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.
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?”
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.
17.03.2026
I am half alive
Because I have yet to find
Who I am.
I am half alive,
Unaware of
My true calling.
I am half alive
Because I cannot speak
All that fills my mind.
I am half alive
Torn between
Myself and my family.
I am half alive,
Searching for
The treasures within me.
I am half alive—
Yet I know,
One day I shall find
What is truly mine.
03.03.2026
SRISHTI
12.12.2025
Festive mood in the -
air, here and there, everywhere .
Chritmas is coming .
The banjaras sit
With their mortars and grinders.
Few buy, few pass by.
13.12.2026
The pavement their home.
With blankets and stoves, waiting -
For their wares to sell.
14.12.2025.
In the festive air
I see despair in their eyes.
No one buys their wares.
15.12.2025
Husband, wife and child,
Standing together, urging
People to buy toys.
No one looks at them.
Sometimes a balloon is bought
And sometimes a ball.
16.12.2025
The Banjara kids
Tug at other kids to buy
Streamers and balloon
17.12.2025
The fair is over
Bricks, burst balloons lie scattered.
The banjaras gone.
