TechYukti blog - Technology & Reviews in Hindi

A cold wind blowing from China, Whispering the first doom of the third millennia. As it seeps through every stronghold, Fills every lung with gloom, invisible stranglehold. Winter comes for Europa. From Atalanta to Valencia, It freezes Germania. New bane of Reino de España. Not-so-Great Britannia, Au revoir Republic of Francia. Midnight falls in America As the ships sailed to California,

Anxiety, anxiety. Anxious to see what today will bring me. Variety, variety. I am fine being the minority. Society, society. Reverse empathy for every penny. Sobriety, sobriety. Sovereignty to express profanity. Anxious Humanity Note: A Korean movie, Parasite, is the first foreign movie to have won the best picture in Oscar. I haven't watched it myself, but from what I've heard the

An old movie playing in your head. As your are humming, and missing what you had. A scenery of abandoned bed. A ghost is sleeping, dreaming among the dead. Then cut to scene, to a rundown shed. Something is dancing, shivering. A vague dread. A letter and broken pencil lead. Unfinished writing, spilled ink, colored in red. A history, story, filled with regret. On your cheek, rolling. Falling,

Evening cloud bursts on the rooftop. By the lamppost, an umbrella blooms. Evening Cloudburst. Photo by Todd Diemer on Unsplash Note:    Haiku (俳句) is originally a very short form of Japanese poetry. It becomes popular in English speaking world since the late 1800s or early 1900s. The traditional Japanese haiku follows a strict set of rules. English language haiku, however, often follows the

Morning cloud bursting on the roof top. Crowds clapping to the rhythm, singing. An umbrella blooms. Waiting for you, a chance of meeting. Morning Cloudburst. Photo by Basil Smith on Unsplash Note: Tanka (短歌) is a Japanse-style short poem. It consists of 5 lines and it doesn't have to rhyme. It also follows 5-7-5-7-7 syllable count rule. This is my first attempt to create a Tanka. Read

Empty, an empty city. An assembly of vanity. Hungry, yes I am hungry. In your land, your land of plenty. Unfamiliarity. Gluttony, consumes me slowly. Funny, you were part of me. Sadly, a goodbye finally. Farewell, I am so sorry. Before I am no longer me. Sing, let's sing beautifully. This memory, of tragedy. Moving Skyline. Photo by Rohit Tandon on Unsplash Note: Have you ever

An eternal serenade. In between prayers, it resonates. Angels' hearts, it captivates. Near the heaven's gate, reverberates. And yearning for an alternate, but no match against cold fate. Dripping at an alarming rate, then your sadness, dissipates. Soul Mnemonic. Photo by Tim Umphreys on Unsplash Note: It is a poetry about remembering lost loved ones. In the grand scheme of things,

An inverted bravery, perhaps I was not meant to be. As far as I can not see, with me in a quandary. An unhappy scenery, abruptly I am so sorry. My life in your memory, but an old tree, you stand firmly. On your horizon shiny, a colored thread, silvery. Flying beautifully, your leaves scatter infinitely. Travel east, the air heavy, with your worries beyond the sea. On the horizon faintly, a

Hello, I couldn't help but overhear that lately you've been feeling hollow. Routine feels empty, you fizzle, disappear. Perhaps days move too fast and you can not flow. You have them around, companions without ears, perhaps you found them too dull, too shallow. You ask me what should you do? Well, honestly I don't really know. Will it get easier? I think so. What I did do, burst of

Tonight I choose to logout, away from you, and pixelated crowds. Time to forget, today is too loud. Input command, wipe them out from the cloud. . . . . CPU's overloading, trying to process this strange feeling. Thinking of you, overthinking. Old memories overflowing. . . . . Tonight my fuse is just too damn short. Too much abuse, not enough tech support. I am tired of filtering bad

Congratulations on passing your exam, Imperfection yet nothing you couldn't overcome. Spirit like a tide: sometimes low, sometimes high, but never subside. You've spent many nights, trying to understand which equation is right. Countless cups of coffee or perhaps tea, loyal companion while you study. Stressful anticipation messing up your emotion. And frustration when it yielded no fruition.

A thought dangling on a yarn, hanging on a tree named after you. A soft airflow, a yawn swaying the string and the branches, creating a scene, like a pendulum, of an imminent clue. Over and over, bobbing like a ping pong ball, trying to grasp it, but too tall. Exhausted, under your shade, defeated by your height, lacking power. And before I knew it, summer's over, passing, turning into fall.

When my day is complete, tucked in beside you, I, the mother hen. Your little hand in mine, your softest touch against my rough sands. I can feel you, from my palm, your being, then ingrained deep in my spine. My precious tiny human, my pride, my joy, a part of me, intertwine. The strength of your innocent mind, your song for me, a melody so divine. A lullaby, your sleepy voice, a horizon of

That night I stood  with you on that hill overlooking the city, starring down into  the black sea, filled with man-made stars. Up above us was a circular mirror, the  moon in its full glory and  around it, countless ancient  glitter from light years afar. Just like the  sky and the ground melting in  the dark horizon I put my arm tightly around you  when the  cold breeze blew. Our senses

You are over there, somewhere on the other side of the internet, someone I deeply care. We have never met and yet closer, despite never a lover. A companion I found within my phone, the salvation from my self-confinement. You don't feel the need to hide, know that I will not misguide. And I do not need to be afraid, despite our physical distance, because you validate my existence.

Stand there, with your hand against your face, under the teak tree. Count to ten, I dare you not to peek while we seek refuge, a place you can not see. As you count from one, then two, then three. We disperse away from you, in a hurry. Try to not make any sound So we will not be found easily. Four and five, and six. And loudly you asked if we're ready. Chaotic, we flee from your voice of

It was the last day of May that you told me to wait and for me to have faith, that one day, a reverse goodbye. Back then I asked why did you have to be away anyway? I questioned if we would be okay. Asking a compromise, perhaps just until next Sunday? I pleaded that you'd always stay. But alone, you need time to retrace your own way. Despite your absence, I promise that I will not sway. Today

I wonder if it was the lack of thinking or the absence of inspiration,       that I was unable to come up with anything worth reading.                   My eyes were glued to the white screen I was trying to scale over,             yet there were no signs of movement from my fingers.             Words would not flow despite my efforts to dive down below             the surface of my feeling.

A beauty, buried underneath layers of mystery. Far down below unnoticed, undiscovered, Her life is a history and now her body merge slowly With the earth, resting peacefully. A beauty, among the deep dimmed galaxies. Up above million miles, beyond unreachable, She shines endlessly, carries on carrying ancient memory, And a wisdom, only for me to see. A beauty, scattered in the air, floating

Do you remember this old image, big brother? Of our village with endless summer. Where old farmers tenderly tending their rice fields in the evening, and lively kids flying a large kite next to a river, as the mosque howling with a call for prayer. And familiar wind blowing, stroking our hairs, as we ran toward nearby small kiosk, without care. A still movie of our day when the time were still