Dr.Vidhi Trivedi

In a small room lined with books and potted plants, there lived a girl named Vaani. She was not famous. She was not extraordinary in the ways the world measured people. She was simply someone who noticed things. She noticed how old couples held hands while crossing roads. She noticed how tea tasted different on rainy evenings. She noticed how some smiles carried hidden storms. And most importantly, she noticed colors. Not the colors on walls, flowers, or sunsets. The colors hidden inside people. One winter evening, while watching the sky melt from gold into indigo, she opened a blank notebook and wrote a title on the first page: "The Colors of Life." It was not a book about art. It was a book about being human. 💛 The first chapter was Yellow . Most people called yellow the color of happiness. Vaani disagreed. To her, yellow was not loud laughter or grand celebrations. Yellow was smaller. It was finding the warm side of a pillow on a cold night. It was rece...

There is a profound calm that settles within the heart when it learns the art of admiring without the need to possess. It is a quiet, almost invisible maturity-the ability to stand before something beautiful and let it remain free. Not every connection is meant to be held, and not every light that warms you is meant to stay. Some people arrive in your life like soft dawns, not to become your forever, but to awaken parts of you that were still asleep. Admiration, in its purest form, is not restless or demanding; it is gentle, observant, and deeply respectful of distance. It understands that beauty does not lose its meaning simply because it cannot be owned. When admiration is free from control, it becomes more sincere. You begin to notice details you once ignored-the way a presence can bring peace without promise, the way certain conversations remain long after voices fade, the way moments can shape you without staying with you. There is something sacred about allowing experiences to re...

The town did not wake up all at once. It unfolded..slowly, deliberately..like a secret that trusted time more than urgency. At dawn, the sea whispered instead of roared. Fishing boats rested near the shore, their nets drying like tired dreams, and the air tasted faintly of salt, wet wood, and yesterday’s rain. Narrow roads curved without purpose, leading nowhere urgent. Houses stood close, their walls sun-faded, their windows always half-open, as if everyone here was listening for something that might arrive with the tide. People moved gently in this town. Conversations were unhurried. Even time seemed to walk barefoot. At the quieter end of the promenade stood an old library..soft, stubborn, and timeless. Its paint had peeled in places, not from neglect but from endurance. The windows were tall and usually open, allowing the wind to wander inside, carrying sea air between rows of books. The library shared its heart with a café..an intimate space where stories rested beside...

UNFINISHED POEM AT CHARMINAR!!💜💙 Hyderabad at sunset. The golden light softened the rough stones of Charminar, turning it into a monument of dreams rather than history. The evening bazaar around it hummed with life—vendors selling bangles that glittered like tiny galaxies, the sharp aroma of kebabs rising from a corner, and the sound of a flute played by a street artist melting into the city’s noise. Among this chaos sat Vishva. A professor by profession, yet here she wasn’t a teacher. She was an artist with her canvas—a girl in a white chikankari kurta, silver earrings catching the light, blue jeans folded slightly at the ankle, long hair open like an untamed river. Her brush moved gently, not copying the Charminar but translating what she felt about it. Her wide eyes carried a kind of stillness—a stillness not everyone could understand. Not far away, Ved walked with his friends, a group of boys excited for their band’s night show. His shirt—white, not fully buttoned—fluttered sligh...

Chapter 1: Whispers in the Walls The village of Dasada, nestled in the dry, ancient heart of northern Gujarat, had always carried a strange silence in its wind. It was a silence that felt too heavy, as though it hid whispers that should never be heard. Twelve-year-old Damini lived in this eerie village with her parents, her elder brother Hiren, and her younger brother Parth. Though Damini was known for being bright and sharp, she was also a bit of a fattu—a scaredy-cat. Every creak, shadow, or odd sound made her heart race, though she tried hard to pretend otherwise. Her two closest friends, Fatema and Ateka, were the only ones she trusted enough to share her fears with. Their school, located on the edge of the village near the banyan forest, was a crumbling old structure from the time of the British. Rumors surrounded it—about missing children, about a blood-stained blackboard that never stayed clean, and about a room that no one dared to enter. Room 9. It had been sealed ...

Shimla, where silence rhymes with snow… Winter wasn’t new to Shimla, but that particular season felt different — like every pine tree held a verse, every snowflake whispered a secret, and every streetlamp dreamed of two strangers destined to meet. In the heart of that city, inside a vintage radio station with creaking wooden floors and old vinyls lining the walls, was RJ Noor — the velvet voice of the hills. He wasn’t your everyday radio jockey. No filmy masala. No loud jingles. He whispered like midnight lullabies. He spoke like your inner thoughts. And when he recited poetry, it felt like the moon had a voice. “तन्हाई जब भी हद से बढ़ती है, मैं तुम्हें पढ़ लेता हूँ, जैसे कोई दुआ सिरहाने रख दी हो बेसब्री में।” — Noor Noor hosted a late-night radio show called “Sheher-e-Kalam” — a sanctuary of poems, heartbreaks, and unspoken letters. His voice came alive post 12 a.m., when the world quieted down enough to hear their own heartbeats. But there was one listener who never misse...

Bangalore, 10:28 PM The city was wrapping itself in a soft hush. A light drizzle blurred streetlights into amber halos. Metro shutters were down, puddles rippled at every turn, and the distant hum of traffic felt like a memory. Somewhere in Koramangala, behind blue grills and thin curtains, life was unwinding. Her World Ira, 25, Software Developer at a mid-sized firm. Introvert by nature, gentle by default. Her world was books with yellowing pages, indie playlists no one else had heard of, and a drawer filled with chai packets she never shared. She lived on the second floor of a shared flat — Flat 204 — with two girls louder than her playlists. They laughed about HR policies, swapped sheet masks, and tried to get Ira to say more than five words at dinner. She never minded the noise. She simply existed between it — like silence in a well-written line. That day, work had dragged longer than usual. Deadlines, Jira tickets, and one broken build later, she stepped out into the s...