Welcome to ‘The Pocket Diaries’ a global platform for every talent, a suburb for passions palpitating beneath the thick layers of necessities and indeed an initiative to unfold innumerable hidden talents forth you. 

A peculiar concept to bring your dreams to existence by providing you the very platform you always dreamt off. An opportunity to publish your works worldwide and indeed an
endeavour to provide you a ‘mysa’ in this contemporary incessant world.


Self-Healing //

// saying to yourself,
“i’m a nice person and
i did not deserve what happened to me,”
takes a lot of courage
but it is the first step towards healing. //

Write Ups

To The Helpers and The Strugglers,

To the Helpers,

 Sadly the STIGMA attached to mental health awareness in India is pretty big. It is not a thing we are not aware of. How commonly do we hear psychiatrist being referred as pagalon ka doctor. How commonly we hush up the talk about depression, how commonly we are not even able to identify the symptoms, or to reach out to a person before he\she commits self-harm,


 It’s time you reach out, be empathetic towards them, and be their strength.

For the strugglers,

 It’s okay to not be okay. But it’s not okay to stay like that forever. You got the potential, you can seek bigger things in life. And you are definitely stronger than this. I do see the super hero in you. GET UP, I know it is easier said than done, but you ought to get up. I know you don’t feel like waking up in the morning, I know you think you aren’t enough, you are afraid to step out, but you can’t give up on yourself, your dreams, and your family. If you need help reach out, talk about your symptoms to someone who actually cares, and seek professional help.

Reach out, talk to me, if you aren’t doing well lately. I really do care, and you are loved.




tHE WORLD seems so Strange at times, i look at it from dIFFerent angles, i notice that the sky is mostly the WRong COlour, humAns with mostly wrOng emotions, plANTS with mostly doomed futures


mum must be waiting, or is she, or she is, food, food, clean this, clean this, clean this, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, the ticks start now, enter the ODDBALL, gloom, gloom, gloom, it is a gloomy day, it hurts, my back, HURTS, stop it, stop it, stop

13, 14, 15, 16

what comes next, hello Cheshire, how are you? kill, kill, kill, stupid cat, they are taking me to the detention centre, my parents are spies, help me, help, help, die, die, die, die

“He will be alright. Another of his attacks, I suppose. Is he taking his pills?”, says the doctor, bollocks, nonsense, die, you filthy animal, fee fie foe fum, i smell the blood of an abnormal one, abnormal, maladaptive, insensitive pigs, die, die, die, die

It hurts, my head hurts, can’t breathe, air, air, air, what happened, can’t remember, remember, touch, smell, hear, see, mother looks so pretty in her grave, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead

This is one of many stories of children with mental health issues, schizophrenia, OCD, bipolar disorder etc. It illustrates the thoughts that go on in the mind of a child with no mother, often bullied in school for his OCD. Lonely, hurt and misunderstood, this child has no place to go to and no happiness to look forward to, trapped in his mind. It is a must for our society to give mental health its due importance.

Poetry, Quill

The Weaver

Amidst the rain
Amidst the thunder
There was a tiny weaver
Seeking to build itself a nest
Typical yet stood out the rest.
The tree swirled a million times
The twigs kept falling off the climb
Still determined.
That bird endured the bitter clime
It tried and tried until the nest held shape
And not for once did the bird even attempted an escape
What startled me the most was not the nest
It was average looking yet better than the rest
What startled me the most was the bird.
Its persistence its trivial and its pluck
And if that tiny weaver could brook such a hefty trap
What has made us handicapped?


In A World Better Than This //

// 5:06 pm

a few specks of lilac thrown across the sky

a quiet breeze sways

everything is same

as i wait for you

on that rusted park bench;

only this time-

you come. //



As soon as I said that, the world seemed to change, my world, rocked to and fro, trying to maintain its balance. You gasped, the lines on your face, hardening into a scowl. Suddenly, you looked so old and fragile, that I wanted to hold you in my arms and console you. But I was frozen, numb, saying those words out loud, had drained me of all courage I had mustered over the weeks.

I looked into your eyes for comfort, but they were scrutinizing me, from head to toe, flabbergasted, wounded, cold.

The bruises on my back and hands, frantic attempts to change me, my fate, the lines on my palm, so that I could be born again, normal, ordinary, average, the loving and doting daughter you had always known. Or had you?

Yes, there was shock, overshadowed by disappointment, your trophy, your pride, had fallen to the ground and broken into shards of glass, that hurt your being. After all, your every action, every ambition was because of me.

You came towards me and held my hands, wanting to caress, but hesitating to touch, lest you also get it. “Beta, chodd de yeh sab, kyun tang kar rahi hai, bol de na ki yeh sab jhooth h.”

Oh, how I wish Mumma, that this reality was a lie, for I have never wanted to stand out, just be with you, sharing secrets, laughter and love. But at that moment, words refused to come out, my mouth was zipped, tears sprang from my eyes, as I left you, setting out to search for acceptance elsewhere.

My body, being, sexuality, has built this wall between us, strengthened by phobia and hatred. I simply wish to send you a message, from a crevice in there, as I know that you still love me, but fail to see me for who I am, waiting for the day, when you would hold me as you always did.