The Grey Theory

Hey there mates,

How’s life?

Let’s find out!

Life is grey!
Not a vibrant violet or a luscious red. Not a hopeful yellow or a shiny gold. It’s shades of grey. A million shades of grey.
How is grey formed? What does grey represent?
Grey is the mixture of the two omnipresent colours, black and white.
Black represents pessimist thoughts. Its the darker part of us. The part that is a mystery, that is secretive. A part that is bottled up in the within. Deep down, well-guarded, enough to not pour it in front of anyone and everyone. The part of us that is insecure, scared, petrified and fears from every ounce of its being. It is a part that seeks nothing but lots of reassurances, coaxing, consolations, but ironically, it refuses to open up.
Black makes us love sunsets more than sunrises. Ends more than beginnings .Terminals more than starts. Critics more than appreciations.
It wants ends, no matter how non-fairytale like.

Psychologically, Black is the perennial colour of fashion and sophistication in the modern world. It is strong, without illusions. It flirts with cynicism. It is the least naive, the least childish of colours. We need black when we want to keep our cool; we’ve seen too much already to get carried away now. It is a reminder of the appeal of being a little bit harsh, a little bit demanding and decisive. Black is lean.
This shade is everyone’s favourite no matter how dark.
When you add black to another shade, it either darkens it or turns to completely into black. That’s exactly how it happens in life.

White on the other hand is calm, serene, peaceful and compromising. Add a colour to white and you would see the beautiful gradation. Painters add a colour to white, for white can be tamed, white can compromise, it can bend itself the way we want it to. However, he would never add a colour to black for it could never be a changed. Never.
The colour white is colour at its most complete and pure, the colour of perfection. The symbolic meaning of white is purity, innocence, wholeness and completion.
In colour psychology white is the colour of new beginnings, of wiping the slate clean, so to speak. It is the blank canvas waiting to be stroked upon. While white isn’t stimulating to the senses, it opens the way for the creation of anything the mind can conceive.
White contains an equal balance of all the colours of the spectrum, representing both the positive and negative aspects of all colours. White might represent all the aspects, but never has it let it affect itself. White hasn’t lost its purity over years.

But we know its neither black nor white. Neither all good nor all bad.
Grey is the colour. Greyish blue. Greyish white. Greyish black. Greyish green. But always grey.
There are more than a fifty shades of grey. Its the king of shades. The darker the soul. The darker the grey. Brighter the soul. Brighter the grey.
As a kid, we could only think of two things, goodness or badness. Nothing more, nothing less.
But over the years, over the experiences we know that its not all. We are all a little good and a little bad. The difference comes upon when we choose to lighten or darker the soul even more.
What’s the positive and the negative vibe? Its nothing but the amount of black and the amount of white in us.

After all, every silver lining has a grey element.
And our colourful dreams are muted by darkened nightmares.

Recipe for a happier life:
Add lots of white, and make it the lightest shade of grey. For even a happy life is grey.

Inspired by:

Wattpad novel by srishti_chairs north

Link to the story..

” THERE FOR EACH OTHER! √√” by srishti_chakraborty on Wattpad https://my.w.tt/utsKMRweGR

Happy Diwali❤

Happy New Year🌹!

Cote!

Beauté

Ever wondered why the magical, magnificent mirror called out Sleeping Beauty’s name every time the evil queen questioned, ‘Mirror-Mirror on the wall, who is the prettiest of them all?’?

Ever wondered why a mother’s orbs sparkle the moment she sees her child?

Ever wondered why a man would call his vitiligo-ridden love ‘beautiful’?

Ever wondered why the sun would shine even for the deprived?

Ever wondered why the sunflowers would turn towards the sun, like its the most natural thing to do?

Have you ever wondered why the stars turn to the spotted moon for protection?

That’s because all of this is pure. Uncorrupted. Unadulterated. Just them. Just beautiful.

The Sleeping Beauty was beautiful. For she was kind, warm, compassionate, and innocent.

The Infant is pious. Even with the underdeveloped features, manages to captivate your senses. And you are in awe, the moment you see them.

The vitiligo-ridden woman is anything but a burden for her man. For him, she is a warrior. A fighter. An acceptor.

The Sun is impartial. The deprived are not materialistic. Neither do they layer themselves with foundations and crèmes. Their soul, in fact, lays bare in front of all. And maybe that’s why the sun stays by their side.

The sunflower doesn’t judge the sun on how bright it is during the day, or how beautiful it seems. But because they hold a connect. A connection that is far beyond the boundaries of fake superficial beauty.

The stars are so beautiful and enchanting themselves. But yet, they turn to the moon, their mate, irrespective of it having spots.

You see, that’s how life is supposed to be. Everyone of us a flawed. We do have scars. We do have stretch marks, or pimples, or deep-seated insecurities. But that’s how you are wired.

Insecurities are self-built. To the universe, it would not matter whether you are fat or slim. It wouldn’t care whether or not you have a figure with the perfect curves. Or whether or not you have the well-chiseled jaw, or a well-built torso. This body is just a layer. An alterable layer to your soul. It will bare all the physical pain. Why does it do that? to protect your soul. And the beauty of your soul is way more important to preserve than the fickle and short lived body.

People would give you advices to get thinner. Or would suggest you gyms to visit. They would give you ideas to have your skin or hair treated. But ever wondered why they are still attached to you? Knowing the fact that you don’t own much of the outer beauty, they are still there because they love you for who you are. They love you for you are generous. For you are not in the air of being superior to others. For you are warm. Unalloyed. And that always gives you a spot in their heart over the others.

Let the world see the real, free-spirited you. The one which is hurt, vulnerable but yet independent, strong and a warrior. Its okay to let down your guards, to let everyone see the originality in you. The original you.

Your destiny will not look into your closet to see how many Armani’s, Prada’s, Zara’s, Michael Kors’ you own. It will remain unaffected with what makeup you apply or how you don’t wear the same outfit again.

But it surely will peek inside your heart to know you. Your face doesn’t decide your karma, but your deeds surely do.

Your deeds, your efforts, your generosity and a down-to-the-earth soul will take you places your passport or your visa could never.

Being Beautiful is just being You.

A pure heart is superlatively rare and even more attractive.’

~ J.S.B Morse

Keep reading.

Keep smiling

#letsfallinlovewithus

~Hrida

Everyday is Your Day, Mom!

Gosh! You look just like her.’

‘She talks just the same way’

‘When you descended the stairs, I thought it was her.’

‘She would never cry before them, why do you do the same?’

‘My my! Your smile is as stunning as hers!’

‘Can I hug you Didi, when she is not around?’

That’s what I have been hearing since I was a kid. How you crawled as a toddler or how you modelled as a teen or how you walked down the aisle as a heavenly gorgeous lady. How the infant you blabbered or how the adolescent you demanded or how the heavenly gorgeous you adviced. How you hogged or how you ate. How you scratched your head or how you fiddled with the hem of your dress. It was always what you did and how I resembled to you. And everytime they looked for a piece of you in me, it urged me to show them the masterpiece you created. Only you. And I am so proud of you.

Last evening, it accidently struck me that tomorrow was Mother’s Day. I have been putting my heart and soul into whatever I made for you all these years. But with the growing digital world, I wanted to dedicate my most precious post to you darl.

If I start writing I know I would never end. I would even blurp out things I never want to. But then again, you deserve it. And the world deserves to know what a great soul you are.

In Chess, the most versatile player is the queen. In real life, the most delicate and feminine aristrocract is a Queen. And that’s when I understood. You, Mom, are a Queen. The versatile, petite, feminine, fighter is you.

Every mother is the best for her child. Every child admires its mother. I do it. And I know you did it too. I never seem to crib to have a mother like he has or a mom she has. And that’s purely because how magical you are. How cool you are.

Coming to the ‘cool’ topic. I hear my friends say, ” not all mothers are like yours.” “Yaar! She is so cool.” “Tujhe kya, you can always be free with her. You can tell her your dark secrets even if both of you are blindfolded.” And for this rapport, I gratify you. You understand me, and that is enough to make me feel special.

Your pampering comes to no end. But then again, we seem to be of the same age when together. You ask for Instagram Captions like my friends do. You want approvals for your pictures. You reply with the sort of excitement I have never seen, when I send your posts and memes. I am sure no mom does that. I hear you rant about your gym like I own it. I have all the billboard super hit songs in my playlists, all thanks to you. You save me from papa just like I do.

I feel like I m promoted, I feel upgraded. Until few years ago. It would be me ranting about my day. Cribbing about the mean people. Throwing tantrums. Mimicking people. Crying about silly things. Complaining how I am in short of clothes. Now its like a role-reversal. You have started to do them. You have started to share your secrets. Your point of views. Your ideologies. Your morals. Your love story with Papa. Your young days. And that makes me feel so very mature. I feel like I am seeing a kid in you now. And I love that kid so much.

You have told me how bad the world can be, but never told me who to be and who to not be with. You have seen the little me cry, but never made me think of it to be my weakness. You have found flaws in me, but help me rectify them. You have known about everything, but never embarrassed me.

And I know why you do that. Its because I have been given wings that you have never cut off. Its because you want me to fight my own battle. Its because you want me to be the princess who doesn’t need a prince to fight for her. Its because you have so much trust on me. And I will never break it. I will never break you. Because a warrior can never fight a war with his broken sword.

I don’t know a friend of mine who fangirls shows with her mom. I do. You and me are an entire fandom together. You and me are an entire universe, a parallel world together. You and me are a perfect love story together.

When one is in love he needs a binding string to keep him intact with his affinity. For us it was the Umbilical Chord. When in love the man needs maturity and love. For us you are a treasure of all of it. I know, until you are there, I will always have love of my life. Somewhere we are more than it. We are deeper than it.

Lastly, I feel so proud when someone would call me out with your name. My heart would swell up with pride when your student would go on and on about how perfect you are as a teacher. You surely are, the worlds best teacher.

If I have a child in the future, I would always want a bond like us.I would want to be as perfect as you are.

You told me, that I would come to know your importance when I become a mother. But a little secret, I already know how vital you are for my survival.

I can’t wrote anymore. I can’t. I can’t share the emotional and thorny version of our relation. I can’t pen how low I feel without you. I can’t write the part where you were a real fighter. I just can’t. And when it is all bad, I just want your hug, I want your warmth.

I LOVE YOU MUMMA!

Being Woman!

Dear Nani,
Life has been tough. It has always been. But never dreadful, scary or insecure at all. I came home the other day, it was a pleasant afternoon, mild wind blowing. I was happy, joyful at heart. But the scenario seemed to change when I opened up twitter. Remember Twitter, Nani? the social media portal I was once addicted to? A beautiful, young girl with aspirations in her eyes was trending. To know more, being the curious soul, I read further. I got to know the real story.

Humanity was at stake. Religion was too. It was the heart wrenching story of Asifa- meaning pure, virtuous, upright and organiser. She was pretty Nani, owning those beautiful innocent eyes one yearns for. Those gorgeous short hair and a breathtaking smile. All of us are beautiful, but she seemed more than just beautiful. She was not just another 8 year old. She was a warrior. Its heartbreaking to notice that I needed to use ‘was’ for her. Sadly, she is no more.

She didn’t have a natural death, neither was she a victim of violent warfare. She was a sufferer of a much deeper and griever cause.

Nani, according to sources, she was kidnapped by a juevenile, who was following the plan made by the mastermind, a Hindu priest. A priest. Someone who is considered to be more connected to god than a normal man is. How could he do that, Nani?

You told me religion was pure, humanity was purer and we should make it a point to make our hearts the purest. You are the reason, I, today believe in god. I know he exists, he does. Hasn’t he taught us humanity that we claim to call ‘Religion’? But what has made us so religiously- driven that we refuse to accept that of the other?

It is all politics, not the one between political parties but that of the religions. Are we growing into a place, so shallow, so terrible!

Nani, she was raped. Such a pathetic word for an even pathetic act. What was her fault? An 8 year old. She hadn’t even lived 1/10th her life. She was a Muslim. The rapists, Hindu. And according to them and other ego-driven people, this was a pious act. Hilarious! It brings tears to me to even write something like this to you.

Scientifically speaking, an 8 year old is not even emotionally, mentally, or physically mature to grasp and understand actions. Nostalgically remembering, as an 8 year old even I did not understand why you would wake up early in the morning and go to the mandir? Or why Mumma would ask me not to touch her during the time of the month? It was also confusing for me initially. And I know it must be for her too. All the religious stuff, you know.

She was brutually murdered after the heinous crime. But some still supported the culprits. Her police chargesheet was closed down and it was still excused. She was tagged to have run away with a lover, an 8 year old? And people still refused to accept her innocence. Why are we so blinded by our hatred for others that we ignored the entire existence of that young child. And the most shocking part was her being a victim of all this in front of the temple of a goddess. The same one, who represents women power.

Nani, will we always be so helpless? Will we always be so unsafe? Will we always be told how wrong it was to defend the another religion? Will we always be so naive yet so strong but never sufficient enough to fight with the ultimate male-ego? I know not all are the same, but a stinking fish, stinks the entire pond. How many more nibhayas to go, huh?

The time we were so interested in not letting a movie on a hypothetical queen release, we became so ignorant to the real life crimes that are so very well hidden. Nani, why is life so unfair? When you think change will take place, the very next moment your dreams come crashing down. Was the scenario the same during your times? Was religion interpreted as vaguely as it is done today? I would always want to know.

Life has been tough. It has always been. But now dreadful, scary and insecure. I have never met Asifa, would never be able too. But I know of one thing for sure, I would always miss her. The world would always miss her.

PS:- just a hope, that this emotionally draining story doesn’t take an utterly stupid Political turn and make it a BJP-Congress Debate.

#RIPAsifa❤🥀

Dedicating this post to a friend who has been so helpfully annoying. He might not realise, but our debate has motivated me to convince people how wrong this act was. Thanks man, I owe you a lot! I hope he has read it already!🌹

Mapping a Unicorn

The gallant Unicorn,

Classic Anima with an eye catching horn.

Colourful, mystical and magnanimous,

Both mane and self, utterly gorgeous.

Mapping a Unicorn?

Where?

In Extravagantly bragged tales,

Full of beauty left to unveil.

Or the flamboyant princess stables in the air,

Exaggerations and assumptions everywhere!

But guess what,

I know where it is.

Inside me.

The happy-to-go me.

The affectionate yet sarcastic me.

The breathtakingly awe-inspiring me.

The ardorly amazeball me.

We are all unicorn-mapping Agnes,

Mapping one when we are one!

~Magnanimous Soul

This is apparently my first attempt to write down a poem. The picture up there is the inspiration.

Special shoutout to my ‘legendary humesha’ friends,

@enigmaticmotivator Chahna, darling thanks for making me believe that I would write a peom. Stay Fiercy!

Vihaa Kapadia aka Editor, for inspiring me write but just replying to my comment on your painting. Keep painting!

Hurt??? Are we really

Hurt. . .are you really? Hurt, pain, grief – does it really exist? Do we really feel as if hundreds of knives have been stabbed into our hearts? Do we really go through pain as if needles are pierced into us? Do we feel hurt, betrayed by every single thing? Are we a paper that once crushed can’t be brought into its original self? Or can’t we be a cloth that can be ironed and can be worn a second time? Is it so that second times can’t be true?

Hurt, some might have never come across that feeling while the others feel it consuming them away. Grief does exist and it does vary from being hurt. It is not a synomyn for hurt or pain as a matter of fact. Grief is an emotional cause of depression, a keen mental suffering, but hurt can be physically painful and mentally straining. Hurt does exist but it can never be so bad that we lose hope, that we choose to give up.

The results of X and XII are up in India. It is a festival for the scholars but what for an average mark gainer? What about them? Because of this society, their reproachful eyes, would not they feel hurt?

Yes they do. They have every right to be. But feeling grief-struck could lead to dangerous consequences. The mockery is momentary and they need to learn to be unaffected. You have no connections with them. I might not be a tenth grader yet and so they might say that I can’t feel the pressure. But I know people who have been through this. And trust me tenth and twelveth graders, suicide is not the option. No universal force has the power to break us down except that within us. When we have so many people at our back, helping us, supporting us and caring for us, suicide is no justice. Neither to these people, nor to us, our body or our soul.

A hundred knifes do stab us when we are hurt. Parents of those who have committed suicides do feel that. They have put in millions and millions of efforts to nurture you into a good human without expecting anything back. I had recently held a small tiny baby in my arms and the time stopped for me. The bundle of joy suddenly meant more than anything else in the world. She made a sweet place in my heart without even opening her eyes. For me she meant so much without even she being my creation, my flesh. And that made me think about the feeling her mother must have felt when she must have embraced her. I certainly couldn’t really decipher the feeling that must have rushed though her and her husband. And those kids with parents who must have gone through the same feelings simply gave up their effing lives. Is it that easy? I feel nothing is more hurtful than losing your child.

Failed Love Stories are another reason of pain and hurt. She love him. He loved her. He found another her. And she was left alone. Then, she left the world for the one who left her. Needles pierce and then hurt. But it is temporary. Just as the needle pierces in and comes out while sewing the cloth so does the needles that cut through the heart. It comes out and sews the heart into a much more prettier piece than the plain cloth that it was earlier. Hurt and feeling painful for every thing is not understood. It is irrational. It is a mental disorder and one should surely consult a psychologist. That’s it for the post. Pain is omnipresent but the overcomers are the champions.

Keep relaxing.

Keep smiling.

Keep writing.

Keep reading.

Lots of love, ‌

Hrida Shukla!!

Espérer or Abandonner

Is giving up a rescue to all the problems? Is giving up so easy? Is giving up so less painful that it has ended up being the most used solution? Is giving up so helpful? Giving up has always been a heavy word, isn’t it? Or does giving up vary from episode to episode?

Giving up is the sentimental form of acids that eats away elements like hope. Hope, another deep word, can only be germinated when when one has those essential ingredients to nourish it. The ones that hold the guts to hope, finds giving up a way too impulsive way to fight situations. Hope holds second chance. It holds emotions that are heartwarming and concerned filled. Hoping doesn’t expect a person to be mature it just makes him mature. Hope is love. Hope is passion. Hope is a desire and hope is a dream.

Life is way too calculative when is comes to throwing problems at humans. Those problems are a metaphor to mathematical problems. There can be more than one way to find the answer but not all lead to the accurate and satisfying.

Society says life is an exam, you only succeed when you are prepared. The question that strikes in is, what is preparation of life exams? Authors do publish books for a spiritual and simpler life but not all of those facts are applicable to all. Then how can one prepare for the toughest examination?

Life will itself preach a way for preparation. And it will always be a two way out. One hoping and the other giving up! Hoping will give peaceful results and giving up, dreadful ones. But will life always be easy when you hope? Society says ‘A person is what his life makes it’ whilst I believe ‘ Life is what a person makes it’. Karma will be badass when you give up but it will be equally challenging you when you choose to hope. And so giving up is not a solution.

But somewhere down the line, deep in the heart, hoping will provide serenity. Giving up will give short term peace but a long term grief and maybe that’s why it is the most useful of the mist impulsive ones. And trust me the chase of hoping is much more vibrant and adventurous then giving up.

It does vary from circumstances to circstamce but but it will end up weakening the persistence level, the endurance limit. But hoping will be the protein drink to your heart that does nothing but strengthens it.

Hoping is positivity. There is always a little positiveness even in the well masked and self proclaimed monsters of the universe. So what are we when it comes to positivity, maybe a treasure box of good vibes. Just take a little time, discover yourself and you will find hope to be the best way out. Let that positivity in you self nourish, cherish it, water it, and wait for the result you will turn up taking the hoping way to end the dark phase.

Be positive.
Be self-motivating
Keep en espérant

Water Personified

I was at the beach the other day, adorning the the water that collided with the rocks producing a beautiful melody. The water, the way it played with sands beneath my feet, made me find it unusually beautiful. It was as fathomless as a nothing yet held a mystery, a beautiful meaning of its own. The mystery had become more conspicuous, as it had been three years I visited it last, and also, I had grown older enough to notice it. Of course.

On looking at it, I no longer had a doubt on why the writers were so fascinated by it. The sea was beauty personified, it seemed to be a secret, it screamed morals, it sang volumes, instigating me to know it deeper and deeper. I felt a sudden urge to unsolve it’s puzzle and swim to the end of its fathomlessness.

The water there was as majestic as the universe.

Science told it to be colourless still whenever it rained and the sun peeped out it would reflect the beautiful seven colours, the ‘vibgyor’, the rainbow. As a child even I had the rainbow watching memories. At that time, I didn’t find it colourless and just as a naïve child, I felt it to be colourful. Maybe it always was. That refracted light had always been nature at its best.

The water there seemed to be grief-stricken, shattered but it felt that it knew how to mend itself, it seemed to be independent enough. It did spread happiness. The beach spread good vibes. It did spread peace. It spread selfless love and harmony. It did know that isolation was surely not an escape from pain. It did know that people needed it and so it continued to help. Help the thirsty. Help the hungry and help the curious souls like me to discover the ways it mend itself

It wasn’t just showing others its happiness. No it was not that. The waves and ripples of water did sing a happy song. Not that it was never felt weak again. It did. The water did recede back during the black, motionless, melancholy night but by the morning. It was back to its place. Happy and joyous like nothing happened cause it did know that reclusion was not the way out of it.

That little drop of the huge self faced many hardships, got turned into vapour, got electrically charged, got condensed, hit the ground hard. That might have shattered its hope of gaining happiness. That might have strained it to no end but, like I said, it did know how to rise.

Now, I knew, that whenever I was down. Whenever I felt low . Whenever I cursed my life. I just had to remembered this great self. I just had to remember water. The personified the form of water that I met that day.

          
     

                                                ~ Hrida

A/N
Hope you liked the post!!! Do like and comment below..
Till then
Keep reading
Keep writing
😊😊

Get to know ‘me’

I am Hrida Shukla, as the blog name already suggests, a young chainreader ( that’s what they call me). An adolescent writer with a mind buoyant with thought that are conspiring to escape out of their prisons. I am a pretty curious soul with  numerous questions jumping out of my talkative mouth. I tell you, writing a blog was never a thought for me, it just came all of a sudden. But as we say sudden occurrences can turn out to beautiful adventures, I thought of giving it a shot. Cause social networking sites can not always be helpful to young reader, I feel WordPress could be an awesome platform to showcase my talent and help me pen down thoughts I  usually cant express!!!! 

Meet you up in the next post,                                     for then, 

Keep reading and keep writing,                                Hrida Shukla ⭐