यादों के फ़साने में ही ज़िन्दगी गुज़ारी जाए,
या उन लम्हों को दोहराने के लिए ज़िन्दगी ही सँवारी जाए।
पढ़ना मुश्किल है गुज़रे वक़्त का कलमा एक बार फिर से,
फ़क़त गुंजाइश यही हो कि तज़ुर्बे के सहारे एक और शाम बिताई जाए।

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आँखें खुलती नहीं इस चकाचौंध में,
सलीके से रहने का भी हुनर होना चाहिए।
सुकून तो तलाश लेंगे हम,
मिट्टी के मकान में जलते एक दिए से भी,
शर्त ये है कि उस चारदीवारी के आँगन में
एक घर होना चाहिए।

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Who broke her lenses, do you even care to ask?
Who’s the culprit hiding behind a decent mask?
And who’s so shameless, without a drop of regret,
Watching her misery, as if it’s easy to forget?

If I say it’s you, would you dare to think twice?
Would truth sting deep, or would you roll the dice?
If for a single moment, you feel my words hit right,
Then tell me first, where were you, before she lost her sight?

She's heard it all, the bruising behind the doors,
The insults, the humiliation, the never-ending social wars.
Domestic abuse, body shaming, muffled scream,
Every scar a reflection, every drop in her eyes craves to dream.

Her eyes are blurred, her faith gone sour,
The gentleness she had long been no more.
It's not her fault, it's the world she's lived in,
Constructed of egos, and sculptured stone with in.

So fix yourself, before you try fix her pain.
Break the cycle, not her innocence, again.
Maybe then, when compassion commences,
You’ll help her mend those broken lenses.

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Yes, it’s true; a woman with few friends,
the wisdom to separate her personal and
professional life, a selective social circle,
and a carefully built comfort zone is a
woman of power, resilience, strength, and inspiration.
But inside her a little girl takes shelter, one who
craves warmth, who sometimes just wants to
cry her heart out, always talks about being
practical but loves to dream.

So, don’t assume. Don’t predict.
When you see an ambitious girl, don’t accuse her
of being egoistic and ignorant.
Instead, encourage her. Admire her,
for carrying the weight of her dreams with grace,
for gathering so much strength to become
the woman so many aspire to be, but few can become.

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I forgot!
yes, you heard me right,
I forgot how to smile
like the world wasn’t watching.
I forgot how to cry loud
without choking on my pride.
I forgot how it felt
to simply be soft with myself.

There was a time
I wore jhumkas like joy;
dangling, dancing, declaring
my love for little things.
Now, they gather dust
in the box of “used to be.”

I cry, but in corners now;
dark, quiet ones
where no one hears the break
except the wall I lean on.
I don’t know when people
became so sharp,
all edges,
no warmth.

Why do they
cut me deeper
just because I still bleed?

Toxic smiles,
narcissistic masks,
laughter that hides knives,
I walk among them
like I’m invisible,
but feel every strike.

I’m still here.
Forgotten by myself, maybe
but not lost.
Not yet.

One day,
maybe I’ll wear those jhumkas again.
Let them sing
as I dance
back into me.

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Dear beings,
I don’t hate you anymore.
Because hating you would be the deepest insult
to that pure feeling I once held only for you.
Now, I merely dislike you all and that takes no effort.
Dislike has its own compact intensity;
it doesn’t need a reason or a trigger to exist.

I’m human; kind, humble, and nurturing by nature,
but now I’ve learned to be as you too,
and definitely it will sound harsh to you only.
I won’t let anyone neglect what’s mine
just because I’m made to nurture everyone.

My hair will flow, wild, flawed, and fiery,
not for beauty, but for power.
My eyes will hold confidence instead of tears.

I’m in a phase where there’s no turning back,
No matter how hard the patriarchy tries to chain me again.
Because if my patience can give birth,
then my aggression can destroy too.
I’m not just a woman,
I am The WOman!

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काली घटा के घिरने से नूर तो छिप जाएगा,
चंद्रमा की आभा से असहज हो, घटा भी घबरा जाएगा।
चाहेगा कि बाँध ले, उसे विवश कर, उसे साध ले।
पर शशि की गरिमा ही उसका तेज है, स्वाभिमान है,
इन सरफिरे बादलों का तो आना-जाना काम है।
हो जाएगा वो ओझल एक क्षण को,
जिससे घटाओं को संतोष हो,
और खुले चेतना अंतर्मन की,
तो सुख से ज़्यादा अफ़सोस हो।

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I'm particular and imperfect, with untold dramas,
Judgment is deep in the tales I keep,
But in your presence, my dear, thoughts disappear,
I'm starstruck by each radiance, each glistening stage.
Believe me, with you I forget all the standards I have,
I adore you for a reason as,
you pilfer brightness from stars for me always.
~❤️🌔

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In the crowd of pandals,
a truth struck me,
no one cares for your story,
unless it feeds their gain.

Even Devi Durga,
the roar of strength,
was unseen by Shiva
until she unveiled her Nav Durga form.

We bow to her nine faces,
but worship the Mahishasurmardini most;
for she fought in favor of life,
for nature, for survival.

So what is recognition?
Not the purity of your being,
but the utility of your act.

Do not expect admiration,
the world won’t see you
until you serve their need.

So walk steady, write your story,
for even the Goddess was given no confession,
no VIP pass to reverence,
and you, a woman, must carve
your own place in the queue.

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Bangles aren’t symbols of weakness or dependency,
they shine as choice, never as chains.
So stop that tired slang,
हाथों में चूड़ियाँ पहनी हैं क्या?
just to mask male inability.
Our adornment isn’t your insult.
These bangles beat with rhythm, rebellion, and strength,
demanding respect as the true essence of नारीत्व.

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