Verses & Vignettes

  Intezaar The verse There is no English word for intezaar not really. Waiting is too impatient, longing too loud. Intezaar is the breath held between a question and its answer. It is the window checked one more time before sleeping. The door listened to. The phone held, not opened. Intezaar does not demand. It simply remains faithful, quiet, undefeated, in love with what it waits for. The vignette She had become very good at waiting. Not the restless kind, tapping fingers, checking the clock. The other kind. The kind of her elders had with whom she lived with, a settled, rooted patience that seemed to come from knowing that what it meant to arrive, will. Intezaar, her time called it. Not worry. Not hope. exactly. Something between the two, but calmer than either. She sat with it now, the way she sat with chai slowly, with both hands, not rushing the warmth. What are you waiting for, with intezaar in your heart. "With words and warmth" - Vivekini Mata

  Roshni The verse Roshni does not ask permission. It does not knock. It finds the smallest crack and floods the whole room before you have decided whether you are ready. This is what hope does, too It does not wait for your darkness to end. It enters anyway. Uninvited, unashamed,  the most honest guest you'll ever have. The vignette The power had gone out at 3am. She had found her way to the window by memory, fifteen steps, then right. Outside, the street was dark except for one lamp still burning at the corner. That single roshni, that one stubborn light in all that dark, was enough to see by. Enough to make the rom feel less like the end of something. She stood at the window until the power came back. But she kept thinking about that lamp. How did it not know it was the only one? How it just kept being light.  What is the roshni in your life that just keeps burning? "With words and warmth" - Vivekini Mata

  What the Old Tree Knows  The verse The tree does not ask how long. It does not count its rings. It simply grows toward the light and endures the weight of things. Storms have bent it. Summers dried it. Children carved their names. And still it stands, And still it offers shade to those who came. I have stood beneath this tree and asked it how it bears. It dropped a leaf into my hands, The oldest answer: it just cares The vignette The neem tree outside her building was older than anyone she knew. The watchman said it had been there since before the building was built. The building, he said, had been built around it. She liked that. The idea that something could be so rooted that the world simply built itself around it, rather than removing it. She sat under it sometimes in the evenings, when the city felt too loud. It asked nothing of her. It offered shade without conditions. It had survived decades of heat, monsoon, construction, neglect and many more. She thought perhaps th...

  The Man Who Sells Flowers at the Signal The verse He stands where the road holds its breath between the go and the stop, roses wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, the world is rushing past nonstop. I have bought flowers from him. I do not know his name. I know the red of his roses, though, and that he is always the same. Same corner. Same basket. Same patience. While the city forgets to slow down. He offers beauty to strangers, and most of them don't even know. The vignette Every morning, without fail, he was there. The signal at the corner of the market road, the one that stayed red for too long and he, with his basket of roses and marigolds, was weaving between the stopped cars. She had bought from him once, on a Tuesday with no occasion. He had wrapped the roses quickly and neatly, then handed them over with a nod. No small talk. She had driven away with flowers on the passenger seat and the strange feeling of having been given something she didn't deserve. She didn'...

Rain on a Window I didn't Open The verse It came without announcement the way longing always does, tapping at the glass with its small, insistent fuss. I watched it trace its fingers down the length of everything, turning the street into a mirror, making the ordinary sing. I thought about the latch. I thought about the cold. I thought about all the things I'd wanted and never told. The window stayed shut. The rain didn't mind. Some storms are only beautiful when watched from behind. The vignette She had always loved rain more from the inside. There was something dishonest about admitting that poets were supposed to stand in it, arms wide, face tilted up. But she preferred the glass between them. It started while she was making tea. A soft sound first, like someone scattering rice across the roof. Then heavier. Then the whole window was alive with it, each drop finding its own crooked way down. She pulled her chair closer without thinking. The tea went cold. She didn't n...

  Before you become yourself The verse There is a version of you that exists only in this hour  before the name, before the role, before the world reclaims its power. You are not yet the sum of tasks. You are not yet what others need. You are only warmth and wanting, a consciousness that's just been freed. Drink slowly. Stay a little longer inside this self without a shape. Identity is a costume, remember  And morning is before you drape. The vignette There is a philosopher, I forget which one, who said that the self is not a thing we have but a thing we perform. I think about that most mornings, usually around the second sip. Before I open my laptop, before I answer to any name, there is a brief window where I am nobody in particular. Just a body with a warm cup, watching the light change. It is the only time of day I feel completely honest. I've started to think of it as practice, not for productivity or mindfulness, but for remembering that underneath all the performin...

  Welcome to Verses & Vignettes Where words find their shape, one poem, one moment at a time. Some stories are too full for a single line. Some feelings are too fleeting for a novel. This blog lives in that in-between space  where verses hold the weight of the world and vignettes capture what the camera misses. Hello, and welcome. I'm so glad you found your way here. This is a space I've been quietly dreaming about, a corner of the internet dedicated to poetry, short prose, and the small, beautiful fragments of everyday life that are worth pausing over. Verses  because some truths only make sense in rhythm. You'll find poems here about nature, longing, quiet mornings, and the emotions we don't have names for yet. Vignettes because life doesn't always need a plot. A grandmother's kitchen. A train ride at dusk. A conversation overheard in a café. Small scenes, fully felt. Whether you're here to read, to feel something, or just to slow down for a few m...