Song of Peace

When I turned on the BBC this morning,

all I heard was war—

not in one nation,

but in many;

not in one battlefield,

but across a wounded world.

I heard explosions

where children once played,

internet curfews

where voices longed to be heard,

countless casualties

whose names became statistics,

and smoke rising

where homes once held tomorrow.

When I turned on the local news this morning,

all I heard was death—

not only upon broken lands

torn apart by conflict,

but also on elevated roads

where ordinary journeys never reached home,

and beneath relentless rains

that carried away lives, dreams,

and every certainty.

Every headline bore another sorrow.

Every bulletin unveiled another grief.

Every breaking news

broke another heart.

When I turned inward,

all I heard was fear—

fear hidden behind silence,

fear flowing through tears,

fear gathering beneath the mountains of trash

we have left upon the earth.

For we have scarred

not only one another,

but also the world

that has patiently carried us.

Yet when I turned toward hope,

my heart found only one song:

Peace.

For war breeds worry.

The climate demands answers.

Life is too precious

to become another casualty.

Let us sing the song of hope,

not because the world is peaceful,

but because it longs to be.

Let us live—

not alone,

but together.

Let us become fearless hearts

that speak with compassion,

listen with humility,

and choose understanding

before judgment.

Let us replace explosions

with children's laughter;

replace hatred

with healing;

replace suspicion

with trust;

replace walls

with welcoming hands.

Let us plant trees

where smoke has risen,

build bridges

where hatred has divided,

and leave footprints of kindness

where fear once walked.

For the sky belongs to all.

The earth belongs to all.

The future belongs to all.

And peace must belong to all.

This world is vast in beauty,

yet brief in our keeping.

Let us not spend it

counting wars,

mourning disasters,

or fearing tomorrow.

Instead,

let us spend it

building hope,

protecting creation,

embracing one another,

and singing the oldest,

gentlest song

humanity has ever known—

the song of peace.

Amen

Rachel closed her eyes,

not because sleep had found her,

but because grief had.

Drop

after drop

after drop—

the medicine learnt the map of her veins,

while sorrow wandered where no medicine could follow.

For three months

she had carried

a whisper,

a promise,

a heartbeat too small for the world,

yet large enough to become her world.

She had spoken to silence

until silence answered as a child.

Now

her womb

was a chapel

after the candles had gone out.

The doctors

gathered their careful words,

folded their careful hopes,

and left

without touching

the emptiness

they had named.

Rachel counted

not weeks,

not months,

but absences.

A cradle never rocked.

Tiny hands never opened.

A lullaby forgot its own ending.

Only

the drip

kept singing

its patient hymn.

Upon the table

an old journal waited,

its pages breathing

the fragrance

of forgotten prayers.

Someone

had cried

between its lines.

Someone

had loved

beyond language.

She opened it.

The page lifted like a small wing.

One sentence

waited

as though

it had crossed

centuries

to find

her.

All I said was Amen.

The ink

began to bloom.

A young girl

rose from the page—

not crowned,

not painted,

not standing upon stained glass,

but barefoot,

afraid,

holding tomorrow

inside an ordinary womb.

She wrote

of angels

who frightened

more than comforted.

She wrote

of Joseph,

whose silence

was another way

of saying

love.

She wrote

of long roads,

heavy feet,

morning sickness,

warm bread,

shared dates,

Elizabeth's embrace,

and a child

who first kicked

beneath her heart

before he walked

away from her hands.

Rachel

read.

Then

she listened.

Then

she remembered

a life

she had never lived.

The voices

crossed

like rivers.

One

had carried

a child

for three months.

One

had carried

a son

for thirty-three years.

Grief

asked neither

their names

nor their seasons.

It knew

only

that both

were mothers.

The journal

kept unfolding.

The hospital

grew distant.

The drip

became

a metronome

for memory.

The pages

became

another heartbeat.

And somewhere

between

an empty womb

and an empty tomb,

between

loss

and love,

between

question

and surrender,

two women

found

the same word—

the smallest prayer,

the deepest wound,

the quietest victory—

Amen.

postmortem

She lay upon the dissection table,

her heart laid open,

her blood grown cold—

while her words still bled

through an endless winter of silence.

The memories gathered around him,

staring with knitted brows

and lips forever sealed,

as though they knew

what neither of them had spoken.

With trembling hands

he began to read

the unseen history of her soul,

each wound a sentence,

each scar a forgotten chapter,

each vein preserving

the map of a love

that had outlived its own heartbeat.

The scattered pieces of her mind

overflowed with love,

yet drifted past him

like rain withheld by reluctant clouds—

a monsoon that never found

the courage to fall.

The showers of her dreams

remained knotted

within the sacred rites

of duty, silence, and surrender.

Each hope she buried alive

returned as an echo,

circling the shores

of a mesmerizing lake of pain,

where her passion endured

not as freedom,

but as captivity.

Her poems waited patiently,

page after page,

for a single answer,

for the warmth of a listening heart.

But he searched too late,

holding every verse

like an unfinished confession.

The postmortem was complete.

The body revealed nothing

the heart had not already endured.

Only then did he realize

that love leaves no evidence

beneath the surgeon's blade.

It hides instead

between unfinished poems,

unfallen rain,

sealed lips,

and the key

he never knew he carried.

Red Carpet

On the red carpet,

I want to sign my book,

where the ink blooms into smiles

and the nib writes new horizons.

On the red carpet,

I want to thank my book,

where words become life

and every page finds its voice.

On the red carpet,

I want to thank my beloved,

whose waiting became devotion

and whose faith flowered with time.

On the red carpet,

I want to believe in myself,

as an author

who thought, wrote, and lived.

On the red carpet,

I want to hold an award,

not for glory alone,

but for every silent hour

that trusted a dream.

On the red carpet,

I want my book to stand tall,

carrying the journey

from an unnoticed page

to a remembered name.

On the red carpet,

I want to know

that every word I nurtured

has found its reader,

its home,

and its light.

Who ?

Who decides her happiness,

if not the moment she dares to rise?

Who shapes her fate,

if not the strength behind her smile?

Who defines her future,

if not the courage to carve her own path?

Who crowns her success,

if not the grace she pours into herself?

Who measures her beauty,

if not the brilliance of her mind?

Who counts her years,

if not the love her heart has known?

She is beauty—

unshadowed by shyness.

She is light—

untouched by failure.

She is love—

woven with her dreams.

She is a gem—

unyielding, unbroken, unteased.

She is a flame—

quiet, fierce, and self-lit,

burning bright

by the power within.

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.