Between the Wind and White Flowers
It was 5th July, around 6 PM, just after a rain. I was sitting by the window of a crowded bus, using the window as my shield so no one would ask for my seat. The roads were wet, the light was soft, and the world felt briefly clean and slow.
Then I saw
eyes are looking to know the wait,
catching the view of the art.
none of us are waiting to see,
we’re all running behind the falling tree...
suddenly, the view gets stuck on a beauty—
a moment I had never seen before.
one holding the weight of the earth,
one holding the light of glamour,
one holding the confusion between a saint,
and a need too proud to speak.
the wind passes through each the same,
but she stands like an ice mountain—
calling everyone to praise,
yet not hoping anyone would explore.
I was with the wind,
free-flowing, moving with nothing to hold.
but near her,
even the wind seemed to pause.
the closest I’ve felt—
after the rain, each colour was holding her hand,
asking her never to leave,
never to leave.
and I,
still in a moving bus,
kept looking back—
as if beauty like that
might vanish if no one watched.
by Suraj Godiyal
Between the Wind and White Flowers – My Reflection
🟫 Stanza 1
eyes are looking to know the wait,
catching the view of the art.
none of us are waiting to see,
we’re all running behind the falling tree...
What I saw:
I was sitting at the window seat of a crowded bus after the rain. It was a bit humid. The roads were wet, the light was fading — around 6 PM. As I looked out, I realized how no one really stops. People move, rush, cross — but they don’t look. I was the only one who was just... watching.
🟫 Stanza 2
suddenly, the view gets stuck on a beauty—
a moment I had never seen before.
one holding the weight of the earth,
one holding the light of glamour,
one holding the confusion between a saint,
and a need too proud to speak.
What I saw:
Then I saw her.
A girl, maybe 25 or 26, standing at the side of the road with flowers — some resting on her shoulder, some in her hand. She was selling them, but she wasn’t moving. She wasn’t asking, just standing — still and strong — in the middle of a red-light crossroad.
🟫 Stanza 3
the wind passes through each the same,
but she stands like an ice mountain—
calling everyone to praise,
yet not hoping anyone would explore.
What I saw:
The breeze was brushing through the streets, across people and vehicles. Life was moving fast, without pause. But not her. She stood like a statue — like a mountain of ice. Unshaken. Cold, maybe. But beautiful.
🟫 Stanza 4
I was with the wind,
free-flowing, moving with nothing to hold.
but near her,
even the wind seemed to pause.
What I saw:
Before that moment, I was just going with the flow. Nothing deep, just another ride. But when I saw her, my mind stopped. I couldn’t look away. It felt like even the wind that was touching everyone passed her... slower.
🟫 Stanza 5
the closest I’ve felt—
after the rain, each colour was holding her hand,
asking her never to leave,
never to leave.
What I saw:
The rain had just stopped, and everything felt fresh. Colours looked brighter. The road, the air — it was all shining a little. She looked like she belonged to that moment — like nature itself was holding her there.
🟫 Stanza 6 (Ending)
and I,
still in a moving bus,
kept looking back—
as if beauty like that
might vanish if no one watched.
What I saw:
The light turned green. The bus started moving. She stayed behind, still standing the same way. I turned my head, kept watching her as long as I could.
He Heard the Grapes
Same bus,
different seat.
And in front of me—
a boy,
caught.
Maybe under fifteen.
A phone in his pocket
that wasn’t his.
People surrounded him
like a punishment waiting to happen.
They shouted,
They cursed.
They stared like he was already nothing.
The man whose phone it was
said quietly,
"Remove him from the bus."
And they did.
No police,
no words—
just thrown out like a wrapper.
Then the talk began.
“He’s done this before.”
“He’s an expert now.”
“Thank god it wasn’t mine.”
“I remember that face.”
And me—
just nodding,
pretending to agree,
sitting with people
but thinking alone.
His face looked new,
like someone just learning
how to walk into the world,
but already carrying
what the world has thrown on him.
I don’t know if it was need
that made him do it,
or if someone
taught him this as survival.
It takes guts
to do what he did—
not the right kind,
but still—guts.
He stood
like a secret monkey,
trained to be invisible
until he strikes.
What made him like that?
Was it the situation?
No—
situations test people,
but don’t build them alone.
Maybe it’s the nature around him.
The kind of world
where no one tells you
you can be more.
I wonder
what face he’ll show himself
when he realizes
what he’s become.
If he ever does.
by Suraj Godiyal
The Left Shoe
I saw a shoe today—
just one,
left on the roadside
like it had been in a hurry
and forgot itself.
It wasn’t broken,
just alone.
Facing no one,
but pointing somewhere—
as if it still remembered
where it was meant to go.
I didn’t touch it,
but it touched something in me.
Like a question left unanswered,
or a goodbye that never reached the door.
Who leaves behind only one shoe?
Someone running,
or someone carried away too quickly
to look down.
The dust had settled,
but I stood still,
wondering how many people
keep walking
with half of themselves missing.
And if even a shoe
can be this forgotten,
what happens
to the parts of us
we leave behind to survive?
by Suraj Godiyal
They Never Meant to Rain
🌧️ Before the Rain – A Moment
It was around 05:00 O'clock .
My exam had just ended, and the weather outside was teasing—windy, heavy, and full of clouds. I was waiting for rain.
Not just water-from-the-sky rain, but a kind of relief, a soft release from everything inside me.
But it didn’t come.
I got on the bus, reached my stop, and still—no rain.
With my bag weighed down by books, a few personal things, and my diary that holds more than pages ever could... I kept walking.
Two boys raised their hands to stop the bus at a non-designated stop. I pointed them to the actual one, only to be met with unnecessary ego. That moment stung more than it should have. My mood sank.
I had left my umbrella at home, almost on purpose—like I wanted to be caught in the rain, fully.
But it still wouldn’t rain.
Instead of going home directly, I took the longer way.
My steps slowed down. The sky was on the edge of something.
The wind kept pushing my hair to the left, whispering things that didn’t have words.
I reached home.
Still dry. Still waiting.
I went to the rooftop. And that’s where it ended.
That’s where the poem begins.
It never meant to rain.
The loud voice inside me
Was screaming toward the clouds—
Their destiny written,
But none for me.
It hovered above me,
Like an umbrella half-opened—
There, yet never mine.
The dark wasn’t ordinary.
It carried a sensation—
Like time had quickened,
But stumbled in glitches between seconds.
Why is everything in a hurry?
What are they afraid of?
It never meant to rain.
Buildings are losing their color.
Trees fading without protest.
Birds, tired, looking for shade.
It feels like I am the earth—
All of me, waiting
For them to rain.
Believe me or not,
They never meant to rain.
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