Broken Woman

 It’s easy now for you to blame, 

To cast on me your weight of shame.  

You’ve forgotten the years I gave,  

Tending to you, strong and brave.  

When sickness took its heavy toll,  

I stood by you, heart and soul.

I was the shield when all seemed lost,  

Believing in you, no matter the cost.  

Through whispers, doubts, and bitter lies,  

I held your hand, dried your eyes.  

But now, in comfort, you’ve turned away,  

My pain and aches,irritate you today.

In my twilight years, I ask for care,  

A little kindness, a heart that’s fair.  

But now, I see you by their side,  

Those who mocked me, those who lied.  

I stand alone, betrayed by you,  

A broken woman, lost and through.

Copyright Renu Vyas 

Beyond Yours and Mine

When did it turn to “yours” and “mine,”  

The love we vowed now split by lines?  

Your parents, my parents - we keep score,  

Forgetting that we share so much more.  

Once we both stood beneath one sky,  

Promised to walk together as years went by,  

But now, each visit feels like a test 

Whose side is right, whose side is best?  

Your family calls, and I withdraw,  

My family needs, you see only flaws.  

We’ve built these walls so high, so tall,  

Forgetting they should not exist at all.  

It’s not just your home or mine to defend 

We are a circle that never should end.  

Bound by more than blood or name,  

It’s OUR family, always should be same.  

Let’s break these fences we’ve built in haste,  

Erase the lines that divide and waste,  

For in the end, it’s plain to see

Your family and mine is “our” family.

Copyright Renu Vyas.

Krishna: The Eternal King

Krishna: The Eternal King

In the midnight hour, the sky does part

As joy and hope fills every heart

The stars shine bright, and rivers sing

The universe welcomes it’s eternal King

In a prison so dark, a mother sheds tears 

Gives birth to a child who has no fears

The chains break, the doors swing wide 

As Vasudev carries world’s true guide

The Yamuna that rages, goes so still

Parting a way lovingly, to do His will

With flute in hand, and eyes so bright

He sees the world, with love’s true light

In Gokul, near Yadhoda, He quietly rests

A divine presence, forever blessed 

O Krishna, I rejoice and welcome you 

With a heart full of love and faith so true 

Copyright Renu Vyas 

Tea Anyone ?

 In every home, both big and small,  

Tea is the answer to every call.  

Morning’s bright or midnight’s haze,  

Tea starts and ends our days.

Guests arrive, what do we do?  

"Chai bana le!" – that’s the cue.  

No grand feast, no snack complete,  

Without the warmth of that sweet heat.

Rainy days with pakoras fried,  

And gossip flowing on the side,  

Cricket matches, weddings, chats,  

Chai’s the star, and that’s a fact!

Mom’s cold remedy, dad’s delight,  

A sip of tea makes everything right.  

From grandma’s kitchen to the roadside stall,  

Chai unites us, one and all !

Copyright Renu Vyas 

The Price of Distance

 The Price of Distance 

They say I’m lucky, far from home,  

In a place where dreams take flight,  

But they can’t hear the hollow sound,  

That fills my lonely nights 

Life was loud, among my own

A family that never knew still,  

Here, the silence follows me,  

A void that I just cannot fill.

I tell them of the bright new world,  

Of how I’ve found my way,  

But I skip about the loneliness here,  

Or the dreariness of my days.

I miss the crowded dinner times,  

And voices that sang without a care,  

Here, there’s only me and the quiet,  

And no one with whom to share.

They think I’ve found the best there is

In this distant, foreign land,  

But they don’t know how much I long,  

To hold a familiar hand.

So I smile at all their dreams ,  

And let them believe it’s true,  

But only I know the price I pay

Of the love that I once knew.

Copyright Renu Vyas 

Doodles and Dust

The scent of aftershave, a lingering trace,  

Hangs in the air, a whisper of your grace.  

Doodles on napkins, abstract and light,  

Fragments of thoughts that adorn the night.

Cigarette butts, discarded and frayed,  

Echoes of conversations that softly decayed.  

Coffee stains linger, rings in the wood,  

Marking the moments we both understood.

Memories weave through the spaces we knew,  

In ink, in smoke, in the warmth of brewed hue.  

Each piece a reminder, a rhythmic refrain,  

Of the fleeting, the lost, the love that remains.

Copyright Renu Vyas 

A Love Affair with Ameen Sayani’s Voice on Binaca Geetmala

The 1980s were a simpler time, a decade when life seemed less complicated and entertainment was not just about visual content on screens. For many of us who grew up during this era, the radio was the heartbeat of our daily lives. And if there was one voice that resonated across the nation, becoming an indelible part of our memories, it was that of Ameen Sayani, the legendary host of “

Every Wednesday evening, as the clock struck eight, millions of people across India would tune in to Radio Ceylon. The anticipation was palpable, as the familiar jingle of Binaca Geetmala filled the airwaves, signaling the start of an hour-long musical journey. For a young teenager like me, this was not just a program; it was a ritual, a weekly escape into a world of melodious music and charming storytelling.

Binaca Geetmala was more than just a countdown show of the most popular songs. It was an experience, a connection to the Bollywood music industry that was otherwise distant and inaccessible. Each song carried with it a story, an emotion, and Ameen Sayani was the perfect storyteller. His deep, resonant voice had a magical quality—an ability to convey warmth, passion, and enthusiasm, all wrapped up in a package of polite 

The magic of Ameen Sayani’s voice was that it didn’t just communicate; it captivated. For a young listener like me, his voice was enchanting—smooth, articulate, and filled with a charisma that transcended the barriers of the radio. I often found myself mesmerized, closing my eyes and letting his words paint vivid pictures in my mind. 

As the music played and Ameen Sayani narrated anecdotes, I would imagine what the man behind the voice looked like. Was he as elegant as he sounded? Did his appearance match the images that his voice conjured up in my mind? These were the questions that fueled my teenage imagination, leading to what I can only describe as a pure, innocent love—not for a person, but for a voice.

The wait for the next episode of Binaca Geetmala was long and agonizing. Seven days felt like an eternity when all you wanted was to hear that familiar voice again. The midweek anticipation became a part of my routine. I would count down the days, planning my schedule around that one hour of radio heaven. And when Wednesday finally arrived, nothing else mattered. Homework, chores, even socializing with friends—all took a backseat to the allure of Binaca Geetmala.

The wait made each broadcast even more special. In those days, there was no instant gratification—no streaming platforms or social media to fill the void. The delayed satisfaction only deepened my connection to the show and to Ameen Sayani’s voice. Every broadcast was a reward for my patience, and each song, each story was savored like a precious gem.

Looking back, I realize how much Ameen Sayani’s voice influenced my love for music, storytelling, and radio. It wasn’t just about the songs; it was about the experience he created, the way he could make you feel like he was speaking directly to you, even though you were one of millions tuning in. His voice was a companion during lonely moments, and a source of comfort and joy.

Even today, when I hear an old episode of Binaca Geetmala or a recording of Ameen Sayani’s voice, I am transported back to those evenings of my youth. The memories come flooding back—the thrill of hearing my favorite song make it to the top of the countdown, the joy of discovering new music, and, of course, the sound of that mesmerizing voice that I fell in love with all those years ago.

The 1980s may be a distant memory, but the impact of Binaca Geetmala and Ameen Sayani’s voice remains as vivid as ever. It was a time when the radio was king, and voices like his had the power to captivate an entire generation. For me, those weekly broadcasts were more than just entertainment—they were the soundtrack to my teenage years, a love affair with a voice that continues to hold a special place in my heart.

An Old Soul in a New World

Navigating Life in the Wrong Era

In a world that seems to be spinning faster every day, I often feel like an old soul, misplaced in the dizzying whirlwind of modern life. Surrounded by towering malls, blaring music, and a culture obsessed with brands, I find myself yearning for the simplicity and charm of a bygone era. My heart lies in the narrow lanes of quaint shops, the dusty shelves of old bookshops, and the soulful strains of ghazals and thumris. It’s as if I’m living in the wrong time, a misfit in this high-paced world that doesn’t quite resonate with the rhythm of my soul.

As I walk through the glitzy corridors of sprawling malls, with their bright lights and glossy storefronts, I can’t help but feel disconnected. Malls, with their carefully curated displays and brand-heavy spaces, represent everything that feels alien to me. They’re designed for convenience, offering a one-stop solution for everything a modern consumer might desire. But for someone like me, they lack the warmth, the personal touch, and the stories hidden in the corners of small, old-fashioned shops.

I find solace in the cobblestone lanes where little shops with wooden doors invite me in. These shops are filled with items that have a history, a soul. The shopkeepers know their customers by name, and every object on their shelves seems to have a story to tell. Whether it’s a handcrafted artifact, a piece of vintage jewelry, or a simple trinket, these items carry the essence of the hands that made them and the people who’ve owned them. It’s in these places that I feel most at home, connected to a time when shopping was not just a transaction, but an experience.

There’s a certain magic that only old bookshops possess, a magic that big, commercial book cafes often lack. These bookshops, often tucked away in forgotten corners of the city, are my sanctuaries. The scent of old paper, the creak of wooden floors, and the sight of timeworn spines lined up in a haphazard manner are what draw me in. Here, books aren’t just products; they’re treasures waiting to be discovered.

In a world where bookstores have evolved into sleek cafes with the latest bestsellers on prominent display, the old bookshops remind me of the joy of exploration. I love the serendipity of stumbling upon a rare find, a forgotten classic, or a handwritten note tucked between the pages of a second-hand novel. These places allow me to lose myself in history, to escape the noise of the outside world and dive into the quiet company of books that have been loved and read by many before me.

When it comes to music, I am a world away from the fast-paced, bass-thumping beats that dominate the airwaves today. Instead, my soul finds its melody in the slow, deliberate notes of ghazals and thumris, in the heartfelt lyrics of old Hindi songs. These musical forms carry with them the weight of tradition, the depth of emotion, and a sense of timelessness that resonates deeply with me.

Ghazals, with their poetic expressions of love, loss, and longing, speak to my heart in a way that no modern song can. Thumris, with their intricate melodies and soulful renditions, evoke a world of classical beauty that feels far removed from the frenetic energy of today’s music scene. And old Hindi songs, with their lyrical purity and melodious tunes, take me back to a time when music was more about the soul than about the spectacle.

Sometimes, I wonder if I was born in the wrong era. In a time where speed, convenience, and the latest trends seem to dictate the way we live, I find myself yearning for the slower, simpler days of the past. It’s not that I reject the modern world entirely, but rather that I long for a balance that seems to have been lost. I crave the authenticity, the depth, and the connection to the past that is often missing in today’s fast-paced, brand-driven culture.

Being an old soul in a new world is not always easy. It means feeling out of place in many social settings, longing for a past you’ve never lived in, and finding joy in things that others might overlook. But it also means having a unique perspective, one that values the richness of history, the beauty of tradition, and the simple pleasures that life has to offer. It’s about finding your own path, even if it leads you away from the crowd, into the quiet, forgotten corners of the world where your soul feels at home.

In the end, being an old soul in the wrong era isn’t so much about fitting in as it is about finding peace in who you are. It’s about embracing your love for the past, your preference for the old over the new, and your ability to find beauty in the simple, the quiet, and the timeless. And perhaps, in doing so, you might just find that you’re not as out of place as you once thought.

The Unseen Currency of a Housewife's Life

In the tapestry of life, every thread has its own story, and for many, that story is woven in the quiet, often overlooked corners of home. As a housewife, my days are filled with a rhythm of routine that might seem mundane to some, yet within that routine lies a profound depth of love, care, and resilience.

From the moment the sun rises, my day begins with a symphony of tasks: cleaning the house, cooking nourishing meals, engaging in conversations with the maid, tackling the ever-growing laundry pile, and addressing the myriad day-to-day problems that arise. Each chore is not merely a task; it is an expression of my commitment to those I love. I hear their voices echoing in the rooms, each carrying their own burdens, their own stories. While I may not always fully understand their struggles, my presence is a promise that I am there for them, always.

In the quiet moments between the chaos, I find solace in music and books. These are my escapes, my portals to different worlds, and they breathe life into my daily existence. They remind me that even in the simplicity of my routine, there is beauty to be found. This is the currency of my life—time, love, and the little joys I share with my family.

Yet, as I listen to the tales of your bustling days filled with meetings, deadlines, and social interactions, I often feel a pang of inadequacy. You work tirelessly, earning real money and experiencing the world in ways I might never fully grasp. When the day draws to a close and you share your experiences, I can't help but feel that my own contributions pale in comparison. The stories of my day, filled with moments of cleaning, cooking, and caring, seem to bore you. 

This leaves me grappling with a sense of loneliness that quietly resides deep within my heart. It's as if the value of my experiences is diminished in the light of your achievements. I am left questioning the worth of my daily endeavours, feeling as though I have little to offer in return for the vibrant stories you share.

But perhaps it is time to reframe this narrative. While I may not bring home a pay check, the love and care I invest in my family are invaluable. Each meal I prepare is a gesture of love, each moment spent listening to your problems is a testament to my commitment. The laughter shared during a simple family dinner, the warmth of a well-kept home, and the comfort of knowing that someone is always there to listen—these are the currencies that enrich our lives.

So, people need to understand this, that every moment spent caring for my loved ones is a precious investment in our shared happiness. My life may not be filled with the hustle and bustle of the corporate world, but it is rich in love, connection, and the knowledge that I am making a difference in the lives of those I cherish.

My journey as a housewife may be different from yours, but it is no less significant. And as I continue to share my days with you, I hope you will see the beauty in the mundane and the strength in the quiet moments of life.