I saw her in the bazaar
after so many days.
As always, her face was layered
with makeup—
not to beautify,
but to mask the bruises.
Time had worn her down,
yet she stood tall,
a quiet victory in her eyes.
She had finally severed the knot
of an abusive past,
and for the first time,
she looked free.

The house at the corner of the street,
with its striking red and green windows,
stands out.

An old neem tree still stands tall.
A few years ago, the place was filled with plants and flowers,
and I even noticed butterflies fluttering around.
But now, all the plant life has dried up—
there’s no water to sustain them.

In my childhood,
This city embraced me—
Open arms, warm and tender,
Like a lover greeting the beloved.

But now, for years,
It has become a dense jungle of people,
A place where no one speaks,
Where gatherings are no more.
Memories are left untouched,
Unspoken, unshared.

The days slip by—
They end as quickly as they begin.
Was there even an afternoon today?
I can’t recall.

Winter barely departed,
And summer rushed in too soon.
The gentle pause of spring,
Its fleeting beauty,
Seems lost to time.

I stand here, puzzled,
Wondering, searching—
Where has the spring of my city gone?

In solitude
I reminisce
of love that once was mine to kiss
but now
my heart is but amiss
as I mourn the love
I dearly miss.

Questions are vital,
Life thrives on questioning—
Yourself, others, the world.
Without questions, you cannot grow,
You cannot think,
For questions ignite thought,
And thought fuels change.

Yet, there are those in power,
Strong in might but fragile in mind,
Afraid of questions.
They silence voices,
Suppress bright minds,
Youthful minds,
Minds that dare to ask,
"Why?" and "What if?"

Across the epochs of history,
There have always been
The brave who question
And the fearful who evade.

Do not be afraid.
Raise your questions boldly.
For it is through questioning
That you challenge rigid thinking,
That you confront the immovable,
Even the most powerful.

Raise your voice,
And let your questions
Shape a better tomorrow.

She loves to play with colors,
and her favorite is blue.
She loves her blue jeans,
a gift from her mother.

Her mother works
in a garment factory,
where women are paid
less than men.

She dreams of a world
where colors don’t fade with injustice.

Without a single word,
They tell their stories—
Years spent apart,
Yet yearning to meet.

Fingers trace memories,
Whispers of time gone by,
Silent but profound,
In their gentle touch, they sigh.

They speak of love and loss,
Of moments slipped through sand,
A timeless conversation,
In the language of hands.

Stitch by stitch,
fingers move like ghosts in dim-lit rooms,
eyes strained, backs bent,
breath laced with dust and silence.

A label whispers luxury,
a name stitched in gold,
but behind the seams,
a child traces hunger with trembling hands.

The clock does not sleep,
nor do the hands that sew,
woven into fabric priced in dollars,
while wages shrink to cents.

Promises drape the storefronts,
Ethical. Sustainable. Fair.
But behind factory doors,
needles pierce more than cloth.

Somewhere, a thread unravels,
and a name is lost in the weave,
a worker, a mother, a child.
Their voices fade,
but the machines never stop.

When rights are taken,
people stand alone.
The world moves around them,
but they are outside,
unseen, unheard.

Dignity crumbles.
Inclusion becomes a distant idea,
participation a closed door.
They are left with nothing but silence,
a void where their voice should be.

Education, healthcare, justice—
these are not gifts,
they are foundations.
Without them,
the ground gives way.

Isolation grows,
not just in the mind,
but in the spaces between people.
It spreads,
weakening the ties that hold society together.

They are here,
but they are not.
Their absence is felt,
but not acknowledged.
The system turns,
blind to the cracks it creates.

How long can this last?
How many must stand alone
before the world notices,
before it stops,
and begins to rebuild?

The love story ends,
The tale is finished,
Their paths now diverge,
Separate ways taken.

Who cares for the other?
Who cherishes the bond?
A fleeting day spent together,
A smiling morning,
A humming evening,
Yet the night falls—
Darkness remains.

Bitterness lingers,
Resentment over trivial things,
Fragments of what once was.

Now, the search begins again—
Another hand to hold,
A new companion to find,
To fill the void,
To start another story.

Availability of clean water
Is necessary for all of us
It's vital for human health
And, it's development.

Access to clean water
Is everyone's right
Either the live in a metropolitan city
Or in a small village in desert
Rich or poor the same.

This is the obligation of governments
To give clean water to everybody
Bottled water is expensive
Everyone can't buy and drink.

We ought to recall
Consistently a kid passes on
Because of water related malady
The majority of these youngsters
Belong to helpless nations.

We should save our land
We should save mother nature
We must save it today
Else, it will be past the point of no return.

We have to tell our children
Who are our future.

Global warming is crushing the earth
Rising temperature can slaughter the plants and animals.

To control the temperature of the earth
We have to teach our children
Don't use plastic bags.

Plastic bags are really handy
But they are polluting our environment.

Life is a tightly woven tale,
A grim beginning, a joyful trail.
Who can say if smiles at dawn,
Won't fade to tears when day is gone?

Write your story with a humble pen,
Let kindness guide where it may wend.
Leave behind the weight of shame,
And walk through life, free of blame.

I feel sadness,
A quiet grief within me.
Not because someone has gone,
Not because life has ended.

We come into this world only to leave,
So why this sorrow?
Why this ache?
It’s not his departure that burdens my heart—
It’s the unhappiness he carried,
A life with so little joy,
So much pain.

Yet, through the window of my memories,
Whenever I saw him,
He was always smiling.
That smile—
Bright, enduring—
It lingers in my mind.

And now, I search for his picture
Amid a pile of photographs,
But I can’t find it.