Lightning screams aloud in pride,

Calling with shudders from sapphire sky,

Loud awakening for walking dead and alive,

To drench in rain of craft of life,

To prepare for sunshine,

To embrace blessings and learning alike,

To breath through chilled night with warmth of compassion,

To wake in bloom of hearts open for companions,

To behold solace on frisky night,

To pray not with methods and measures,

But with each living breath,










-Rupika Moitra


The shadow of collosal form,

It hides in me,

Me- torn in between,

To love with all of me,


Keep this primordial being to me,

Esteemed, I feel in its presence,

In love, can I sustain the absence?

In mutuality, do I bury it under paved brick wall of laughter,

Do I stand with me, without my shadows,

This confounding creature, to them, I be,

To lose it pains like arms cut out,

To gain it, suffering if over burdened cloud,

I live through life,

With droplets of my stoic assumptions,

But, where’s the equanimity?

Who are we?

Without primordial shadow of our ego,

Who are we?

If we let ourself free,

Branch without a tree…

Would we ever be free?

-Rupika Moitra

Oh!! Dusky one

grayscale photography of woman on garden
Photo by Yogendra Singh on

Your eyes gleam with kindness and wisdom,

and yet you, paint and paint,

The exterior in colours whose shades cover the brilliance of your own,

The pores of skin scream with the act of cruel disownment,

The self sighs and there somewhere, you hide, amongst it all,

You dim the day and you dim the night of your self-worth

Perhaps, you have accepted,

Alas, you have accepted,

Perhap, they have you, convinced,

That this dusk that evelopes.

This dusk, that creates nascent pattern of setting sun,

Aren’t  beautiful,

Their glow is not riveting,

The light of eye when you smile, when you speak doesn’t reach them,

Earth- born, what can I say,

But what can I do,

When I can’t  forgive you for listening and not rejecting,

Perhaps, the sun and the earth had to reject, projections of shades,

Not everything wants to turn pale and grey,

I yearn to see the shades that scare you,

They are your most beautiful,

But you, I admire when you own your love,

And defy those grades on your creation,

Humanness is inspired;

As you  stand  tall,

It makes all rise,

When in all shades, your glory is embraced

You are of  Sun and Earth.

Seize your blessed self, with pride….

Rupika Moitra

15th Fall

person soaking at the beachPhoto by Victor Freitas on[/caption]

It was a dusky warm evening, 14 falls ago… the kind that surges bliss. Hope seeped inside and swelled inside her. She walked believing that oblivion is strangely beautiful. He held the reins. She held the space between them. Burnt and scared, he didn’t let go of the reins. Those hands with power were inwardly curling to hide the hurts. When he did, she asked him to hold hers. Apprehensive and shaky, he did..unsurety in touch..She believed more in what it meant and grace was upon them. She covered his hands with all of hers. She held his with warmth of promise and protection of her love. She promised faith that she could give and asked him to try. Many moons later, She still places her hand over and under his curled ones. It blossomed a beautiful garden. She still places those hands of her under and over his to serve warmth, protection and promise faith but they are tired. They need to hold its own stem and hug it time and again to remind of the first share of the treasure, she willingly dwindles. She wishes he could uncurl and built his arms strong to lay over and under hers. She outstretches her arms sometimes hoping for a miracle. Hope and love play with the game of fleeting chase. 

Somedays she closes them around her as though to defend herself from pain and hurt of lost hope. I am scared for she might never place them again over and under another arm.

She waits and waits. Incessantly and patiently. They might pass through that dusky evening again. She passed it quite often in her mind. She sees her glee and smiles at her hope. But they never pass that moment together again. She throws up her arms in anger. That evening, so insignificant..Her mind can’t fathom. Why else wouldn’t they visit it again? So this fall she prepares the hand. She asked the bees to buzz and birds to sing songs from the same evening. She isn’t following the discourse anymore. This path they never pass through again is turning into a monster for her. It haunts her. She refuses for the hands to go unnoticed. He comes and looks at  hands and asks about the tray it holds.

She forgoes the hope and throws the tray and joins those arms together and prays. Prays to submerge them within her. She opens into abyss right in the middle of her heart and the hands submerge within, still joined. It all psychedelic here, colors are mixed-red, blues, browns and greens. Nothing is steady in this space, it is flowing but she noticed that her hands are still together. They are still joined. They seem like they can still bless but they have changed. Never again will they go over and under another hand.

-Rupika Moitra

Eastern mind

It accepts it all with a subtle glow of warmth,

Bend with gives and blessings,

It’s not pompous to claim to know,

Oh!! But it does,

Like telepathy between lover,

Every moon rise,

Every number,

Each flight of bird,

All innate objects speaks;

And yet the silence grows deep,

Universe of signs,

Asks them to rise,

Every sound vibrates with reverence of the soul;


The quest in you,

The meekness in you,

The embracing one in you,

That’s your Eastern mind,

The one that worries less on accounts of results,

And yet it works and carries the pains of life,

That is your eastern mind,

My eastern mind smiles,

When it recognises yours,

It cheers your “karma”

To know yourself,


Know all beyond….

-Rupika Moitra


My experience with my own Truth and spirituality has always led me to believe that what I was seeking couldn’t be seeked with ambition. The element to let go and let it take you with it, to trust it means letting go of your ‘egoic expectation of abilites.’ and flow with that I called in.pexels-photo-674258.jpeg

Within the shut doors of the house, the walls convulses,

They reverberates with stories,

of love shared, of pain fared,

they turn into filaments,

Aspiring to dissapear,

Merge into thin air,

Walls seek to bring the out, inside,

Between close eyes, the mind chatters.

It pulls and pushes between pain and pleasure.

Refusing to pause thriving in patterns.

It dangles in past stories,

It builds castles of dreams and hopes for future.

Trance breaths between the two.

You arrive at it,

Fleeting, evaporating,

Defying grasp and tendencies of its holder,

It flows,

It calls, it moves, it carves, it imitates,

It rises, It sets

All for flowing,

Till the cup that holds

molds into the Flow…..


Rupika Moitra






” Humans alike bird recognize the virtue of experiences

Landscapes, smell of air, smiles,eye contact, styles of niche creation, the color of aspirations as versatile as the colour of doors- synchronised or mismatched.

Its the seeking to love but first to understand. Sure, it started somewhere with quest of power (Alexander) or SpiceTraders.  Man is of instincts. He acts his way to redemption of soul

However, this quest for migration is real, it captures and pulls the soul like the magnetic field of Earth, guiding migratory bird to risk its life to live and feel its flight. It is innate that we risk contents of comfort for learning.”


Migratories are curtailed,

For territorial games,

Travel and change wasn’t just luxury,

The cost of it- Mortality,

Yet, you have to break chains,

Monotone, scarcity, placid of planes,

Transformation in height of mountains.

Every lost  breath craves,

Hope, it steads towards Peace,

Mapping magnetic field,

Pectoral plates moves,

Breaks to reconnect,

Planning and processing this feat,

Includes delay, adjust to change, intuits;

Construct and destruct, constant at play,

Knowing it all,

Why mammoth this soul, frailer,

Why then?

One walk towards, change willingly?


The futility of Unwillingness, we see;

Could ‘change’ be urged to stop?

If  we could;

Would we toil with cringe, quiver or shake;


Would we embrace ?

Rupika Moitra