Echoes of unloved

P.s. read the poem in caption.

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इसे आप नज़्म कहे या मुशायरा, ये एक उत्तर है, एक इंस्टाग्राम पोस्ट का ।

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एक पीड़ा दादी की आँखों में थी,
जो अश्रु न बन सकी,
एक घुटन माँ की साँसों में थी,
जो स्वर न बन सकी।

अब वह दोनों मेरे भीतर धड़कती हैं,
शब्दों में, निर्णयों में, खामोशी में,
मैं सोचती हूं,
क्या यही है स्त्री का उत्तराधिकारणी होना?

(कृप्या , शेष कविता निम्नलिखित शीर्षक में पढ़ें।)

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भीतर कोई पुकारता रहा,
धीमे स्वर में, थरथराते शब्दों में,
मैं सबको सुनती रही,
बस स्वयं को छोड़कर !
अब जब कोई नहीं बोलता,
वह स्वर फिर उठता है,
"क्या अब सुन पा रही हो मुझे?"

कृप्या शेष कविता निम्नलिखित शीर्षक में पढ़ें।

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The threads of fate and free will, intertwined like the fibers of a rope. Do we weave our own path, or are we bound by the design of a greater force? The question lingers, a gentle hum in the background of existence. Perhaps it's not a question of either/or, but rather a dance between the two. We make choices, and those choices shape us, yet the context in which we make them is already woven into the fabric of our lives. The mystery deepens, a whole universe to explore, with each step revealing new patterns, new possibilities. And so, we weave, thread by thread, our lives unfolding like a tapestry of moments, each one a blend of fate and choice.
P.s. read the poem in caption

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चेहरों पर मुस्कुराहट हैं, पर आँखें चुप हैं,
हर मुस्कान के पीछे कोई सिसकी दबी है,
ये समाज नहीं, मुखौटों की भीड़ है,
जहाँ स्त्री होना ,एक अभिनय बन गया है।
हर प्रशंसा में छिपा होता है संशय,
हर नियम में बँधी होती है उसकी स्वतंत्रता,
वह बोलती है, पर सुनने वाला कोई नहीं,
वह चुप रहती है, तो दोष उसका बन जाता है।

(कृप्या शेष कविता निम्नलिखित शीर्षक में पढ़ें।)

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Beyond the flames that consume,
What lies in the ashes of our own design?
Is destruction a path to rebirth,
Or merely a reflection of our own emptiness?
Do we tear down to rebuild,
Or merely to confront the void within?
What lies at the core of our darkness,
And what shadows do we hide from ourselves?

P.s. read the conversation between Hero and The Villian in caption

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From the detritus of expectation,
A nascent self stirs, tentative and bruised,
The weight of others' desires slowly lifts,
As I excavate the contours of my own soul,

In the hollowed spaces, I search for wholeness,
A coherence born of fragmentation and pain,
What does it mean to be reconstituted,
To find form in the shards of what I've been?

In the stillness, I strain to hear,
The faint whispers of my own truth.
P.s. read the whole narration in caption

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In the abyss of my psyche, a tenacious silence festers,
A numbing torpor permeates, like a creeping caligo,
I was the stalwart bastion, the resilient heartbeat,
But now I'm an ephemeral shadow, a vestige of my former self,

What happens when the stalwart one succumbs to fragility?
When the caregiver craves succor, who provides solace?
The numbness disseminates, a pervasive glaciality,
A bulwark against anguish, but at what existential cost?

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The darkness enveloped me like a shroud, heavy with the weight of memories. Shadows danced on the walls, whispers of what could never be. I wandered through the deep recesses of my mind, searching for a glimmer of hope, a light to guide me through the deserted land of my soul. The stars above seemed distant, a reminder of the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of my pain. Yet, in the silence, I found a strange beauty, a beauty that lay hidden in the darkness.
P.s. read the poetry in caption

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