"I Was His Sati"
I was his Sati,
burned myself with him—
like a candle that melts
just to keep someone warm.
I was his Draupadi,
shared too much, respected too little—
like a book passed hand to hand,
but never truly read.
I was his Urmila,
left behind in silence—
like a painting hung in a dark room,
beautiful, but unseen.
I was his Shakuntala,
waiting with faith—
like a letter lost in the wind,
with love written, but never read.
I was his Parvati,
gave my whole soul—
like the river that gives life,
even to the rocks that break it.
I was his Ganga,
flowed to him freely—
like rain running to the earth,
only to be stepped on.
I was his Savitri,
fought death with love—
like a flame battling the storm,
believing it could win.
I was his muse,
but never his poem—
like music he hummed,
but never sang out loud.