The Unseen Backbone; Bhai, Forgive Us

They came with calloused hands and silent grace,

From Bengal’s plains, Odisha’s face,

From Bihar, Assam, UP's sands,

From Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, Tamil Nadu’s lands.

From distant homes, they travelled far,

Dreams packed tight in a railway car.

Not for riches, not for fame,

Just to work; without a name.

Kerala’s fields grew green once more,

Walls rose tall, shops opened doors.

Homes were built with sweat and pain,

By hands whose thanks we failed to gain.

We call them “Bhai,” a borrowed word,

Yet treat them cold, our vision blurred.

To us they’re “Bengalis,” all the same,

A nameless crowd, without a name.

Once we too walked those migrant tracks,

Money orders on our backs.

The Gulf, the North, we bore the strain,

But never learned to feel their pain.

Now we thrive on their silent might,

Yet mock their tongue, avoid their sight.

Whisper lies and cast our doubt,

Shut them in and shut them out.

But I, a Malayali, stand apart,

With folded hands and open heart.

To every brother, every soul,

Who helped rebuild what made us whole 

Forgive us for our blinded ways,

Our silence through your hardest days.

Forgive the names, the looks, the fear,

For now, I see you, crystal clear.

You are not just labour, or the "other,"

You are our builder, friend, and brother.

Kerala lives because you stayed.

Bhai, forgive us and be repaid. 

Poetic Reflections of a Crazy Soul

No More Cries, Just Clear Blue Skies

In lands once green with trees and grass,

Now only smoke and fire pass.

Where flowers grew and children played,

Now tears fall down and hope has strayed.

Brother fights with brother’s hand,

A loving home becomes dry land.

No more hugs, just fear and cries,

As blood falls down and goodness dies.

Guns and bombs have filled the air,

And peace is lost most everywhere.

Houses break, the sky turns grey,

And happy songs are far away.

A mother cries, her child is gone,

She sits and waits, but he's not home.

An orphan walks with empty eyes,

No food to eat, just sad goodbyes.

Fields are burned and rivers dry,

No crops to grow, no birds that fly.

Things once built are now all gone,

The world feels cold, not like a home.

And when the war is said and done,

No true peace is ever won.

A flag may fly, a song be sung,

But wounds remain in old and young.

Still deep inside a light can shine,

A wish for peace, for hearts to bind.

If hands can join and hate can stop,

Then love can rise and hope can grow up.

Let us stop this pain and fear,

Let us hold each other near.

No more war, no more cries—

Just peaceful hearts and clear blue skies.

Poetic Reflections of a Crazy Soul

From Pahalgam to Operation Sindoor

In Pahalgam, where innocent blood was shed,

Dreams lay shattered, and silence spread.

No plea, no pride, however deep the cry,

Can ever have such loss justified.

A nation wept, its spirit sore,

Yet justice knocked at every door.

Our leaders rose with solemn might,

To turn the grief into the fight.

Not born of rage, but duty's flame,

Operation Sindoor earned its name.

A force of strength, both calm and clear,

To guard our land, to shield what's dear.

Our soldiers marched with heads held high,

Beneath a stormy, watchful sky.

Men and women, brave and true,

With honor laced in all they do.

The ceasefire came — a saving grace,

Pulled war's dark hand back from its place.

A chance for peace, a breath, a pause,

To spare both lands from ruin’s claws.

Yet still we hope, beyond the pain,

That wisdom may in hearts remain.

Let fury fade, let kindness grow,

And peace, not blood, between us flow.

Poetic Reflections of a Crazy Soul