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  • Writer's pictureMeru Badyal

Nature: My calling !

Updated: Dec 8, 2021

A lot remains to be said. Yet, there’s no time! No time at all to tend to the tender heart. We create a life cycle around what doesn’t matter, what won’t last long, what won’t enrich the heart.

Layer on layer, and the heart becomes a hardened cocoon.

Life becomes a living lie! We lie every waking second of every single minute… lie on what it means to feel happy.. what it means to feel whole with ourselves and, and with existence.. not-so-innocent lies on the perfect wives and the perfect families.

The fragile heart, the ever-so-bold heart that smiles inwardly, is the first casualty of the cocooned existence.

But it knows the truth, that it sometimes gently whispers into your ears, slowly and cautiously. And it is blunt and casual in its judgment – you are not happy, you are not whole, your being is but a sad vibration of accumulated lies – from parents, loved ones, and the society.

But you go on, holding on to those lies that you now believe to be your reality.

One fine day, when the clouds are somber, and the mood is melancholic, the quiet heart plays a note of love, of memory, of stillness, of the age gone by, when you were free.


The remembrance strikes a hammer into the hardened cocoon, and creates a small crevice… Small enough to let fresh air in.

The innocent heart catches a beat of respite again & plays that LOVE SONG again, the one we forgot while “growing up”.

The delight is the same, the excitement is the same.

Wrinkles on the face may hide the delight.

The light in the eyes shows so!

So, whenever that moment catches on to you, it’s your “calling”. At that moment, run away from anything that binds you from that ancient call. Run away from everything that bound you in the name of duty or convention or even loves.

For there’s no age to be perfectly free, and happily joyous!

No age to release the soul-butterfly out of its caged cocoon!

a butterfly drinks nectar from a red rose

Copyright © [Meru]. All rights reserved.

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