Indian homemaker with an access to pen, poetry & peace.

Years of writing, yet still I bow before words–
yearning, yielding.
Not every silence answers, not every draft survives,
but the ache to touch something true
makes even the stumbling sacred.
I gather the broken phrases, 
offer them up like prayers.

(to be continued...)

X marks the unknown—a poem’s pulse, its spark, its spell.
Like the first packed dabba at dawn,
it holds mysteries folded into each layer.
a taste I don’t yet know but trust will nourish.
Some poems shimmer, half-revealed;
some hide, asking me to search for their flavor—
an alchemy I never fully understand,
only recognize by the way it quickens the heart.

(to be continued...)

Witness or wonder—
 it’s as easy, and as impossible, as that.
 To be a poet:
 to let magic pass through you,
 without clutching at its hem.

To allow yourself the rare, lavish gift of loneliness,
 to meet life—
 raw, tender, unadorned.
 To watch the poem and the poet blur at the edges,
 where all that's left
 is the breathless moment:
 to witness,
 to wonder,
 and to bow.


(to be continued...)

Voice— 
it isn't everyone's weapon. 
It’s a rare find, 
a sliver of lightning in the darkest of clouds.

 Not every tongue has access to voice, 
not every throat makes way for a voice, 
not every language translates into one.

But when the universe lends you its flame— 
when it chooses you to carry a sliver of its fire—
 you find your voice through the verses.
 And you must know: it is not yours to own.

 You are merely the wick, the vessel, 
the borrowed flame lighting the way for the unseen, 
the unheard, the vulnerable.

There is no room here for pride or flattery, 
only the silent, sacred duty to burn true—
 until your flame too returns to the sky.

(to be continued...)

Untangling the knots of bias—
 from roots I never planted
 but grew with anyway.
 The beliefs I was raised on,
 the ones society stamped as truth,
 the ones my textbooks whispered in bold—
 beliefs from yesterday
 that no longer feel like mine today.

If I dare to put them side by side—
 the then and the now—
 in one contradicting line,
 juxtaposing the self I was
 with the self I’m still becoming—
 then unlearning becomes a kind of learning.

 The poem becomes the subject,
 not the poet.
 A stamp of truth,
 etched in evolution.

(to be continued...)

Trust me when I say—
there’s a time-lapse
between the download of an idea
and its descent into ink.
What begins as a flicker
becomes dancing curves,
tapping a rhythm
onto the pulp of papyrus.

But somewhere in that gap—
filters sneak in.
Filters I don’t name.
Filters I don’t see.
They blur my sight,
they lace the truth
with a trickster’s grin.
And I ask myself—
were those filters
divine intervention,
or distortion?

Is this poem a revelation—
or a refined illusion?

(to be continued...)

Some days, I am sorted.
 Most days, I’m a mess.
 Then come those days
 I’m a sorted mess—
 And in the quiet clutter of those hours,
 When I choose to ink the chaos with metaphors,
 I ask:
 Should I scratch,
 Or soothe my soul?

Like the wise ones
 Who urge me to dig deep,
 To bleed through roots
 And heal from where it all began—
 I scratch,
 To name what hurts
 And trace it back to its birth.

Or like that novice counsellor
 Who told me to breathe,
 To begin with soft affirmations,
 And sprinkle my day with light—
 I soothe,
 To keep the dark from devouring me whole.

Will my scars keep you from burning?
 Will my balms dare you to hope again?
 What should I offer—
 A mirror with cracks,
 Or a gentle cloth for your wounds?

(to be continued...)

 When a person of faith
 Poisons minds by choice,
 Feeds ego with fear,
 And burns buildings
 Instead of building bridges?

Should my poem react—
 Raw, raging, urgent—
 Or respond—
 Measured, mindful, aching with grace?

Do I raise protest
 In the face of roaring injustice,
 Or whisper peace
 From a quiet place of pondering?
Should my words be a sword,
 Or a balm?
 A fist,
 Or a folded palm?

React or respond—
 What must a poet do
 When the world is on fire
 And silence, too, feels like sin?

(to be continued...)

Quiet defiance hums beneath my pen.
Why must poems always rhyme?
Why must pain wear blood and thunder to be heard?
Why has joy been dismissed as shallow,
 And grief crowned the only truth worth telling?

Who will hear the ones who flinch in silence,
 While standing tall for someone else's truth?
 And when those same voices pause
 To speak for themselves —
 Why are they criticised,
 Disowned,
 Branded selfish?

Isn't this voice mine, too —
 To speak for myself
 Before I speak for others?
 Or has my privilege of voice
 Made me a vessel
 Only for borrowed pain?

(to be continued...)

Perhaps I’m most honest when I pretend—
donning voices that aren’t mine.
A mother’s muttered truth,
a friend’s seductive romance,
a long-lost lover’s longing.
Behind each mask, I breathe a little freer,
unburdened by the heaviness of being me.
Is it a lie I sell—
or just the human fear of laying myself bare?

What if I put myself out there—
Naked
A buffet for others to taste, savour, or discard.
Would that make me brave—
or a fool before a speeding train?

Maybe truth isn’t always raw exposure.
Maybe the truest things I say
arrive when I sign it off
in someone else’s name.

(to be continued...)