What country needs

People often talk about how the country is in a bad state,the problems it is facing, problems like: corruption, poverty, pollution, fucked up society, bad economy, abuse, the list will never end. it’s very easy for us to sit on a high ground and talk shit about all those things. we should ask ourselves “WHAT HAVE I DONE TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE“.

The country is as good or bad as the people living in it. we burn plastic, throw garbage, waste resources, don’t pay taxes, encourage corruption, keep hatred in our heat for others, and then we say country has gone to the dogs.
All we have to do is make ourselves a better person or a better human being, and the country will become better all by itself.

John Lennon told us “IMAGINE“,
J.M.Barrie told us “BELIEVE“.

It’s about time we look into ourselves and change ourselves.

Dina’s second face

Dina's second face

It took 3 hours to sketch this beautiful art by Dina Ahmed, my best friend 😀 


Review – Different strokes

If you would like the opportunity to read and review the new book

Different Strokes

please send a response and we will email you a free copy of the eBook.

Also if you are a prime member and participate in the KDP Library, you can upload the book to your kindle, or any reader you use the kindle app.

The author is interested in honest reviews and he hopes everyone who reads the story enjoys the work.

To request a copy of the eBook, send your email address to by October 30th- thank you.

Keep reading – Keep writing!



Cover Reveal

I’m excited to tell you all about my new book titled “Different Strokes” gonna release it on September 9th,published worldwide with help of CreateSpace nSmashwords(eBook readers).It will available in readers) “Different Strokes” by Madhu Kalyan,Gunjan Vyas,Sunday Igwebuike. Here’s a look at the cover and a little blurb. — feeling excited with Gunjan Vyasand


How fragments feel

Would you like to know, how fragments feel

It’s hard to tell really, when so many different emotions,

are reflecting back at you 

You wont find them in the air, sea, nor in me
you will find them on the ground

They belong there, in soil
where grass will grow, and men builds over

No archaeologist will assemble me correctly
No artist can capture my style
No amount of adhesive will hold these as one piece

I live only to breath into struggling lungs
and maybe if those would be in my blood, bone and soul

They too could understand.

Maybe, if each finds a piece of me and comes together
there will be too much to break, to hard to crack that ice

Traditional, fixed form, free verse and pretty words

So many ways I can tell you

But in the end,

I don’t want
to             piecing this together
sound    I am



Every artist no matter what, will always have their skill. That is something that will always be a factor when writing a new piece, or drawing with grey, or painting with many colors.But I will agree and can not refuse, when you really feel down, in an emotional up roar there is a change in your writing, obvious yes, but there is a reason when the best of us can come out. You feel what so many writers and artists of old felt, even if the result doesn’t look good to you.


In the Sky

Dreams float above me

miles and miles of blue

and plush white carries to unknown places


Darkness moves above me

storming light, it’s true

and nightmares against the anger traces.



Big Brother

Growing up is not a hard time,

because you were there for me,

In each day of my life,

you make me feel safe and free.


Though at times I’ve been naughty and silly,

your patience never tires at me,

whenever I make mistakes,

you’d smile and say “it’s ok”.


Now as we both grew older,

I can’t help but smile and wonder,

are we going to stick together,

or be apart from each other.


Because dear brother I must say,

I love you wholeheartedly,

though I know someday we’ll part ways,

I’ll be strong enough as you taught me to be.


-Ailene Openiano

Imperfect Dad

Authors:Madhu Kalyan,Gunjan Vyas 

Art : Dina Ahmed

Cover Page



 A father’s influence in his daughter’s life shapes her self-esteem, self-image, confidence and opinions of men. “How Dad approaches life will serve as an example for his daughter to build off of in her own life, even if she chooses a different view of the world”What matters in the father-daughter relationship is that Dad seeks to live a life of integrity and honesty, avoiding hypocrisy and admitting his own shortcomings, so that she has a realistic and positive example of how to deal with the world

 I wonder what a perfect father daughter relationship is.

My name is Moksha and I live with my father, Das in a small town named Tabla located in Andhra Pradesh. He is a carpenter. My mother died when I was five in floods and from then, my father has taken care of me.

My father is a physically disabled man – he can’t hear or talk but his sense of affection is perfect because he never let me feel the absence of my mother in my life.

We communicate using hand and facial gestures. There were times when I didn’t understand what he was trying to say and for that sole reason, he learnt how to write. Writing became a means of communication for the two of us from then and he started sending me to school soon after. He used to cycle for half hour daily to drop me to school and I can never forget the loving gestures with which he used to tell me : “Study well, be good, eat your lunch.”

Father used to work very hard from morning till late evening but he never compromised with his parental duties. Now when I think about it, I always thought he wasn’t a competent father because of his lack of two vital senses but from the way he loved me, I now realise I couldn’t have had a father more perfect.

“ The happy faces.

He lifts his young daughter

Into the air.

To her it seems so high.

Up in the clouds

She squeals her delight,

Her yellow sundress waving.

He feels a pang inside my chest,

Constricting until it becomes painful.

A yearning…

A longing…

An envy…”

I was a keen student – I got the best grades in class even through all the trouble I had to face. My father, though physically disabled, was always the biggest inspiration to me. Whenever I was sad about how other students could consult their literate fathers when they got stuck in a Math problem, father would tell me(through hand gestures): “I don’t know Math that well but it’s a good thing that now it will be your brain that’ll be put to test and not mine.”

He would say the same thing to me whenever I was unable to move forward in a Math problem and it would always make me laugh.

When I turned nineteen, we moved to the city for my further studies. Father worked as a carpenter in a small shop now and had to work lesser than before. We also had more money to spend on our comfort as I had earned a scholarship from the university for my excellent performance in the competitive examination.

We all were very happy of course but troubles began when college started.

In my college, most of the students were from big, rich families. They didn’t talk to us: the scholarship kids because they thought we were beneath them even when we were the ones who had secured our seats via academic excellence alone. The hypocrisy! I made a few friends but they weren’t as close as the ones I had in my village. We were like a family there.

During my first parent teacher meeting, I was very excited about showing my father our college – the developed infrastructure, the English speaking teachers and what not! But the moment we entered the hall where the meeting had to take place, I became nervous. Now the fact that he did not have the ability to speak came crashing down on me – he had come here to ‘talk’ to my teachers.

We sat quietly in the last row and waited for our turn.

My teacher beamed as soon as she saw me.

“She’s a brilliant student!” she exclaimed as she clasped my father’s hand in a handshake. Then she started to sing about how good I was and how proud my father should be. It was a good thing that all he had to do was smile and nod his head.

I breathed a sigh of relief when she concluded the meeting, got up and shook hands with him and pleasantly bid us farewell. I was thanking god profusely for saving me the embarrassment of introducing my dumb and deaf father to my teacher in front of the rest of my class just then, as if on cue, Kamala appeared in front of us.

Kamala was the class diva – beautiful, charismatic, rich. She was intelligent too and probably the only student in our class who belonged to an affluent family AND had also won a scholarship. She was perfect in so many ways but for reasons unknown to me, she’d held a grudge against me since day 1. She’d downright ignored me when I had tried to introduce myself to her on the first day. After that she had insulted me for my oiled hair and old suits on countless occasions and even gone as far as calling me a beggar’s daughter once. That was the last time she called me.

We’d had a big verbal fight and in the end we had decided to stay away from each other. Needless to say, my being ahead of her in class in this term hadn’t gone down too well with her as she did what I’m about to write now.

Kamala stood in front of us, hands on hips and a triumphant smile on face. She laughed pleasantly and said, “Oh hi, Moksha! Is this your father?”

I could hear the condescending tone in her honey flavoured words – this old, skinny man dressed in old dhoti is your father? I’m not surprised.

I answered her just as sweetly, “Yes, Kamala, he is.”

“I wanted to meet him for such a long time,” she said as she regarded the two of us with contempt. “I’m Kamala, her classmate.”

My father, who was unaware of her contemptuous tone(thanks to his lack of hearing ability), smiled back at her. I felt suffocated – why can’t she leave us alone?

When he said nothing in response, she didn’t give up. I saw her bring up her hand as if to shake his hand, but she quickly put it down – spoiled bitch didn’t want to touch my father.

“What is your name, sir?”

Before my father could mouth his name, I jumped in.

“His name is Das. Mr. Das Prabhu,” I glared at her.

She smirked at me, “I asked that question to your father, Moksha.” She spoke my name with such distaste, I felt tears coming to my eyes. I couldn’t understand why she always had to make me feel like I was an incompetent piece of absolutely nothing.

“What do you do, sir?” she asked him but before I could say anything she turned to me, “Not you. Your father.”

My father looked at her for a while and then at me – for a brief moment I thought he hadn’t understood what Kamala had said and wanted me to explain but he smiled and shook his head. At that time I hadn’t understood the gesture but now I do, he was telling me to stop feeling so sad. He couldn’t hear things so his main sense was sight. He looked at things and observed them very carefully. With time he had got used to how I acted when I was happy, sad, angry and so on and he had seen the unshed tears of anger and shame in my eyes. He was telling me to stop feeling so low because of this proud girl.

 He was telling me to be proud of who I was.

He started imitating the action of chopping wood in front of her and she observed him with wide eyes. Her surprised expression soon melted into that of cruel understanding when she realised what was happening.

“Your father is dumb, Moksha?”

“Mute,” I corrected sharply.

“Oh,” she said. “A dumb…I mean a mute carpenter, right?”

I felt humiliated. I took my father’s hand in mine and shoved past her but she stopped me by pulling my arm.

“What’s the problem, Moksha? Why do you look so angry?” she sneered and just then I realised that we were not alone – all the people in the hall were staring at us. I couldn’t fight back my tears anymore and so they flowed freely.

“Why don’t you speak?” she prodded on and I couldn’t hold back my frustration.

“Yes, my father is mute and deaf! Are you happy to hear it? Now let us go,” I shoved her out of my way and didn’t stop once till we were home – safe and away from everyone.

Father put a comforting hand on my shoulder and I pushed it away.

“It’s because you are deaf and mute that I had to go through all this!” I screamed. “Just thinking what will happen to me from tomorrow gives me shivers – as if being a carpenter’s daughter was not enough!”

He looked at me with pained eyes but didn’t say a word – no hand gestures, no written words and no mouthing. He went back to his shop to work.

I felt so bad then – my father gave me everything and I? I yelled at him for being deaf and mute – as if it was his fault he didn’t have these senses.

He returned at night and we had dinner – I didn’t say anything and nor did he. The next morning when I woke up, I saw a note near my bed which read:

 Dear Moksha,

Going for work early today. I had my breakfast so don’t worry.

I’m sorry about what happened yesterday, I will not attend any PTM from now on if I cause you embarrassment. But please don’t cry again like that. There are some things we just cannot change. I myself don’t like being a disabled man but if it is God’s will that I stay this way so be it. Don’t cry and embrace whatever God has given you. I am proud of you.

He was still proud of me. I couldn’t help but cry when I read that loving note but fear of what was about to happen that day was still fresh in my stomach – Kamala.

I slapped that thought away and followed what my father had written – embrace what God has given you. With that thought in mind, I dressed and went to college but well, my torture began as soon as I stepped inside my class. My best friend in class, Koel decided to not sit with me. When I asked her why she wasn’t sitting with me she simply said, “I want to concentrate in class.” The whole day, she avoided me. When all the classes were over, Kamala came to me – “Oh the daughter of a deaf, dumb carpenter. How are you doing?”

She pulled my hair out of my ponytail – I had deliberately washed it that day so she couldn’t find another reason to insult me.

“No oil today. Copying someone, little bitch?” she gripped my hair tightly and yanked it so that I fell face first on floor.

“Stop it!” I cried but my screams were muffled when two big, burly boys came behind me and one of them reached down and pulled me up by my neck while the other used my dupatta as a gag. I coughed and looked at other students of my class pleadingly but none of them had enough courage – or empathy – to help me.

“Now that we have that cloth in place, act like your father would when he would be beaten,” she laughed and made noises imitating those of mute people. “He’d act like an animal, won’t he?”

I wanted to kill her then and there but those boys wouldn’t leave me. One of them had secured my hands behind my back in his strong fists and the other tightened the gag whenever I tried to move.

All my classmates were nothing but dumb spectators – none of them made a single, damned move!

Kamala walked towards me and slapped my face hard.

“Know your place, bitch! Don’t try to become a queen – you’re nothing more than an idiot’s daughter! I’m leaving you today but if you show me that dumb face of yours again, you know these guys are capable of more than just holding a girl,” her eyes gleamed darkly and I realised the stream of unending tears flowing down my cheeks. Then she disappeared out of the class along with the two guys and I fell to my knees, sobbing. Everyone started to dissipate now and I could hear the murmurs of ‘poor girl’, ‘Kamala crossed her limits’, ‘her dad is dumb?’ etc but the one that hurt me the most was, “Had I known her dad was a dumb carpenter, I wouldn’t have talked to her. How does that affect my reputation now?”

The person who said that was Vikram, the one I thought was the best guy in the world – more appropriately, my crush. That statement from his mouth made me cry tears of such pain that it is hard to explain through words. When I got home, I did what I never thought I would do, the most cowardly act in my eyes  – I cut my wrist.

I don’t know what was going on in my mind then but I didn’t want to live anymore – I’ve had my share of suffering and I just wanted a release – I wanted my freedom. I now laugh at the twisted view on ‘freedom’ I had then.

My wrist bled away all the emotional pain that had been tormenting my heart for the past few days by transforming it into purely physical pain – the stinging sensation, the feeling of blood flowing out of that neat wound, the sudden fading of vision and then unconsciousness overcame me. I didn’t want to wake up from that sleep again but before falling into oblivion, I heard the sound of the opening of our front door…father had come back from work.

Now as I write this little account of my life, my father is lying on the hospital bed near my chair. It has been three days since I cut myself and doctors told me that I had made a deep and vertical cut which resulted in major blood loss as vertical cuts are very difficult to stitch. They were successful in closing the wound but blood loss had already occurred and apparently no nearby blood banks had blood group AB+ and guess who came to my rescue…my father.

After all that I did, he gives me blood from his weak body so I could come back to this world – conscious and alive. He hasn’t been conscious for three days now and I’m still waiting for him to wake up – I won’t lose hope. Now that I’ve embraced what I am, I want him to see the new me and be proud. I want him to write me short notes and make those sweet hand gestures which motivate me to go on. I want to say sorry…

No one is perfect in this world and the one that accepts his weaknesses with grace and courage is a true hero.

I won’t lose hope because I know my dad is a hero

Counting voices…

Ah, the voices in my head. Imagine the nagging i have to go through to make a single freaking post that will satisfy all of them. That usually never happens though. Most of the time only two to three of them are happy, and the rest just keep telling me i suck at what i do.One day, i will make them eat their words.


How many voices choose to speak; a debate within my head.

As I lie awake, counting cracks, on the wall above my bed.

I seem to think of random colors and things you’ve never seen.

But I don’t like to hear the ugly voices, some are rather mean!

Though I suppose we are a loving family and thus I must accept

That when it comes to stashing bodies, we are most adept…


Love with Imaginary Friend

A small verse from my fourth story, I just started writing where a girl  name Creya falls in love with her imaginary friend name Aryan.


I have so many things to tell you, my imaginary friend
You know, I’ve been alone
I don’t know how long
I’ve been thinking about doing some absurd things
That I never thought before
I was so happy, but it was a very long time ago…
I don’t remember how is to feel like that anymore
Love is so far away from me now
I guess, sometimes, I wasn’t born to receive it

My life is so uncertain…
Everybody knows what they’re going to do
in the next five years
I don’t know I’m going to do the next day…

Sometimes  I wish to close my eyes
and make the whole world disappear
And just exist me and you
My imaginary friend…