हिंदी कविताएं
हर मौसम और त्योहार को शब्द देती कविताएं।
ये कविताएं बैसाखी की फसल, नवरात्रि की गरबा रातों, क्रिसमस की खामोश सुबह और ईद की सिवइयों जैसे अलग-अलग त्योहारों को एक ही धागे में पिरोती हैं। भक्ति भरी रचनाओं के लिए भजन संग्रह भी देखें।
The flag flies for the ones who did not come home—
the young ones who went out and did not return,
who gave the last of everything they carried
so the flag would have a sky in which to burn....
They march at dawn when the world still sleeps—
when the streets are empty and the birds are early—
they march with the weight of everything we are
and they carry it quietly and surely.
We will not see them...
Popular Poems Topics for You.
There is a land I love beyond explaining—
not because it is perfect or without the stain
of all that history puts on every nation,
but because it is mine, and in my vein.
I have walked its particular earth...
History writes the famous names in large—
the leaders and the celebrated few—
but underneath them in the unmarked graves
are the ones whose names the history never knew.
They fought without a monument or mention,
they sacrificed without a...
Sad Poems
The anthem always finds me where I'm tender—
the particular note that sends the shiver through—
something in the melody that carries
more than music, more than memory knew.
It is the voices of the ones who sang it first...
The nation is the young and what they build—
the generation that inherits and improves,
that takes the imperfect gift of what was left them
and finds in it the room for better moves.
The young are not the problem...
Independence Day is not a holiday—
it is a day of remembering at full cost,
of holding what was given against the light
and asking: have we held it, or have we lost?
Freedom is the daily work of free...
My mother tongue is a river I was born into—
before I knew that rivers had a name,
I was already swimming in its grammar,
already shaped by its syllabic flame.
Hindi: the language of my first lullabies,
the tongue...
Maa—the shortest word for the largest thing,
two letters that carry the whole first world,
the smell of home, the sound of safety,
the life before the life was unfurled.
No translation captures it completely—
Maa belongs to the language...
Love Poems
In a foreign city in a foreign winter
I dream of the Deccan in July—
the particular green of the post-monsoon fields,
the particular quality of that sky.
They say the homeland is in the language—
wherever Hindi is spoken,...
The Ganga does not know our names—
it has been running too long for that—
but it has carried the prayers of ten thousand years
in its cold and patient current, fact by fact.
At its banks the oldest rituals...
The diyas know their purpose without instruction—
place them at the threshold and they light,
their small, specific, oil-fed determination
holding back the generous October night.
Diwali is not just light against the darkness—
it is the choosing of the...
Holi is the color thrown without permission—
the blue that finds the white, the red that claims the air,
the permission to be joyful past the usual—
to love out loud, to laugh beyond the care.
The color says: today...
The kavita carries what prose cannot carry—
the weight of the unsayable, said sideways,
the truth that needs the music to be spoken,
the feeling that requires the phrase.
Kabir said it in the doha, Mirabai in the bhajan,
Nirala...
Life Poems
Diwali is the night we reclaim the dark—
with diyas on every sill and step,
with the particular smell of oil and wick
and the old prayers collectively kept.
The children run with sparklers in the night,
making fire-signatures against...
Holi: the festival that forgets itself—
that forgets the formality and rank,
that throws its color at the usually untouchable
and laughs at the protocol it sank.
For one day the elder is the target
of the nephew's entirely aimed...
The moon is sighted and the news travels fast—
house to house, street to street, phone to phone—
Eid has arrived, the fast is over,
and no one should be celebrating alone.
The sewaiyan in the morning,
the new clothes...
Christmas morning is its own kind of quiet—
the early dark, the tree, the anticipation,
the children up before the parents would prefer
in the particular, irreplaceable elation.
The gifts are not the thing—or not primarily—
the thing is the...
Nine nights of dancing in the deity's circle—
the garba that spins the devotion into art,
the ghaghra chania whirling in the lamplight,
the music that moves the feet before the heart.
Navratri is not only celebration—
it is the...
Festival Poems
The fields went gold before Baisakhi arrived—
the wheat announcing what the date confirmed—
and the farmer who had waited through the winter
received the harvest that the patience earned.
Bhangra in the courtyard, dhol in the morning—
the whole...
