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.

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.