I painted my own sky—

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To my dearest Little one

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I see my flaws
more clearly
than my virtues,
and no—
it's not for lack of love.
They believe in me
even when faith abandons,
this cavalry that defends me
without question,
love seeping in
like morning rays
through every crack,
every cleft

Yet beneath it all,
I see only fragments—
jagged pieces of my vices,
the lies I've told,
my bitter moods,
unpleasant words
that cut your soul.
Do I deserve this devotion?
Am I worthy of such grace?

The answer slips away
from me,
again and again.

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I bring you here
by the river flowing
through centuries
I hold your hand,
rest on your shoulders
as we watch these waters
that have witnessed
lovers like us
through the ages.

These walls have heard
every whispered promise,
felt every broken heart's pain,
comforted each weary soul.

I want them to witness us too
so that our love
continues to be felt
by generations beyond us.

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speech fails me
while pen holds
me through.

My pen feels
no urgency
it quietly waits
until the right words
make their way
to me and I
finally breathe.

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First rain

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Mogra

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I have always known Maa in saree—
draped in duty, wrapped in care.

But one day, she pulled my jeans from the almirah,
slipped into my new shirt,
threw on the jacket,
and stepped out with a childlike gleam in her eyes—
full of mischief, brimming with innocence.

In that moment, she wasn't the keeper of our needs.
She was just a woman
reclaiming a piece of herself
she'd tucked away with the old photographs.

I wish to see her like that again—
not drowned in responsibilities,
not weighed down by everyone else's expectations,
but light as that afternoon
when she wore my world
and I glimpsed hers.

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I stood watching over the valley,
sun far below the horizon,
darkness quietly unveiling .
Not a soul in sight,
not a word uttered—
yet I heard them,
clear and distinct.

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"You gave enough love, my little dove."

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