detail.

If this isn’t love, I don’t know love.

-Deepika