He used to sit there, at those steps. It was his daily routine, for years. He didn’t remember when it was the last time he violated his routine.

He had not taken any vow. He was never deeply religious.

Often, he did not look at God as he was looking at God.

Yes, he questioned God, but turned back to Him, as well.

Yes, he used to come there, to sit there. Coming there had become like a part of his daily life. He was so deeply into it that he consciously avoided going anywhere that could have taken him away from this routine.

He would come there. Sitting silent, he would try to look inside him to understand the meaning of his silence. And the silence would respond. It happened regularly.

There was an increasing understanding with silence. And the flow helped him.

Sitting with his ‘self’, he would talk to his silence.

Sitting with his silence, he would travel with music of the flow.

It was a detached attachment. He had no thought when he started this one fine day, with a random decision.

The flow had many – sitting by its ghat-steps, waiting for its caring embrace and soul soothing music, and it cared for everyone.

The flow did not expect anything in return and whatever he wished while being there, at the steps, was nothing more than detached expectations.

He needed and he tried to feel something more powerful, than a human-God relation.

And having detached attachment with detached expectations showed him the way further.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


It was raining that night. The flesh was already soaked, almost invisible, in the notes of the drops, which left the voices only, after getting merged or lost.

Yet, the soul was not.

The corporeal presence was in the flow. And the flow was unrestrained, like a fully blossomed Monsoon night is.

It didn’t desire the surreal. Though disconnected from the flow, there was nothing like dreaming in or dreaming about.

Yet, the soul was not in harmony with this human aspect of the moment, of the night.

It was raining incessantly. The outpour was musical by the consistency followed by the drops in their eagerness to meet the final points of their journeys.

But the body could not perceive it.

And the soul didn’t show any inclination to sit with the flow to understand if there was any lyrical subjectivity.

Rather, it was looking into the space that spoke of having contained thoughtlessness.

The soul was trying to get free of the elements, perceived and unseen, unspoken and planned.

Yes, it didn’t crave for thoughtlessness but it didn’t intent to ignore it either.

The musical continuity of the outpour didn’t feel charming enough. But, it had masked the other voices and the silence could read it.

It saw a way in to see if it could understand the ‘why’ of the soul acting indifferent to the body’s presence.

And it did find the way in.

The silence was speaking now. It was trying to establish conversation with the soul.

But, then, suddenly the it stopped raining; the journeys of the dropped were hijacked midway.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


“Live. Achieve. Die. You’re Liberated.”

Live.Achieve.Die.You're Liberated.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –



“It’s up to you to remain a mute spectator in the name of destiny or so,
living and leading a subservient lifestyle, or taking on it head on, with a vengeance,
with your emotional fury, with unwavering confidence of Being You,
 to tell life that let’s settle scores,
to become contemporaries with mutual respect for each other.”



©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


..Or You being the Person You Think to Be..

..Or You Being the Person You Think To Be..

“The illusion – the Illusionist,
The delusional Methodist,
The Hallucinatory thinker,
The Dreaming Realist,
Life the Way it is,
You being the Person You think to be,
The Identity Idealist,
The Existential Realist,
The Diehard Individualist-

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


There was something moving inside him. He told himself a cataclysmic change indeed it was bringing out the devil in flashes.

Blocks were drifting. The stillborn was already past its prime.

He felt he was vacated suddenly but couldn’t find the free space inside when he needed to be into.

The style, the substance, and its eerie similarity to the time when it was a dark run of circumstances, all were telling him a tale told and foretold, throughout his life, if he could say it so, if he could encapsulate the moments in the birth of that life of him, a life that was somehow a sordid tale of misunderstanding, manipulation, betrayal and stabbing.

He was left bruised, tormented, traumatized.

Times were shifting. Acting desperately, he tried to sift through the mess he was thrown into to make sense of what was happening, why it was happening.

His efforts, his commitment to the continuity, his sincerity to the cause, his innocence to the identities, his conscience for the individualities, every person of him was so brutally traded off, so mercilessly killed, as if he had no identity, as if he never had an existence.

And he lived for his identity only. And he lived for making a meaningful existence of him only.

And he was left bleeding, his soul manipulated, compromised and hurt.

The devil had the chance to take him over, to do with him all he had not been able to do. And his mischievousness came with

The darkness ran deep, going well into the past. The dreadful bonhomie of the evil spirit was singing in fusion with the voice of his detractor.

A cataclysmic change imposed on him, forced on his identity. He was staring at the odds of annihilation of his soul.

He was thus calling for the survivor in him desperately.

And then, he saw the light.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


Life is the relative presence of metathoughts
Death is just a relative absence of thoughts

Happening as it is, happened as it was
Scripting the ride, lost in the celebrated void

Caught in the hide, away to the treacherous jive
The vibrating nonsense, the agitating moondance

Trespassing the soliloquy of you and me and us
Somewhere to the known territory beyond this life

Away from the amorous wilderness, a journey
To the metathoughts where all that is you and me

Where all that is to aspire is the thought of us
Where all that is to be spoken is only through the silence thus

Where absence or presence doesn’t make sense any more
Where betrayal or acceptance doesn’t come to the fore

Life is the relative presence of thoughts of us
Death is the absolute absences of thoughts of us

Happening it is, for-ever it is to be
Air melts, outlines dissolve..

The song gets the spontaneous tune,
A flow,
Weaving the magic of your unspoken words
Attuned to the calligraphy on that unsung ink
Charting the territory of the virgin wilderness

Eyes dig deep, go deeper, to find nothing, but
To be lost again in the magic of us
That tells me,
The beginning of you and me, reliving the joy of
That eternity of us..

Where are you has never been the question
For-ever it is to be, the eternity of us, is the
Only proposition..

Why did you do so does make for thoughts
It ceased to be between you and me a long ago
It was to be, and it is between me and me
Straddling my soul,
In thoughts, with metathoughts
To my territory beyond this life..

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


We come and we go.
We are creation of this flow.
Not entitled to stay forever.
We don’t desire to live forever.
Do the maximum that you can do.
Do so to get the maximum for you.
That is a way to look at life.
That is the way to look at life.
That we have so often.
That we don’t have so often.
Peace can always be a trusted decision.
We come here to go.
We have so been made part of this flow.
Pain and happiness they come and go.
Don’t cling to any and get the blow.
Life is never in extremes.
So stop taking extreme positions.
Its grey is never absolute.
So stop blaming your dispositions.
Do the maximum that you can do.
Do so to get the maximum for you.
That is the way to look at life.
Don’t fear the death.
It is only the finality.
It is the only finality.
Live your life with this sanctity.
Make tomorrow your today.
Make today your day.
Nothing lasts forever in this flow.
Everyone comes here to go.
Make your life go as you do.
Be at peace when it’s through.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


Thinking souls – the best thing about them is they keep things to them.
Thinking souls – the worst thing about them is they keep things to them.

Thinking souls – they believe in making a meaningful sense of life.
Thinking souls – they believe in looking for a life worth living.

Thinking souls – they read the life, they write the life, following the human conscience.
Thinking souls – they read the life in the context of the humane principles of morality, identity and existence.

Thinking souls – they believe in keeping others before their ‘Selves’ when it comes to sharing.
Thinking souls – they believe others are the similar souls as they are.

Thinking souls – they know one’s best friend is his inner self.
Thinking souls – they know one’s worst enemy is his ‘Self’ that takes him away from his inner self.

Thinking souls – they act to follow the saying that the real quest is within.
Thinking souls – they act to make a life of their inner self in harmony in with their external world.

Thinking souls – they believe in living with pain, not escaping, but assimilating it.
Thinking souls – they believe escaping the pain only exacerbates its experience.

Thinking souls – they know it is foolhardy to expect others to share your pain.
Thinking souls – they know pain can only be held by befriending and learning from it.

Thinking souls – they tend to look inside almost everytime thus.
Thinking souls – they tend to ignore, sometimes, when they need to talk to the external world.

Thinking souls – they tend to overstep on the reading, sometimes, failing to live the experience of pain.
Thinking souls – they tend to act excessively exclusively thus.

Thinking souls – they try to get along with the pain even if they cannot read it anymore.
Thinking souls – they try to make sense of a situation even if there is nothing left to make any sense.

Thinking souls – the best thing about them is they keep things to them.
Thinking souls – the worst thing about them is they keep things to them.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


Slowly, a life was taking shape. Thoughts were coming to assist.

The darkness was witnessing renewed efforts to reconcile with the life to let the light come in.

The call was getting more and more intimate.

The cause was touching the core of the heart once again. It was, gradually, becoming an alternative to a life that was more about pain.

The clear text, once again, was being written in abstract.

The abstract, once again, was getting friendly the way it used to be. It was becoming more and more readable, like it was.

The pain of loneliness was finding its alternative in the state of being alone, like it was.

The words were flowing in greater harmony with the conscience, with the soul.

Expressions were getting more in sync with thoughts putting things in perspectives that, once, happened to be the way forward.

The quest to go within was, again, a sentient pledge.

The spirit of living with the soul, the joy of living with the self, was becoming the driving force, like it was.

Life, once again, was being about severally-alone.

Slowly, a life was taking shape, learning from what the life had been, reading from what the life was to be.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –