I was sitting alone on the steps of the village water tank,
watching circles form as I threw pebbles into the water.

Yes, I wanted to create ripples—
not just in the water,
but around me.

I needed to do something.

Suddenly, anxiety gripped me.
My breath turned heavy, hissing—
my chest tightening, rising—

my throat closing, my eyes wide.

Then I felt it.
A presence.

Soft breathing near my ear,
and a whisper—

“Write my story. Will you?”

I turned, startled.

“Your story? What is there to write?
Who are you? Nothing.
A good-for-nothing, lazy, mad woman—
who would want to hear your story?”

She ran.

But her voice did not.

It stayed—
slipping into my head,
shouting, tearing through me—

“How dare you call me lazy?
I have stories.”

Do you know how my father touched me?
Do you know how my brother laughed?
Do you know how my mother watched—
not stopping him,
not seeing me?

Yes.

I am good for nothing.
That’s what he told me every time
his grip tightened
and I froze into silence.

When I could not speak,
I became proof.
When I stayed silent,
I became nothing.

In the mornings,
when I was slow with the household chores,
they said it again—

good for nothing.

Nothing.

Today I reduced myself to nothing.

I hid within myself—quiet, unseen.
No one would know.
No one would hear.

I shudder as the voice continues—

“I am older now.
I don’t smile.
I don’t speak.
I don’t comb my hair.”

My hair is matted.
My clothes are stained.

Mother is old now.
But her silence has not aged.

Father is still drunk.
My brother is married.

I am no longer needed.

They say I am mad.

I don’t mind.

Let it be.

But now—there is a new girl.

My brother’s wife.

I watch her.

Sometimes she looks at me with pity.
I don’t speak to her.
I think like her—
but I don’t show it.

Should I be the only one
to vanish like this?

Or should another become like me?

I am no longer afraid.

I have ways.

No—
not like before.
Not foolish.

I think of it sometimes—
clearly.

Cutting him.
Watching him bleed.

Or mixing something into his drink—
slow, quiet—
so he never knows it was me.

My brother—
laughing as always—

I want that laugh to stop.
Just stop.

A fall.
A slip.
A broken head on the floor—

something sudden,
something final.

I turn these over in my mind
again and again—

until they blur,
until they feel almost real.

But I cannot do it alone.

I need help.

Ah.

Yes.

I remember her face—
my sister-in-law—
crying every night.

I see my mother looking at her—
older now,
but with the same hard eyes.

My brother—smiling.

In her, I see myself.

The whisper softens now.
The voice still burns.

I keep throwing stones into the water,
watching the ripples—
and blaming them.

Yes.

I have an idea.

I will befriend her.

Before she becomes me.

Maybe she will listen to my story.
Let me go and find her.

And then—

you can decide
whether my story
is worth writing.

My body stills.

Then—

faint at first,
then sharper—

a call cuts through the air:

“Chumki… Chumki…
you good-for-nothing—
where are you?”

The name settles inside me.

I don’t turn.

Slowly,
I get up—
pick up a large stone—

and hurl it into the water.

The ripples widen.
Widen—

and something in me rises with them.

I don’t wait.

I rush inside—
to find her.

---

The Last Day-- ACROSTIC

 Time ticked like every day

Heedlessly I went about my way

Ensnared by time.

Lurking somewhere,

Anonymous,

Stealthily you approached,

Terminating me.

Death, you are merciless.

Abruptly, you claimed me,

Yanking me—as if I were nothing.

Experimenting with Blackout poetry

 Ref:

 last Queen last paragraph  page 35

Weeks crawl along.

Hurried, tight-lipped,

he leaves at dawn,

returns after sundown.

Our simple meal

takes an hour.

The rest of the day

stretches—

endless.

A dingy mud hut

needs little care.

The narrow window

lets in

no sunlight.

Like a drowning person,

I grapple with time-

Hoping -

yet unwanting

the night 

to bring him back.

A Life in Three Movements

 

I. What Remains

My head—

God knows what it holds.

Rotten memories, perhaps,

of bygone days.

Where are those days

of my younger self?

My torrid affair,

my haughty being?

I was a beauty once, you know—

no one could ignore me.

My tongue was sharp,

my temper short.

I could dance, sing,

control it all.

Today—

I am not even a reflection

of that self.

My memory is locked.

I keep forgetting.

II. The Day I Walked Out

That day came.

I took the plunge

and walked out of my door,

never to return.

I wanted my life back.

To be able to

freely board the bus,

go shopping,

visit neighbours,

and do whatever

I wanted.

I had forgotten it was Sunday.

I just wanted to go out.

In a hurry,

I took my bag

and my bank papers.

I even forgot

my favourite—

my phone.

Listlessly,

I continued to walk,

traversing

the tricky pavement

and the shuttered shops

till I reached the crossing.

Something had shifted.

The careful me was gone.

The light was red.

They say

someone called out,

tried to stop me,

the police waved frantically.

I don’t remember.

Only a sound.

a car,

too fast,

too close,

and then-

air,

impact,

the hard edge of the curb.

When I woke,

I was in a hospital bed.

Outside,

the world continued—

I never stepped back into it.

III.  Something is  Missing 

My head—

God knows what it holds.

Something is always missing.

Faces slip away.

Names don’t stay.

I was a beauty once…

wasn’t I?

With blank stares,

I sit all day,

looking at walls.

I have stories

I cannot tell.

No one calls—

not even

to say “hi.”

I wait

with cloudy eyes.

No one knows

what goes on in my mind.

I have lost control

of my being.

Eat, sleep, TV.

TV, eat, sleep.

That’s what my life

has  turned out to be.

Reduced to Nothing.

Mask

 Mask

Human face.

No eyes.

No ears.

No nose.

No mouth to speak.

Just a mask

in a gallery.

Holes

where something should have been.

Who will wear it?

Will you give it

your eyes—

your ears—

your breath?

Will you lend it

a voice?

If it is yours,

you will feel it—

a pulse

rising in the chest,

something pressing

toward speech.

The mouth waits.

The nose trembles.

The ears open.

The eyes begin to shine.

Or else—

it remains

what it was:

a mask

in a gallery.

Unbecoming

 23.03.2026

The unborn child,

conceived with love,

kept from becoming.

A decision.

Practicality.

You return

in dreams—

a tiny head,

glistening with amniotic fluid,

cradled within the womb,

whispers—

“Why did you knock me out?”

I wish I had

let those tiny hands

curl around my finger.

But—

I was not the mother then.

I was a woman

trying to create my life,

to fulfil my dreams.

You would have altered everything.

Today—

no guilt.

Only tenderness

fills.

You remain.

Still, 

I wonder—

is it sorrow

or something stronger

that asks again—

“Why?”

Grave stories

 Cemeteries abound in memories.

Dust to dust, bodies vanish.

Headstones inscribed with love

Keep the dead alive—

In names and dates,

In loving memory.

Cemeteries abound in stories,

Stories of the dead—once alive.

Stories of love, sickness, or crime.

Headstones tell different tales:

Some of love,

Some with just names,

Or marked by a single cross.

Cemeteries abound in stories.

Rich, engraved marble mausoleums

Hold histories long gone.

Dates speak of lives cut short

Or lived too long.

Cemeteries abound in stories.

Some tombstones, sparkling clean,

Others lost under overgrown grass,

Speak of love—and its absence.

Flowers on some tell of visits,

by loved ones

Others lie forgotten, covered in dust.

Even in death,

Our stories endure.

My grave lies empty,

Waiting to tell my story.