Read Write and Explore Every Moments in Life ❤️
तुम आए थे
जैसे किसी नई पहल की तरह,
धीरे से, बिना शोर किए,
मेरे दिल में उजाला रख गए।
जहाँ खामोशी थी, वहाँ बातों का मौसम आया,
जहाँ डर था, वहाँ यकीन आया।
तुम्हारी बातों ने सिखाया ,
कि शुरुआत भी कभी‑कभी इंसान के रूप में आती हैं।
अब जब भी सुबह कि पहली किरण निकलती है,
मैं सोचती हूँ कि ,
कितनी खूबसूरत थी वो पहल,
जिसका नाम तुम थे।
This Post is part of BlogchatterA2Z Challenge 2026
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In a world where artificial intelligence can simulate rhythm.
Poetry is still rooted in its pulse.
An algorithm can create verses,
but it lacks an understanding of the tremble within a metaphor,
of the pain that resonates in a line.
Poetry is more than a beautiful words,
it’s the life force that inspires them.
It’s the suspense before confession,
The silence between two souls who have understood without speaking.
The technology of today can forecast trends,
but it can’t predict a desire.
It can describe the rain,
but it will never remember standing beneath it.
कविताएं अब भी ज़रूरी है जिंदगी में,
क्योंकि भावनाएँ कोड नहीं होतीं।
Poetry still matters,
Because feelings aren’t algorithms.
In an era of artificial intelligence,
Language wasn’t invented for perfection but for humanity.
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Nostalgia is not mere remembrance —
it is living the past again through retelling it with a smile.
It is breathing in the smell of old textbooks,
remembering laughs from the playlists that still survive in you,
feeling streets which are a sentence you’ve already written.
Some days, I write because
I need to go back —
into the café from which our stories flowed,
that night filled with scents of rain and incomplete poems.
When writing nostalgia,
one is always aware of the fact that flowers will wilt,
but writes them down anyway
for their beauty and memories of the summer they brought.
यादें भी कहानी बन जाती हैं —
हर लम्हा एक पन्ना, हर मुस्कान एक शीर्षक।
Memories become stories —
every moment a page, every smile a title.
Here’s to the craft of softly remembering
stories from yesterday
without wanting it to come back.
This Post is part of BlogchatterA2Z Challenge 2026
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The metaphor doesn’t end with a comparison,
it is rather a form of confession in disguise of craft.
Because it enables us to declare that “I am broken”
without ever referring to being broken.
In my writing, I chase metaphors like fireflies,
those little stars that bring emotions to life.
My coffee cup turns into patience,
my window turns into hope,
and the silence turns into a language we have forgotten.
With metaphors, we find a way to articulate our emotions,
make them comprehensible to the rest of the world.
They turn trivialities into poetry,
like how sharing a pizza together turns into memories heated up again,
how reading a book makes me a mirror of myself.
रूपक वो आईना है जिसमें भावनाएँ चेहरा बदलकर लौटती हैं।
A metaphor is a mirror where emotions return in different faces.
To the subtle beauty of speaking without words,
I toast to the art of metaphor!
This Post is part of BlogchatterA2Z Challenge 2026
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Some books are not just confined to our shelves.
Instead, they are part of the letters unsent,
the conversations that keep coming back.
Sometimes, to read a book is to write to that someone
whom I am so desperately longing to meet again –
that someone who can make me laugh out loud
as if every single laugh mark was written on the page
that tells the story of how we ate pizza together
and laughed in between those laughs while talking.
To reread the book is like writing a love letter to my memories –
the one I have of myself when I first marked those lines
and took pause at that passage whispering “this is us.”
Books love us back sometimes –
silently, with words, patiently waiting for us to come back
months and years after we have forgotten about them.
किताबें भी मोहब्बत करती हैं —
हर पन्ना एक ख़त है, हर शब्द एक इज़हार।
Books love us too – every page is a letter, every word a confession.
To the ones that made an imprint in us,
to the ones that hold our handprints in their pages
with memories that will never be erased.
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Literature is woven into every inch of Kolkata from the great Kalam Literary Meet at Kala Mandir to the quiet Literature Corner of Behala, wherein stories aren’t just narrated but taught.
Book clubs blossom like flowers in the evenings — from the Shakespearean Society to Book Lover’s Club and the quaint meetings where chai and books meet each other.
With the arrival of January, every citizen of the city becomes part of a literary fiesta where Tagore’s presence resonates amongst all conversations, each one feeling like it was in the making.
Kolkata may not be a city of avid readers but a city which reads you back.
“Kolkata ke kone-kone mein kahaniyan bastee hain. Festivals, book clubs aur Behala ka Literary Corner.”
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Poetry isn’t born in its complete form.
The first spark arises in the midst of journaling:
fragmented thoughts, incomplete sentences,
chai stains along the edges,
moments of feeling frozen just before they disappear.
The act of journaling is a space for rehearsal.
In it, truth emerges unbidden,
words falter, blushing, learning to breathe.
Then comes the time when those same fragments — “rain against the glass,” “heart too heavy,” —
make their way back, transformed into metaphor,
prepared to take their place in the poem.
The art of journaling involves listening inwards,
capturing the beat before it finds its rhythm.
It is chaotic, personal, imperfect; but then,
that is what makes it so charming.
Poetry blooms here,
from the soil of ordinary revelations.
कभी‑कभी डायरी ही कविता की पहली धड़कन होती है।
Sometimes, the diary is the poem’s first heartbeat.
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Each poem I compose leaves its own fingerprint.
Not one that can be seen, but felt.
At times, my identity lies in the cadence of a line,
at other times, it lies in the space between two lines.
Every revision mirrors back to me,
who I am when I penned it,
who I am now.
Writing is more than a mere exercise in ink;
it exposes truths I didn’t know I was harboring.
It transforms memories into metaphors,
uncertainty into voice.
Maybe that is what writing is all about.
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Poetry editing is not about perfection. It is about listening.
I read out loud until the poem breathes correctly.
I remove lines that sound clever but are untrue.
I retain those that shake me.
I sometimes change words not for the sake of rhyme but for truth.
I sometimes preserve broken lines because a gap speaks louder than grammar.
The process of editing is slow and meditative:
pen down, pause, re-read, whisper.
Is this line still mine?
Editing is not subtracting emotion; it is refining it.
It is the craft of going back into yourself
and having your heart speak to you once more,
only softer now.
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For the morning’s first light,
soft upon the curtains,
for the steam rising from my cup,
warming my hands to stillness —
I give thanks.
For laughter that finds me again,
for silence that teaches me peace,
for the words that return
when I stop chasing them —
I give thanks.
Gratitude isn’t grand;
it’s quiet, like ink drying on paper.
It lives in the pauses,
in the small, steady moments
that remind me I’m still here
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Amanyas Creative World