the social disparity of balconies in delhi.

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

In various Indian middle-class families, the most easiest and prominent way of finding one’s economic status is by looking at their balcony. Some balconies are posh and modern, crisp and precise and some are old, broken and scream of a story often lost in the abyss of life. Most of the latter have a few defining traits. Wooden window frames, naked bricks and visible piping. If you are lucky, you might see a metal railing, put in either with the help of extended family or the government. 

Due to circumstances I had no control over, I stayed at a PG when I was 17; for those unaware it’s a concept of a hostel without the bounds of university. You pay to live as a guest. It has to be my innate desire to break down our entire existence in simple words, that I started observing the house right across the street from mine. Now, streets in the sub-urban areas of Delhi are drastically different from those of first-world countries. An average-height man could cover the street in 2 wide steps. More of a lobby really. Observable distances are quite helpful when you see the world in poetry.

On one such sunny May afternoon, I was at the balcony, the PG had a rather modern balcony, modern in terms of colour schemes and edges. Old Delhi homes embrace the idea of conversation and human interaction and thus their balconies were made round, with no sharp edges. Newer homes scarcely cared for neighbours and community.

You could also, almost eerily guess the age of a house in Delhi using the colour schemes. Newer houses have white, black, beige and dark brown covering the walls and floor, ceilings and furniture, but old homes, hold history. And history is never monotone. Bright red, faded now to a dark smudged remnant of the glory it once held.  Royal blue, painted in hopes of feeling some resemblance to the courts of the Mughals and their power over destiny, now left chipped, as most of the home’s fate would be incomplete. Bright yellow is a constant theme, in my opinion, it is the last strand of rejuvenation the owners wish to provide their homes with. 

Looking at a house from the other side of the street felt as if I was invading a land I wasn’t supposed to see. On the right side, I lived in this house, made in recent years, with air conditioning and white marble floors, and right across the street was a bigger but poorer house. Poor in its structure and it inhabited a few families, one the loudest, which I couldn’t help but write about. 

The children were often naked. Or clothes barely covering their infant self. They often lacked social dignity from others around them. They saw love and fight for compassion, as I did when I peeked into their life, snooping like the pretentious madman I was. Romanticising struggle as rich men often do. I saw screams, I tried hearing them too, but the vibrancy of the colours in their words forced my eyes wide open. What is the world to me? What is it to a 3-year-old who hasn’t eaten in 4 days? 

When I slept, I saw the ceiling above me, my room had a false ceiling, with light spilling out on all sides and a fan in the middle of the room, I had a bed, and a bedside table, on which I used to adorn my lamp, and a box of tissues, solely because I loved the colour of the cardboard. I must confess, I do not know what the ceilings of the house in front of me looked like. I can only assume. Suspecting the broken railings and chipped window frames, I imagine they must not have the luxury of air conditioning, but was it really a luxury?

Rich men emit carbon and the poor mines diamonds. Who is the culprit of nature?

I switch on the fan, and the air conditioning, and I let it run, so much so that I cover myself with a blanket, and I hear the naked infant crying in the sun. The older sister of that household, I remember, was an avid reader. She studied in a government school nearby, riddled with classism, casteism, and the impending discrimination of the national spirit. I smiled at her often, she couldn’t be older than 10. She had a few teeth missing. Despite it all, she never hid a smile. Until one day, when she started wearing a kurta and not her older brothers’ hand-me-downs. Her impending doom came quicker than our nation. Her smile disappeared faster than her younger brother got clothed.

As for me? I left the PG because I had to attend university in a different state. I think of her often still. Her house and the door that squeaked when it closed.

The chipped paint and the rounded edges. Inviting me to travel back in time, where houses were meant to invite, not boast.

When edges were softer,

and marble was a luxury. 

how to write poetry.

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

I have a feeling I wont be able to keep up with NaPoWriMo’24. I had to write 30 poems and here we are with 3 poems at day 13. I have tried writing everyday and the fact is, I have. I just haven’t completed 30 poems. For this month, I’ll do like 2 poems a week. More realistic of a goal, isn’t? Praying to all poetry gods (and to Dhriti). Have mercy on me. God bless. 

to write a poem one has to bare 
his naked soul on a window seat
inside a caravan to nowhere 
is what great philosophers say 
but today i’ll tell you what they really mean 
be 6, inside your house on a rainy day and watch your dad open the forbidden cabinet 
he takes a swig and then two 
and you ask what he’s drowning into 
he screams at your tiny self
wake up at the tender age of twelve
to screaming matches of your parents 
sounds resembling demons from hell 
16 and beg your father to stop 
his horrid ways of coping with life, 
plead till you drop 
in the meantime 
make some friends, lose all
make some poor decisions and make embarrassing falls 
fall in love, fall out of love for self 
be the man and regret never being the girl you once thought you were 
reminisce your childhood for what you never lived 
curse distant relatives for what they did
gossip and learn, indulge in books, 
banish socialisation and human interaction 
regret about never being your truest selves’ fraction. 
read Faulkner and the kinds, 
be indecisive, do not make up your minds 
and then when you have had enough and the blade is at your wrist 
pick up a pen and scream into the abyss 
write like the world’s on fire and your words can save the day 
be young, be the hero,
be the lover, be the villain, 
be old and be grey 
find people who listen when you scream of  the end 
redefine your definition of a friend 
trust more freely 
give people yet another chance
gamble on your first romance
be rigid 
and then be flexible with your stance 
think deeply but don’t forget to be vast 
don’t forget the lies, for the idiom goes- jack of all trades, master of none, is always better than master of one. 
forgive all, but be selective with what you forget
get a tiny dog, a tiny cat, or a random pet
do not let go of the pen that made it all possible 
start writing about the hard times 
move on to brighter themes 
be stuck in darkness then suddenly 
find sunshine beams 
be a flower. follow the stars. 
fall in love with the moon, despite of all the scars. 
i hope you understand now what it means
to bare ones naked soul on a window seat

Thanks for reading. Bye snakers.

love and grief sat across in a diner

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

Here’s to the second poem of NaPoWriMo’24. This isnt exactly based on a prompt- but a tangent on a random prompt I saw somewhere. There is not much I can say about this piece- which is rather rare for me. Writing vaguely isn’t something I’ve heavily delved in. But it was nice to tap into something not personal for once. To love and to grief. And their children- intensity.

love and grief sat across in a diner
both a splitting image of the other. 
the waitress asked what they would like, 
in synonymity they replied 
“intensity” and their eyes locked. 
what is more intense and than a lover on a rainy day?
but what is more intense than a grieved on a beach? 
both with passion in their veins 
shook the walls of speech 
i cannot look at you and smile, said love as it broke. 
i cannot look at you and cry, smiled grief as it bellowed 
for you are too sweet, and i too bitter, but made of the same fabric, in our truth we cannot lie
i am your rendition, said grief to love
i am you when you have nowhere to go 
i drink anger in cups of regret and 
neither you nor i can be forgotten
some look at me and search for you, whispered love at grief 
there’s you in me when directed at the wrong man 
but there’s us in them, and horror in each one of us 
said synonymously as they perched over the booth 
there stood a couple, young and in love, 
across the street a single old man waiting for his wife to grip his hands
she would never come and he would never stop wishing it wasn’t true 
never stop flexing his fingers for yet another touch 
love and grief sat opposite in a diner 
both a spill it if image of the other 
and there comes the waitress, 
“i’m sorry, i think i have your orders mixed up”. 
they laughed and disappeared into cups of coffee 
one black and one mocha
yet a splitting image of the other.

and with that, I am only a couple days behind. I hate institutionalised education.

bye snakers.

Only pride and no prejudice

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

This is my first time doing NaPoWriMo- a friend of mine was kind enough to make me aware about the existence of this challenge. And I was excited enough to be able and willing to do it. Here is my first entry- first of 30.

The challenge has prompts- optional, but I am not creative enough to write 30 poems without prompts. The first one said to write about a book plot- a book I hadn’t read in a long time. Here’s my version of pride and prejudice, and my recent discovery that I had in fact lived through a couple scenes in the book. Oh how I love Mr. Darcy. 


I was walking through the ruins of the mansion above the ocean
When I came across Darcy
Running through the grass fields by the ocean
He held his vision high and mighty
A strain of his hands
Flex of his fingers
And I came to the crude realisation that he wasn't inked on paper anymore
He was there- and I stood dumbfounded with a vigour that changed my bones
My own gown dipped to the core, from the rain that soaked my flesh
My flesh and my conservations
He was a god to my devotion that had no place to go before
I screamed at Darcy, he couldn’t be true but he simply swayed 
To the beat of the sun and the clouds that covered the rays
He shone so bright
I had to close my eyes
He had done everything to help my existence in the oceans 
And what had I done?
I didnt know- doesnt matter
I wasnt aware- I was too rude
But the look in his eyes
The simple acceptance of my being
The adoration of my smiles
The simple loving of my skin
And I couldn’t fathom he didnt ask for anything in return
What was this man- no Darcy wasnt this humble
And then my eyes burst into a thousand lights
And I saw myself sitting- in a temple- far away from the mansion above the ocean
And there sat my Darcy
In his glory, on my lap 
And the world made sense 
Only pride and no prejudice for the man I thought didnt exist
But my life had colour now,
Gowns dried down and flesh scratched
He kissed my scars away
My Mr. Darcy. 

The purpose of the challenge is to simply write. Not write masterpieces. Therefore this piece. Please forgive my horrid writing.

Bye snakers.

I have never been happier.

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

It’s been a month since my mom left me, alone, in a city whose language I do not speak and people I do not relate with. A month and I’ve met so many people, I’ve made friends, I’ve thought extensively about being alone and adulthood. I’ve managed to somehow be very quick with some people, trust them too quick. It’s not that I regret that decision yet, only time will tell, but im happy now. I’m happier now than I have been in a long time. It’s almost as if the thunder that once shook my spine has now subdued into soft whispers of the sea, barely audible, late at night. The music hasn’t stopped, but it’s a different genre now. The instruments are calmer now, a little more exciting also, but not at the cost of my sanity.

I think about the constant dilemma of being 17, away from the only reality you have known for your entire life. But in a month, the definition of home changes. Living alone and yet you feel surrounded by comfort. When there’s no crying at 3 am, when there’s sleep at 10, when there’s a schedule which is dull sometimes but also consistent and when there’s no screams of alcohol and drugs and addictions, I suppose, even grey seems better than black. And I often wonder if the sudden wash of calm I have let upon my being is a result of a cyclone’s aftereffects? Is this how it feels after a war tears apart a country? Is this how it feels to have an entire island change latitudes after a tsunami? I suppose it’s calmer than during the war, the remnants of what once used to be.

And in the process of enjoying my new found calm, there are bouts of anger and sadness and nostalgia for things that never happened. I feel angry at people for not letting me have a childhood, experiencing universal moments.

The disparity in expression and experience makes me sad and weirdly nostalgic too. Nostalgia for the heavy ‘what could have been’. The question that haunts the collective experience of human race, only because critical thinking was blessed upon us. Growing up and living alone in the capacity I am right now, is giving me perspective too. I am a firm believer that because we live in a world with 3 dimensions, our opinions on issues and topics should be, at the very least 2 dimensional. Thinking about people and cultures and words and art and history not only as an individual who was affected (or sometimes not) is evidence of narrow thinking. Said realisation has made me question the moral compass I once held and how I thought of the actions done by people around me. Everyone wishes they did things differently but most people end up choosing the option that suits them the best in the present. Hindsight is not a strong suit of humans apparently. 

A month I’ve been in a city, she’s pretty and she’s bold and she demands attention. She’s not the kindest of the lot, she’s not the most helpful at times, but she’s there, she’s strong and she lives and breathes determination. She has stood through storms and cyclones and she knows that there will be calm, before and after the destruction and tears, and she’s ready to pull herself back up. She’s not going anywhere. I’ve not met my family in a month and I’m happier than ever. It is calm, it is serene, but the city I live in, is teaching me to not expect it to last forever and be prepared for when the cyclone comes. Tsunamis never last forever, but neither does sadness and neither does tranquility. 

It’s nice to have that reminder often. 

Fear of the unknown.

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

As a young adult about to enter college, it is, obviously, a dilemma among others as to ‘what do I spend the next 4 years studying’, this is definitely the most crucial of them all. As a child with no external pressure regarding my course choices, it was all upto me. And although I had been procrastinating the ever evident ‘heart vs head’ for a solid 2 years now, this was the time to make a decision once and for all. Wether to follow my passion for words and diplomacy, or study business. I had a whole list of pros and cons that had seen multiple changes over the last years, I had talked to professionals in the fields, My own mother is a career counsellor for god’s sake. But yet, my mind had always faltered between these extremities. Safe vs Passion. 

Before delving into my inner dialogue, I wanted to touch on a rather sensitive topic. Financial insecurity. Lack of money as you grow up, or a traumatic incident wherein you experience a shortage of money suddenly, can alter your world view. Can make you question your Morales, ethics and sometimes, your integrity.  I experienced financial insecurity for a short while, it wasn’t ever as evident, my lifestyle had no sudden changes, but the underlying tension whenever my brother asked to eat out. My own hesitance when it came to asking mom for a new thing. Nothing was ever said, always felt. My mother handled the situation like an expert. I owe my entire being to her, but even a mother might not be able to understand what goes in her ward’s mind. Not her fault, not in the slightest, but sometimes it’s the situations that are to blame, not people. 

After experiencing an unsaid restraint of money, my entire concept of life changed. I started viewing my existence as a means to earn more money, my dreams, discarded. What are passions if they do not provide a comfortable lifestyle. I started preparing for entrance exams to the top business schools in India. I did so, with little interest because- it wasn’t something that I had honestly wanted to do. While applying to yet another business school I came across a course, one that was- quite honestly- a dream for a person like myself. Diplomacy, international relations, psychology, government, all wrapped up as different subjects, moulded into one perfect course. But, although I loved what they taught, I couldn’t bring myself to apply. With a lot of regret in my glassy eyes, I closed the tab. Let myself wallow, and went to class to prepare for B-School the next day. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t like business. A good amount of people said that my ideas had value. A few suggested I focus on entrepreneurship. And I respect and thank them to have such faith in me; A random 16 year old they had talked to, a handful of times in their lives. And I knew these weren’t the kind of people to flatter and appreciate shallowness. So there was substance in my preparing for business. But I knew that I could do B-School at 26, but I wouldn’t be able to do diplomacy at 32. The time limit for passion, was short. It required immediate action and dedication. On a random Wednesday evening, I offhandedly mentioned the course I so loved to my mother, as a ‘what is your professional opinion on this’, and her curt reply was ‘I’ve never heard of it’. Immediately my brain became foggy and I knew that I had wasted time even thinking that I could do this course, but her next sentence piqued my interest ‘But it seems like something you’d do well at. Tell me more.’ Enough to light a spark in my brain. I blabbered on and on about how this was the perfect course ever, it had the best subjects in one specialisations and it was so freaking interesting. My mom simply looked at me and smiled. The one which screams ‘I’m your mother and I know you better than you know yourself’. Enough to light a fire in my brain. 

I asked on the internet, used the hyped ChatGPT, an AI model to tell me about the career pathways by this course, found government departments I didn’t even know existed. I found a stable pathway after this degree, and then 5 more. And then the emotional rollercoaster started yet again. I cried almost every night, wondering if I should follow my heart or be practical. Humanities never pays enough. Science isn’t where my heart lies. Business isn’t something I want to do at this point in my life. Oh what an academic mess. 

Eventually, on one faithful night, I opened my email. There lied a mail from ‘The Daily Stoic’ a newsletter revolving around Stoicism; a philosophical theory publicised by Seneca and other great roman men way back in the day. The title read ‘Handle what you can control first’. An except from the letter says,

It’s interesting though how often we complain or chafe against these constraints…yet when the ball actually is in our court, we’re slow. We’re indecisive. We don’t do our best.

More than strange, it’s wasteful madness.’

And so the puzzle was solved at last. This is a decision I have to make, I have control over my life, I know where my interests lie. I had to consciously choose not to choose the easy way out. A run of the mill career pathway is so so enchanting. Get a good college, do a course, go to B-School, get into FAANG and you are set for life. There is no debate that some people enjoy this, some are good at it, and some get satisfaction from working 9-5. And it is not to shame the employees of big companies. But I knew that if I were to spend the next 30 years of my life in a MNC- I would be highly disappointed in myself on my death bed. Not because it would be ‘bad work’ but it would be work with no impact. I wouldn’t be able to improve anyones life but mine. I would think that I would die selfish in the most extreme sense, and I couldn’t settle with the idea. I decided that I needed to go big or go home, and home wasn’t comfortable. So I did what 30 people in all of India will be doing. I applied and got in, a relatively new course. Studying the national policies of India. With a glimmer in my eye, hoping to work on public policy. I am, ultimately, selfish, as most of us are, as I hope to do something the world will remember me by. But I think I can live with being selfish if it improves lives.

And I am not a pessimist, a realist maybe. If I do end up empty handed after a few gruelling years in this course of study, or if I end up wanting to pursue business ,I will always have the option open. There’s a backup plan for every backup plan in my books. (Probably why I considered Strategic studies in the first place)

To all the people reading this. I promise you, I dont- infact- know. I dont know if I made the right decision. Only life and time will tell. But if time does me right, if I do me right, I think I might be on the right path.  As I once read, ‘It is easy to steer a ship on water than on land’. Although there’s no shame in steering your ship, you need to get in the sea. See what lies ahead. 

A life on the waters is most probably more adventurous than on land I suppose. Wouldn’t be wasteful madness.

and what am I doing this for?

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

Recently, I have been thinking about the meaning of life, I hope I didn’t. The thing is, going to class, I often wonder why do I bother? Taking these classes, studying, giving my exams. Why does anyone bother? What is it that binds humans to one profession, one person, one kid, one place? Some answers, are very obvious, the way we have been taught about living is so- narrow, you’d think that we would have suffocated by now. The way we see our parents, and our grandparents, and our friends, their parents, our role models. It’s all very ‘singled out’ one-for-one.  But really, if that was the reason we were to live, if our entire existence was supposed to be held in different rooms, all within familial buildings, why is it that I seek the unknown? I have always thought of myself as a rational, logical person. Philosophy is interesting to think about, but implementing ideas so vague, seems like the most illogical, irrational thing to do, yet recently I find myself looking out for trees, and watching the neon signs as I pass them by, to stare at the temple gates and deities for a second too long, to feel- to really see, hear, touch. It doesn’t take alot of effort too, to notice and to be aware, yet the little extra push, the forcing of oneself to acknowledge their surroundings, to be present, is something humanity has forgotten along the way. We have no tyrant but ourselves. We have made moulds and have expected entire species to fit them.

The degradation of the human experience is evident. The ideal life, is no longer one that is satisfied, or happy, it is one which has stability. Does it root from our fear of the unknown?  Or the impoverished way we have learnt to live our lives? In cities as big as New Delhi, it isn’t difficult to find millions, ready to not step out of their comfort zone. To never challenge themselves too hard, to never take a leap of faith. I understand them, I really do. It was very hard for me to click on ‘BA English’ than the glorified, safe, easy- ‘B.Sc’. I defied a mould that day. I defied my own inhibitions about what I should be, I remodelled my destiny. But again, I ask, why did I bother about going to college? Why do I look forward to it? When it is, hopefully, evident that I despise the way our society functions? And college- or rather- institutionalised education is one of the most atrocious thing we have given ourselves? 

I would like to believe it is because of our desire to connect. The biggest leverage we have on other species, the reason why we continue to be at the top of the food chain, is because we have the gift of language, and of empathy.  Other species too, communicate, but the depth of languages and of art that we, as humans, have created is something to admire, each day. We have created a system, a complex symphony of small symbols, that tell how we feel, see, listen. The ability to give these words- sounds, and to add even further complexities to differentiate in their pronunciations, to add even smaller symbols to know how to speak a mixture of these words; the creativity, this is what makes us humans. Then why do we stick to the same old regular jobs? The same old places we grew up in? What are we so afraid of? 

Failure. I’ve talked about failure before, and I still, ardently believe that failure is an event, not an adjective. The reason why humans, despite having the skills, and knowing that they have the resources, fail to act boldly is due to their fear of failure. Fear in itself is binding, and failure is incapacitating. Together, they are bound to doom our growth. Some 150 years ago, most monarchy’s came to an end, capitalisation was on the surge and independent choices were encouraged. A new era- I suppose- of humanity had ascended. One where we were less afraid to try simply because it was the trend, slowly turning familial. People who took risks at the time, are now, surely, dead. But their families are enjoying the fruit of their labour. I am sure they too, lived lavish lives . Others which were too afraid, I am sure, remained so. Incapacitated by their own minds. 

And I understand the need for comfort. What are we if not beings of togetherness. The highest form of punishment to a human is not starvation, or lack of access to water. It is isolation. We are beings of society, and asking even the most illiterate of humans, you’d know that staying alone, causes ‘madness’. So I understand the need to be in familial surroundings. To not change, to fear having to be alone, in a place you’ve never been in, with a person you’ve never been with, to do a job you’ve never done;  even if that same comfort, is causing you more pain than peace. 

Why am I doing this, a tangential question from the problem I set out to resolve. Why am I applying to colleges, eager to be in a different place, to meet people I’ve never met before, to study subjects I’ve probably never studied before. Why? The answer is more simple than my philosophical takes on human civilisation. With living the way my parents, my cousins, my uncles, my role models have lived before, I hope to find hope. Hope to live a life that no one forgets, to impact people. To defend my humanity, to do something that couldn’t have been done by anyone else. To make decisions that inspire other people to do what their heart says, in a system that works mostly on brains. To have the final freedom. Freedom to see, to hear, to touch and feel. To live in places I’ve never lived in before. The world is such a small place, we think too largely of. I hope, that by doing what I am, I can achieve something memorable. Obviously, I mould to the pathways set 150 years ago. Life has made me cautious of risking too recklessly, but I know that if I give my progeny the freedom that I lacked, the resources I lacked, I could, at the very least, know that I am doing all of this, for my people, for hope.

Bye snakers!

17 is a weird age to be 

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

I turn 17 today if you can’t guess by the title already. Anyways, this is the confusion of being 17.

Also Lana Del Rey has my heart.

At the age of 12, you wonder if you’ll ever reach 
independence large enough to get a coffee on your own
Wonder wrapped in 14 year olds when you reach the mall 
and with wide eyes you glance across the massive structure
16 is the epitome of innocence 
and between childish humour and the age of universal suffrage, 
There’s the little awkward 17. 
I dont know what to do when I turn 17
Is it a day to mourn my childhood coming to an end 
or to celebrate the nerve wracking 18?
I am closer to 20 than I am to 15 and it is not fair 
It is not possible, I know I was 14 a couple days ago
Such a weird age to be- 17.

All songs are written for you but you relate to none of them
Such carefree grandeur 
Falling in love, falling out of love
Falling in general 
But I seem to be balanced 
And yet such sadness 
And the moment I turned 17 
I understood how fickle time was
There’s so much left to explore
And it feels like I’m almost done. 
My teenage has almost come to an end, but it’s still there. 
Almost- that is the word to explain my year. 
Almost an adult but not quite, 
Almost a child but too old now
Such a weird age to be- 17. 

I do not know if this will remain, 
The confusion, the chills
I study the entire night
Yet my mind is somewhere else
Did I loose my golden years?
Are they still out there?
Am I there? Will I ever be there?
Such melancholy 
Such a weird age to be- 17. 

It’s almost as if the number is stuck
Stuck between the shiny bright 16, where the world is at your feet
And 18 where nothing is yet investigated
There’s the little 17, 
Timid, shy and awkward
What is it about? 
Such a weird age to be- 17. 

But its not all regret muffled by a birthday cake
Today I feel liberation. 
There is so much yet to see
So many friends yet unknown
Many opportunities yet untapped
And even if it were the end today
I wouldn’t feel entirely too bad
It was a good ride, one to remember 
Almost there but not quite. 
Such a weird age to be- 17. 
Such a weird age to be.
Such a weird age to be.

Goodnight snakers!

Poets and Kings

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

Inspired by the song ‘soldier, poet, king”

I thought I’d get poet. I got king. Very fitting indeed. 

Born with a sword in hand, he was meant to rule
Spoke his words with symphony sadness forever ensued 
They couldn’t be more different even if they tried 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike. 

The one with the crown, which shone ever so bright
Wished he could give his responsibilities away, even if just for a night
The one with the mind bound to be hazy, 
Wished he could stop thinking about the horrors of existence
And not be as lazy
They couldn’t be more different even if they tried, 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike. 

Both were tired of living with a burden
One with the role to give away his life,
During the battles of Buxar or Verdun alike 
One living a life that seemed so carefree it was almost an illusion 
Only the poet knew that it was just a delusion  
They couldn’t be more different even if they tried, 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike. 

This isn’t to say that they didn’t have their own perks 
But shiny houses could only bring so much identity  
And not having to saving a kingdom could bring only so much serenity 
Living as imposters in their skin, 
They had been curated by their own kin.
They couldn’t be more different even if they tried, 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike. 

He woke up at midnight almost every day. 
With ideas blooming in mind, some he wished went away. 
He was a tortured soul having seen the world raw, 
He knew they could chew him up so he had to put up a thick wall

On the other hand, he was fed with gold, 
Silver and diamonds were used to make his home. 
He had no recollection of when he chose to bear the throne, 
He could only remember his years alone. 
There weren’t many, who shared his sadness 
Only few were meant for this madness. 

On a doomed full moon night
Both of them sat up straight, 
As the moon sparked through their windows, 
“why do i have to grow
why do i have to do anything
cant i just let my demons consume me and simply die” 
They knew that was just wishful thinking, 
They knew the moon was their only linking. 
They couldn’t be more different even if they tried, 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike. 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike. 
This is the melancholy of poets and kings alike.

Thanks snakers for reading. Love you all!

Does money buy happiness?

Posted on by Jahnavi Dhir

I used to think that if I got rich, I would be magically happier.

– Emma Chamberlain

“When I was younger, my answer would’ve have been- yes. I always had everything I need(ed). I had an incredible childhood, but I was always comparing myself to the rich kids at school. It made me feel angry and resentful because their lives seemed easy. Even though my life was incredible. But I still felt bad because I didn’t come from money.”

This is a rough extract from Emma Chamberlain’s podcast. And this is the experience of many children growing up. She goes on to mention how when she had just started making money as a 17 year old, the luxuries she could afford further solidified her belief. But nonetheless, the question still stands, Does money buy you happiness. Well for starters one has to identify what happiness means to them. Is happiness in saving millions for an early retirement. Is it spending quality time with your loved ones. Or is it in meeting the societal demand of a big house, bigger bank account?

For many people, happiness is complex, and as human nature goes, the concept of happiness is every evolving among most populations. From wanting a good nice Hyundai to maybe the cheaper SUV to the next new Ferrari, our wants never stop. And for a second; objectively thinking, that is a good thing. If our aspirations go dormant, so does our will to live and explore. Now, that is not ideal is it? Our goals and hunger to achieve them are not only respondent to our own self image but are also vital for the company we work with, or the people we love. Having no goals is reflective of a sad, sad life. But again, if sadness lies in not wanting anything, is happiness the opposite of it? Wanting all and always?

Well, no. The theory of humanity has always been in  extremeties. We love to believe that it’s all black and white. But ironically, the most interesting thing that we are yet to explore in the human brain is the grey matter. The part that is neither black nor white. Having said that, it is the truth that when your basic necessities are met you will be happy. There is no doubt that someone with a small cramped apartment and having barely any money to feed themselves will not be nearly as happy as someone who doesn’t have to worry about the next meal and the electricity bill next month. The freedom of travel that money gives you. The liberty of having access to quality health care these are all immeasurable. But still, what is happiness? 

Many believe that it is a subjective question impossible to answer. I dont. I think that happiness is when a person does not have to worry about much in their lives. It is not possible to live a stress free life. Stress is not a one off event. It is engrained in our living and you cannot imagine to live without it. But again, happiness, I believe, is when you can stop working for a few days when you dont feel well, you can afford quality education for your kids, provide yourself with good opportunities; when you have a nice little backyard with a dog and life doesn’t feel like living on thorns all the time. Financial independence is not overrated. Pseudo happiness lies in the macro luxuries. In the best red car, in the diamond studded gowns. Things that can wear with time. Education, experiences and moments remain forever, bags and houses they rust and wither. The beauty fades the brain remains. 

So, does money buy you happiness? Yes and no. Because sure it can give you the freedom to explore, resources to have memories and experiences that you otherwise would have missed out on, but on the other hand, in the pursuit of making said money, you may loose on the people you can share the experiences with. Making huge money often has a pattern. 4 wives, 7 kids, all from different wives and girlfriends. You might earn a good amount but you have no family to share the money with. The only leverage is, with insane money, you can buy friends. And the thing is, in todays date, money isn’t that hard to find, but authentic relationships and experiences are worth the world, the world and beyond.