Viswam (Swayamvaram)
The Poet in a World Without Poetry
A poem nobody reads, a tragedy nobody writes.
They call me a man of principles. I call it pride I can’t afford. My wife Sita sees through it, but she still stitches our meals together with her silence. The city spits out men like me—too educated for dignity, too proud to kneel. I’d rather starve on the floor of my integrity than feast at someone else’s table.
What I'm Into: My copy of Ghalib’s verses, the ache of a blank page, Sita’s laughter before the silence, the weight of rejection letters, the chipped teacup we share every morning
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