Proud to Be an Ahankari

They said — “Be quiet, be sweet, obey.”

But my heart was not made to decay.

They said — “Customs are truth, don’t ask why.”

But I saw logic buried where lies lie.

I break the chains they call divine,

To free the truth that once was mine.

Proud to be an Ahankari.

Society loves a silent girl,

With folded hands and lowered world.

But I raise my head, I dare to speak,

For silence is not what makes me meek.

I question rules that blind and bind,

I honour God with a thinking mind.

Proud to be an Ahankari.

They build their thrones on women’s tears,

Then call it duty through the years.

They bless the ones who never fight,

And shame the souls that seek their right.

But I will walk where truth may burn,

For respect is something one must earn.

Proud to be an Ahankari.

I don’t defy the sacred skies,

I only strip the world of lies.

If faith is pure, it will not fear

The voice of reason loud and clear.

It’s not my God who cages me,

It’s society’s gaze that chains me free.

Proud to be an Ahankari.

I wear my dreams, not what they say,

I carve my dawn from their decay.

No rule can shame the life I lead,

No crowd can curse my honest creed.

For every woman who stands apart,

Rebellion is her prayer of heart.

Proud to be an Ahankari.

Let them whisper, let them blame,

I carry no guilt, I carry no shame.

Their comfort ends where my courage starts,

Their norms can’t weigh my living heart.

I am not proud of sin or scar,

But proud of knowing who I are.

Proud to be an Ahankari.

The Art of Being Loved

Being loved — her sweetest dream,

A wish she whispered in moonlight’s gleam.

She prayed to God with trembling heart,

“Teach me love, and where to start.”

The Lord then spoke in a voice so still,

“If you seek love, you must bend your will.

Be mute, my child — do not reply,

Just listen, obey, and never ask why.

For love,” He said, “you must bear the pain,

And smile though your soul is split in twain.

Hide your wounds where none can see,

And call your silence serenity.

To be loved,” He said, “you must not exist,

Be a shadow, a breath, a ghost once kissed.

Never think, never resist,

Lose yourself in love’s cruel mist.”

The world adores the gentle kind,

Who break in secret, yet never mind.

Who nod at orders, hush their cries,

And trade their truth for painted lies.

She danced for love, with bleeding feet,

To music cold, yet bittersweet.

Each nod, each bow, each broken chord,

A prayer unanswered to her Lord.

For being loved — that sacred flame,

Was but a fantasy, soft by name.

She yearned, she waited, she forgave,

Yet love denied her — even the grave.

And so she slept, her dream unspoken,

A heart once whole, forever broken.

For all she wanted — all she craved,

Was love, the gift she never braved.

Swansong

This is my swan song

I lay down my pen with a trembling sigh,

Curtailing the voice of my dreaming muse,

For none remain to read, and none to buy.

This is my swan song

I silence the rhythm within my soul,

Wiping away the thoughts once bold,

As my quiet resolve meets a world grown cold.

This is my swan song

The ink shatters beneath my trembling hand,

The nib, once noble, breaks on barren land,

For my verses found no honour, no demand.

So let the reel world shine and rise,

While my stardust dreams in silence die.

No final ovation, no curtain call

Just the hush of a poet who gave her all 

Dissertation of Ego

I was born in your heart’s deep core,

To sharpen pride, and rise once more.

Styled in grace, in mirrored hue,

I wore your charm, and walked with you.

Adorned with crowns you strove to gain,

I bathed in glory, drank your fame.

Yet etched in me, your silent ache,

The wounds they gave, the smiles they fake.

I never falter, never fall—

I am the echo in your call.

I am the fire that burns in you,

Your shadow’s truth, forever true.

But oft I spark a silent war,

Not with yourself—but those you adore.

My voice resists the bowed-down head,

And feeds on words once left unsaid.

Forgive I can, forget I won’t—

For slights and stings, I guard and gloat.

A friend, a flame, a foe, a guide—

I am your ego, deep inside.

Rain Drain

The moaning of trees,

Floods the pastures

And the tears of cloud,

Drenches the soil,

As the wrath of nature,

Can't be shielded

With the screams of man.

Grant me one more day

O Lord,

Grant me just one more day—

A day to be the daughter

Of my great father once again.

To shower him with boundless joy,

To embrace my lovely beard,

To honor my dense green heart,

And to fulfill every promise

To my heavenly gift.

O Lord,

Grant me one more day—

A day to smile into his eyes,

To rest within his sheltering arms,

To play our silly games once more,

Fingers entwined, laughter unchained.

To wander hand in hand

Through the winding, whispering alleys,

Living once again

As his carefree daughter.

O Lord,

Please grant me one more day

To ride behind him on our old scooter,

My voice streaming without fear - 

The wind carrying our laughter away,

As he boasted his old Dubai days.

Stopping for our favorite mango pulp,

Sipping memories in quiet delight—

Just a daughter and her Pappa,

One last ride, one last time.

O Lord,

Just one day—only one—

To be with my Pappa once more.

To touch his moustache,

The one I adored as a child.

To share my fears,

Knowing he’d wipe them away.

To hear, just once more,

His steadfast voice assuring me,

"I will never let you fall."

Bonsai's Lament

 I was meant to be a tree,

roots deep, branches wild,a

 whisper in the forest,

dancing free with the wind.

But you craved a quiet beauty,
a tamed soul in a porcelain home.
So you silenced my longing,
trimmed my cries into hush,
bound my roots in shallow earth.

My bark bears the scars of your shears,
my leaves darken with longing,
hungry for the breath of open sky.
Yet, in your world of careful order,
I bloom—small, obedient, still.

I am art, I am captive,
a wilderness carved into grace.
A tree that never touched the sky,
yet sits adorned in your gaze.