Flowerbeds along the way


blooming blur close up daisy
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This Era,

Or That,

Life transpires in thread of breaths,

Moments walked,

They never aim for shores,


The destined seeked a cherished garden,

They missed countless flowerbeds,

Along the way……………………



-Rupika Moitra



इस दौर, उस दौर,

ज़िन्दगी की डोर,

पल गुज़रा, पंहुचा कहीं और

हम मंज़िलोह पर ढूंढ रहे थे अंजुमन,

और कितने गुल गुज़र गए




man wearing pants and jacket
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काश, इत्तेफ़ाक़ फिर दस्तक दे,

पहले के मंज़र की आहत हो,

ख्वाबोह के मुकल्लम होने पर,

ख्वाबोह में ही रहने की सज़ा मुकर्रर हो





  Chance knocks again,

 A moment cherised whipers again,

Send me an invitation,

which moment would be chosen now,

The one where the dream realised,


The one where

Staying in the dream forever was deemed;

The punsihment apt for a thirsty soul  ………..


-रुपिका मोइत्र्रा



Prayer for the Inner Temple


art back view black and white dark
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Let the thoughts drip away,

like sweat,

For the force they exert,

Let the wisdom seep inside,

Subtle in their delight

Absorbed in this parched being,

Are lessons lived.

Wounds disguised,

Becoming every ounce,

Drenching every inch,

This whole is of sweat and turmoil,

But also;

of untold glory and delight….


-Rupika Moitra


The fight between the self ( ego and the one that surrenders) is bigger than any war going outside. Every outside enemy/ war that propels one to choose side and fight is but a distraction not to fight the ‘egoic self’

“And if I take your enemy away

Who are you then? ”

Transcendence happens either voluntarily ( ascension) or pain/ trauma will bring the shift (dissension) it will definitely knock..

It knocks harder many times and break the pretence of who we are as narrated by the ego.

Poets like Robert Bly have deeply thought about it. People who brood about a value diminished culture with developments that doesn’t cater to life or nature try to

hold on to the horses of the thought and remind ourself again and again of our Nafs and the real war within us. And everything else is a BIG distraction

Well, three practices of fighting nafs

Ta’Jeel or Swiftness. A good deed must be done immediately and there should be no laziness.

Tehqeer or Contempt. You must look at your good acts with contempt otherwise you will become self-righteous.

Ikhfa or Secrecy. You must keep your good acts secret otherwise people will praise

you and it will make you self-righteous.

I can try,

Only try,

Maybe writing to you,

I am writing to me,


As soon as I think,

I must,

Maybe share content,

that’s substance to us


Chittick, William (1983). The Sufi Path of Love. State University of New York Press. p. 12. ISBN 0-87395-724-5

The waiting

landscape photography of brown field
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Baaz- umr,

Takte Takte,

Rihah huye,

Sulagte haste,

Bhor, subah, shaam,

Waqt ke dher,

Sarakte Sarakte,

Qaid, mushtek,

Baraste- haste,


Most of lifetime,

I stared at time,

I waited,

When freedom came,

I had burned myself yet I had a smile,

Dawn, morning and dusk,

Mildews of time,

They kept slipping away,

I am tied,

I am active,

I poured,

I smiled,

Then I looked at time,

Most of lifetime,

I stared at time…..

Rupika Moitra

I burned the bridge

waterfalls under brown bridge
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I burned the bridge,

For it led to the known station,

It leads me to containment,

It reassures and but it doesn’t satiates,

I still wanna walk a mile astray,


I burned the bridge,

It keeps me quiet,

It pacifies well.

The revolution inside,


I burned the bridge,

It’s too comfortable,

obstructing greatness,

The walked route,

It saves toil,

Takes away satisfaction,


I burned the bridge,

It gives what it wants,

It gives when it wants,

and I cannot receive,


I burned the bridge,

It wasn’t mine,

The bridge and me,

see across the ridge,

It reaches through me,

and I could reach through it,

But, of course,

I cut no deal with this bridge,


I will built my own,

From shrouded pensive molds of self,

It walks with me,

in me,


I need no bridge,

This path I know,

I must walk alone,

For all that paved path,

doesn’t lead,

doesn’t parch,


“I want to be loud,

I want to walk on thorns,

I want to smell the foul,

I rather be lost,

I rather foolishly chase,

than for this bridge to lead the way”



-Rupika Moitra




“I have been circling for a thousand years”- Rilke

It’s not the bread

Or the soup,

I can’t count it,

It’s never one

or four,

It’s not the pot,

Nor the grains in it,

It’s doesn’t serve the mind,

Nor exclusive to one soul,

It’s somewhere around the edge,

In an unfilled left place,

Should I be scared of fulfilment,

Where will it stay then?

I travel in between,

When I am lost,

I find it,

I travel in and out,

I know yet I don’t,

The pot doesn’t know who pours,

It quenches deep,

But how did it fill?

And when ‘out’, it pours,

The space,

it lets out freely,

It doesn’t hold,

In between self and higher,

Amidst suffering and surrender,

The space beholds

– Rupika Moitra