Shon Mehta

  New year, new steps but no denial, Survival was more than chance, it was a trial. Past was not kind, yet it marks the climb, The distance traveled, and passage of time. Scars on the body, endured through fear, Through struggle and fight, we conquered the year. Here’s to the battle we bravely chose, Against all odds, we stood and we rose. —- Shon Mehta , The Uncharted Mind Context: Originally written to capture the spirit of persistence, this poem has become a cornerstone for moments of significant transition — marking both the cultural journey of International Women’s Day and the personal renewal of the New Year.

One day, a pig dreamt about a mystic land behind the mountains, where there was lots of food, and eternal happiness. Enlightened with this knowledge, pig decided to move to that land. As he was making his plans, he saw an old tortoise. In sheer benevolence, as was his nature, he decided to ask the tortoise to accompany him on the journey. "I am going to the mystic land behind the mountains, where there is lots of food and eternal happiness. You should come with me.” The tortoise looked at the pig with amusement.  "There is no land behind the mountain, just a barren desert." said the tortoise. The pig was hurt. “I saw the land in my dreams. Don't you trust my dream?" asked the pig. “I would, but I know for sure that the land beyond the mountains is just a dry desert. I trust my knowledge.” said the tortoise. "Don't go there, its barren desert, with no food. You will die with hunger!” he added, and slowly walk...

When you begin to notice them, no one warns you what they are. They don’t arrive as villains. They arrive as voices lowered just enough, as pauses where words should be, as sentences shaped to bruise without leaving a mark. They never accuse you outright. They imply, they suggest. They let tone do the dirty work. Keeping such people close feels harmless at first.  You tell yourself you’re being mature, forgiving, evolved. But slowly, quietly, your peace starts diminishing, drop by drop—enough to matter. So you learn something unromantic but necessary, some people are not meant to be fought, loved, or understood. They are meant to be placed far enough away that their pull no longer reaches you, not as enemies, neither as friends, just irrelevant. Then somewhere along the way, you sense it, almost accidentally. You are more at ease with your own existence than they are with theirs. It isn’t pride, it isn’t victory. It’s just plain simple truth. That truth hardens you in the right pla...

Long ago, in the sunny village of Kavnagari nestled in the heart of Jivavarta, lived the Master Potter. The black, high-fired pots he made were strong and durable, and people said they could last a hundred years. For him, there was only one path to excellence. This path meant making things that would never break, and that was the law he followed faithfully. One morning, his young apprentice brought a lump of soft, reddish clay. “Master,” the boy asked, “if we fire this gently, wouldn't the colour become bright red like a sunset?” The Master stopped his wheel. “Fool! Weak clay and weak fire means weak pots. Strength of the pot is the only priority.” He brushed off the young apprentice and returned to his familiar, time-tested routine. Yet, despite his conviction, the lack of color in his work began to trouble him. He felt that his perfect pots deserved better decoration, so he visited the renowned Master Painter. The Master Potter presented his finest vase at the Master Painter’s w...

It was a small thing, hardly worth remembering, the sort of moment most people wouldn’t notice at all. And yet it stayed with me, as small moments sometimes do. While standing in a queue, I observed a man in front of me who had stepped too close to a lady. Too close to that invisible boundary each of us guards without even knowing we guard it. The lady said softly, “Would you move back, please?” Nothing harsh. Just a request. The man’s family was standing nearby. Their faces changed at once. Not anger, but something wounded. Pride, perhaps. As if her words had touched a nerve they did not know was exposed. By defending her own space, she had trespassed into theirs. Some time passed. Then their boy, eight years old or so, rode a luggage trolley straight at the complaining lady’s leg, fast and reckless. There was childish mischief in it, but also something deliberate. The lady jumped aside just in time. When I turned, I caught the boy looking at his mother. She was giggling. That giggle…...