Pratap

MUSIC - POETRY - MEDICINE

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“For you, a thousand times over.”

I think my whole definition of love comes from this single quote.

I think When people say “I love you,” it’s beautiful. But sometimes I feel like those three words are still too small for certain emotions. Sometimes love is so deep, so heavy, and so real that language cannot fully hold it.

And that’s why this quote stayed with me so deeply.

For you, a thousand times over means that whatever I’m doing for you right now, I would do it again a thousand times without changing a thing. I would listen to your stories a thousand times, wait for you a thousand times, protect you a thousand times, and choose you a thousand times, even if life gave me a thousand chances to walk away. even if every choice led me back to the same pain, the same distance, or the same ending.

Because Love, to me, was never just about saying beautiful things or staying only when life is easy. Sometimes love is patience. Sometimes it’s sacrifice. Sometimes it’s choosing someone again and again, even when nobody notices it.

To me, that is love in its purest form: not loving someone because it is convenient, but loving them so deeply that your care for them becomes part of who you are.

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[pratap075]

Sandstorm

I wish I could wash you away like I wash away the sand from my face after a day out, but I couldn’t.

I know you’re a sandstorm, but me, the one who was born in the ocean, had never seen a sandstorm before

So I ran towards you like the waves of the ocean run towards the shore.

And by the time I realized you were a storm,

it was already too late.

The sand was no longer resting on my skin.

It had entered me.

I felt it settling in the arteries of my heart,

filling my lungs until breathing itself became difficult.

It buried itself inside my eyes so deeply

that whenever I tried to look at something beautiful,

all I could see was dust

And now the storm has passed,

but I remain

like dirty water collected in some forgotten pit

far away from the ocean I abandoned just to reach you.

Sometimes I wish I had stayed still and let you come to me instead. Maybe then I could have pulled you into my depths, drowned (your chaos inside my endless trenches, and kept you there forever.

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[pratap075]

My Final Act of Love.

My final act of love would be to write a poem on you.

A poem that follows no rules

no metaphors, no rhymes,

nothing that poetry is supposed to obey.

I’d write it on the very first page of my diary,

the one I’ve always left blank

because I once read that the first page is meant for God to see your work.

But what use is God to me,

if I don’t have you to look at?

I’d use my favourite pen to write that poem

the one whose ink takes a moment to dry

but never once betrays the paper.

How strange and paradoxical it is that

it’s the same pen I once used to write your name somewhere in my diary

I’d spray that page with the last drop of my favourite perfume

the one I saved even after it was discontinued,

as if I knew it would be needed for something like this.

And Even though I have stencils which I use to draw perfect shapes in my diary,

But on that page I’d draw a heart freehand.

even though I know I’m very bad at it.

I always make the right side bigger than the left,

but that’s alright.

I’ll forgive myself for this too

For not being that perfect

in anything I’ve ever loved.

And this time, I won’t recheck my words.

No grammar corrections, no spellcheck.

I’ll leave the mistakes untouched

because I know I’ll never recite this poem aloud.

And if by some miracle you ever read it,

you’d already know every word I tend to misspell.

That would be my final act of love.

Not erasing, not correcting

just leaving it,

as it is,

as we were.

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For me, you are my God, but for you, I’m just a temple.

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"The Temple You Left"

For me, you are my God,

But for you, I'm just a temple.

You knew exactly that the day you left me,

I would be abandoned, not you.

People placed you in another temple,

more beautiful than me

with pillars made of gold

and corridors carved from marble.

But me…

the one who built my whole existence around you,

had no golden pillars,

only ordinary stones

with your name engraved on them a thousand times.

My corridors were narrow,

yet the walls breathed with your portraits

every corner whispered your name,

every crack carried your scent.

And when you left,

your devotees lifted you high into the heavens,

placed you on a throne taller than my walls,

set a golden crown upon your head,

and drove a spear of iron through my heart.

They demolished me,

shattering every pillar that bore your name.

I fell to the ground, stone by stone,

raising clouds of dust that still smelled like you

and then I fell into silence, into nothingness.

But you know…

after so many years,

a small green plant has grown in the same place

where you once lived in my heart.

I have built a little wall around it from my broken stones,

because I know

this tree will die with me

the day someone tries to take it away.

I am still a wall, still a temple

but this time,

I hope that my God is not as cruel as you.

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[pratap075]

"Beyond The Cover"

Soo.. There is a friend of mine who makes book covers.

She takes an existing book, removes its original cover,

and redesigns it, sketching by hand, painting it,

turning it into something visually beautiful,

and then selling it.

So Once, I asked her,

“Do people really buy customized covers

more than the original books?"

She said, “Yes, they do.

But mostly, people ask for customization

only for books that are already loved

books that are popular,

books with powerful stories that have survived time.”

She told me that sometimes

she chooses the wrong book.

And even after putting hours into the artwork,

even after making the cover as beautiful as she can,

the book just sits there.

Waiting.

Struggling to be sold.

And I realized,

this is true for humans too.

If the story inside you is weak,

if the character you carry lacks honesty or depth,

no amount of effort put into making the cover pretty

will work forever.

At some point,

people will sense the emptiness.

They’ll feel the mismatch

between what they see

and what they experience once they come closer.

We might attract attention for a while

with beauty, with charm, with that carefully curated images,

but that attention fades when the story doesn’t hold.

Yet most of us are running after aesthetic covers

our appearance, our image, our surface

how presentable our lives appear from the outside,

and most of us never working on the story we carry within.

We rarely work on our patience, kindness, and courage,

or question our values

that character we’re becoming.

And maybe that’s why

so many people look extraordinary

but feel hollow when you try to read them.

Because in the end,

a beautiful cover may invite someone in

but only a meaningful story

makes them stay.

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[pratap075]

In order for me to write poetry that isn't political, i must listen to the birds and in order to hear the birds, the war planes must be silent.

[pratap075]

The Last Flame

One day,

I asked a firefly

don’t you ever get exhausted,

lighting up the dark

as you keep wandering around?

If you love the light so much, then come,

let me take you

to that fading glow of a lamp.

You can gaze at it to your heart’s content.

Why keep running about

until you are utterly worn out?

One day, just like that, I asked a moth

why do you burn yourself to ashes

by flying into a blazing light?

If you love the light so much, then

come, let me take you

to that dimming flame of a clay lamp.

Sit in my palm and watch it fully, peacefully.

But after speaking to them for a while,

I began to understand, they wish to hold

the light somewhere within.

The firefly,

until it is completely exhausted,

wants to keep the light alive.

And the moth

would rather burn into ashes

than witness the light fading away.

For them,

more important than their own end

is keeping, the light alive.

That is why

the moth sitting in my hand

burns into ashes, in the lamp’s final flickering flame.

And the firefly,

before the electricity goes out,

sets off again somewhere into the sky

once more, to tire itself completely.

Perhaps that is why,

even in the pages of history,

women burned in flames,

and men, fighting on battlefields,

smiling even as they fell, gave their lives.

Because perhaps

for them it was easier

to end themselves

than to watch

their light

fade away.

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[pratap075]

Posting a few lines that stayed with me. You can find the whole write-up on my tumblr feed!!

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[pratap075]

Posting a few lines that stayed with me. You can find the whole write-up on my tumblr feed!!

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[pratap075]

"The Last Frame"

I once read that after dying, the brain stays alive for seven minutes, and in that time, it plays a montage of our entire life. I often think about that moment. When that montage begins, every memory I have ever lived will appear for just a few seconds, maybe even milliseconds. But you… you’ll stay longer. I know you will. Because you lived inside me deeper than any other emotion I have ever known.

The details of you are etched in me more clearly than any moment of my life, the lines of your hand, like the bark of an ancient tree, as if they had lived a thousand years before me and would live long after I’m gone. Your eyes, I remember watching how they constricted when light fell on them, and how I saw my own reflection inside them. It wasn’t like any mirror I had ever looked into. That reflection has become the longest memory of light that ever lived inside me, that version of me - lives deeper inside than even my own face does.

And when I lay on your chest, I heard, for the first time, what a heartbeat truly sounds like. That soft, steady thump, it entered my ears and created a vibration that matched the rhythm of my own heart. That heartbeat has become the longest memory of sound that ever lived inside me.

Maybe in those seven minutes, the world around me will fade, faces will blur, voices will melt into echoes, but I think your laughter will stay. That smile, the one that appeared before every word you spoke, will play again like an old film reel, slightly faded but still golden.

I’ll see us walking, talking about nothing and everything at once, the sky above, the sound of rain, the way silence felt comfortable when it was you beside me. I’ll feel that air again, the one that carried your name softly, even when no one spoke it.

And maybe, in those last few seconds, my mind will reach for you the way my hands once did, not to hold you, but to remember how it felt to. Because memories are strange; they don’t age, they just wait.

If heaven exists , I think it must look like that moment your face turning slightly toward the light, your eyes catching mine, the world pausing for just a breath. Maybe that’s what eternity really is, not endless time, but one perfect minute that refuses to die.

So when my seven minutes come, and the film of my life begins to fade to white, I know it won’t end with my last breath. It’ll end with you standing in the middle of it all, the last frame before everything turns silent.

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[pratap075]

Unfolding another fragment from my poetry & write-ups series, “Fragments of Me”

This one is called “The Last Frame”

It’s about that final moment, when memories blur, time slows, and everything begins to fade yet one face, one presence, refuses to leave the frame. ✨

[academic-vampire]

The biggest compliment ever is when someone sees your creative work and says that they’re now inspired to go out and create something, too

[pratap075]

Super excited to share the first episode of my new poetry & writups series “Fragments of Me”.

This one is called “Patience” I hope it touches your heart and gives you a little pause to reflect today. 💛

[pratap075]

"PATIENCE"

I hope I meet her again in another life. It makes me wonder how much patience we truly have when it comes to love. As humans, we are always running, always rushing, we want everything here and now, as soon as possible.

Yet, when it comes to love, everything changes so drastically. Suddenly we find ourselves saying things like, “I hope we meet in another universe,” or “If I’m reborn, I hope you’ll be there too.”

And I think that is the hidden beauty of love, it teaches us patience. It makes us wait, not just for a moment, not just for a lifetime, but even for lifetimes that haven’t yet begun.

I have seen people who don’t have the patience to wait even a few seconds for an answer,

yet when it comes to love, they are willing to wait an entire life, even carry that hope into another, without complaint.

And I remember some lines which i wrote and it goes like

मैं कविताएँ लिखूँगा तुझपे

मैं तेरी रखी तस्वीरों का एतबार करूँगा।

तू जा रहा है तो रोकूँगा नहीं,

मगर ता-उम्र तेरे लौट आने का इंतज़ार करूँगा।

मेरे दरवाज़े को खलेगी हमेशा दस्तक तेरी,

मैं तेरी गुमसुदा ख़ामोशियों से बात करूँगा।

जो रह गए हैं ख़त, उन्हें जलाऊँगा नहीं,

जो रह गई हैं यादें, उनसे इज़हार करूँगा।

वो एक मोड़ जिस पर तू मुझे छोड़ कर जा चुका है,

कोई और मुझे लेने भी अगर आएगा, तो इंकार करूँगा।

तू जा रहा है तो रोकूँगा नहीं,

मगर ता-उम्र तेरे लौट आने का इंतज़ार करूँगा।

And Maybe that’s what love really is, it bends time, it softens the restless heart, and it shows us that some things are worth waiting for, no matter how long it takes.

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