A New File

Twenty-seven years are ending here,

and a new Word file opens—

a blank page waiting quietly

for me to scribble my life

in any font I choose.

Yet, before I begin,

I open the old files

saved deep on my desktop

and scroll through the years

to witness the life I have lived.

There is no Backspace now

to erase what has been written,

no Undo to return

to the moments I wish I had changed.

The Enter key lies silent,

reminding me that some chapters

were never meant to be rewritten.

Error windows keep appearing—

Error! Error!—

memories of choices,

mistakes, losses and tears.

Yet, beside every red mark

I find blue strokes too—

small corrections,

unexpected blessings,

and lessons written

in the margins of my life.

I scroll further.

There were Ctrl + X moments—

things I had to cut away;

Ctrl + V moments—

things I carried forward;

and endless Tabs

opening into rooms

I never knew I would enter.

Some files crashed.

Some were never saved.

Some remained unfinished.

Some became read-only,

no longer allowing me

to edit the past.

The Justify button is still there,

as if reminding me

that not every line of life

will look perfectly aligned.

And perhaps,

that is all right.

For today,

I close the old files.

I will not delete them.

Let them remain—

not as wounds,

but as wisdom;

not as regrets,

but as lessons;

not as chains,

but as chapters of the past.

And now,

my new file is refreshed.

The cursor blinks patiently

on a brighter, emptier page.

There is more hope in this document,

more peace between its lines,

and more courage behind its words.

This time,

I will write slowly.

I will choose my words carefully.

I will not let every passer-by

edit my story.

Let this new file be

locked by its author—

not against love,

but against unnecessary interference;

not against change,

but against losing myself again.

And if life gives me

another error message,

I will not fear it.

I will read it,

learn from it,

and continue typing.

For this birthday,

I do not ask for

a perfect document.

I ask for a meaningful one—

a life filled with hope,

peace, love and purpose,

where every new page

becomes a little wiser

than the one before.

The old files remain behind.

The cursor is waiting.

New document.

New chapter.

New me.

And this time,

I will make my life

a treasure worth saving—

a beautiful thesaurus of memories,

where every difficult word

has found its meaning,

and every new word

has the possibility

of becoming a blessing.

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.

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.

Red-inked quill

The red-inked quill

spills the rage of love,

as Cupid tumbles from heaven,

his arrows piercing hearts—

searing love’s tender face,

bleeding its fragile wrists.

Love dissolves in a dark, creamy syrup,

its poison rising like mist,

twisting through veins

with the hunger to avenge,

to wound, to kill—

all in love’s forsaken name.

To Pappa

Pappa, I hate you for leaving without a word, Vanishing from our lives, your voice unheard.

I hate you for departing with that gentle smile, Soaring away, leaving us in denial.

I hate you for the memories which bring tears,

Feeding our sorrow, amplifying our fears.

I hate you for not allowing us to bid you,

a farewell before your last breath,

Departing swiftly, leaving us bereft.

I hate you for concealing your final trip's plan,

Leaving us to grapple, to understand. 

Yet, Pappa,

We miss your tender care, 

Your laughter, your games, 

the love we'd share.

In our hearts, your memory remains,

A guiding light through sorrow's rains.

Though anger and love intertwine, We cherish the moments when you were mine.

Rest in peace, dear Pappa, 

as we find our way,

Holding you in our hearts, 

every single day...

The Unheard Cry

O woman, bearer of life,

Why did you wield that cruel knife?

Nine months I swayed in your womb’s embrace,

Yet now I am cast, erased without trace.

The cave of birth, once filled with light,

Became my tomb on that fateful night.

I dreamed of your arms, your gentle care,

But met the cold of a world unfair.

My first cry, a plea to be seen,

You silenced, hidden, wrapped in a scene.

Thrown as refuse, my life undone,

A nameless soul, a forgotten one.

I cannot call you mother, no,

For love and grace you did not show.

The worst of sins, the heaviest weight,

A fragile life, you sealed my fate.

The law may shield you, grant reprieve,

But my pain lingers, a wound that won’t leave.

O woman, your heart turned to stone,

I was yours, yet you left me alone.

Remember this cry, though faint it may be,

It echoes through eternity.

A child discarded, a story untold,

A life unlived, a grief uncontrolled.

A Plea to Santa

Oh, Santa, bearer of light and cheer,

Don’t bring hopes that wither, year by year.

For children starve, their dreams turn black,

In a world where kindness seems to lack.

If you must come, let it not be in vain,

Bring healing for hearts steeped in pain.

Jobs for the weary, lessons for the lost,

Peace for the strife, at any cost.

Selfish hands clutch what they don’t need,

While the helpless cry and plead.

So, Santa, this Christmas, let your sleigh

Carry justice to pave the way.

Not toys or tinsel, not fleeting delight,

But a spark of change in the darkest night.

Oh, Santa, hear this earnest plea,

Be the beacon of what we long to see.

Gentle Wind

O gentle wind! 

Ignite my spirit with your whispered song,

Cradle my heart in your rhythmic waves,

Sweep away the shadows,

with your tender touch,

Lift me beyond this ache,

Let me soar,

Enfolded in the harmony of your breath.

Draupadi

Call me Draupadi,

Daughter of flames, 

born from the embers of Drupad's desire,

Whose steps echoed with,

the thunder of prophecy,

A woman bound to rewrite:

the threads of history.

Call me Panchali,

Bride of five, 

with warriors' blood in my veins,

My tears, like fire,

scorched the battlefield of Kurukshetra,

And my tattered cloth 

became the noose around the Kauravas' fate.

Call me Krishna,

The dark-skinned dreamer, 

carved from dusk and earth,

Who longed for a palace not of stone, 

but of freedom,

A palace that,

shimmered with envy in every eye,

Until the crown sat heavy upon my brow, 

and I ruled as queen.

Broken Petal

Beneath the moon's soft silver light,

A butterfly laments the night.

Her colors, once a vibrant flare,

Now fade to ash in the cool, still air.

Through twilight’s arms, she glides in pain,

Each fallen feather a silent stain.

Her heart, a wound that softly weeps,

For love now buried in shadowed deeps.

A hand, so cold, with cruel delight,

Stole her wings in the quiet night.

He wore her beauty, claimed her grace,

And left her broken in hollow space.

Yet in the dark, a spark takes flight—

Hope flickers faint beneath the blight.

For even shattered wings can rise,

To greet the dawn with fearless eyes.

Through tears, through loss, 

she’ll find her might,

Unfurling strength with each new flight.

A symbol born of grief and strife,

The butterfly reclaims her life.