inner voice

‘I sing my ballad’

A perfect ballad could be
A mixture of secret ingredients
Such as
Love and laughter,
Joy and sorrow,
Smiles and hugs
Peace and virtues.
A sonorous number is a treat to the ears
A combination of melody and tempo
Whence the idea of playing with the jingling words came from?
Can’t guess
But it’s working
Just for remembering
The memories obscured,
I make my ballad
And for refreshing the moments delightful
I sing my ballad.
Alka Sharma
Rehari Colony.


Tale of poverty….!


Under the blue mesmerizing sky
Holding a white void paper
With a pen of sadness in my hand
Let me pen down the tale of poverty;
Cute little boys and innocent crying girls
Heart is crying because they are poverty pearls
With the pale face along the untangled hair
They are naked as they have nothing to wear;
Chaped little lips and those cracked feet
They are very skinny with the lost meat
Just because of poverty they have to sip the tear
Nights are sleepless as poverty let them fear;
They too have the life but are very sad
All these scenes should make you feel bad
We use to see them cry, just for a bread
We are responsible for every tear they shed…..
Mehvish Noor




Shuffling through the old hazy pictures lying in the dusty corner.
I look at them with a different admiration,
The one you have when you meet a heartthrob in the eye.
They seem full of life, the one you sense when you’re in your twenties.
Anyhow, they don’t look the same now.
The layered bundle of loose skin hanging below their chin doesn’t appear in any of those pictures.
Knowing it is a part of the normality of life.
Still, it pushes me into a huge chamber of dread.
The broad shoulders seem very narrow now.
Maybe the burden of responsibilities ate them up.
The tousled grey hair with its few strands beautifies the wrinkled forehead.
However, they do not panic me.
Maybe because they own me too though not as much.
Looking them in the eyes has a different sensitivity now.
Each line on their hands takes me on the journey I worry to go on.
The slight slouch on the back affects their gait.
And each trembling step they take occurs as if they’ll stumble.
The air around them feels quite heavy now
It appears like an effort to breathe that in.
Nothing much has remained the same now.
Except for the warmth you undergo while laying your head in their lap.
Somehow it still has that detachment you look out for.
The rise and fall with every drag of air in their chest keeps me hinged to their bedside.
I keep on staring keenly at each rise and then fall.
Maybe the stare in my eyes has a fear of not witnessing any of the rise again.
Or maybe it’s the roles reversed now.
For they are the child while me being the mother.
Or again maybe the stretch of days left together are narrowing down.
I sit still beside the bedside and wonder with that stare not leaving my eyes.
Divyanshi Sharma
Greater Jammu