Her hands know the weight of responsibilities,
they were never meant to hold.
Her eyes hold a gravity,
that shouldn’t belong to someone so young.
How does one explain,
what it means to outgrow your own childhood,
to stitch yourself into a new skin,
before the old one even decays?
They call her "mature".
As if wisdom were a gift,
and not the result of experiencing too soon.
They call her strong,
as if strength were a choice
and not what it takes for survival.
She somehow makes it to the next day.
Years of thinking "why me?",
walking forward,
because standing still is harder.
It is easier for her,
to remain misunderstood
than to explain the absence
of what should have been.
A laugh, a scent,
the touch of a hand once held,
each fades but never fully vanishes,
hovering in the stillness between now
and then.
Memories are not stories;
they are shadows
that grow and dissolve,
shaping us
even as they slip away.
In Kent, among the Sikh communities,
I ask, "Who do you share your troubles with?"
Some answer, "Apne level de lok"—
People at my level.
But what does that mean?
It's more than words, more than time and place,
It’s a history etched in migration waves,
The 1950s, 80s, 90s, or the newcomers of the last decade.
For some, it’s a shared journey from Punjab to the UK,
A story of adapting, of finding a new home.
For others, it's the looking for work, an education and settling,
It can be the fluency of Punjabi or the ease of English.
It’s where you learned, in classrooms here (UK) or in Punjab,
The British or Indian schooling systems or the lessons of limited education.
It’s the identity you claim—British, Asian, Indian, Punjabi, Sikh,
Differences in belonging and belief.
It’s the faith you hold, secular or orthodox,
The liberal views or conservative thoughts shaping your world-view,
It’s the shared upbringing, the mirrored life challenges,
It's the similarities that builds trust and keeps secrets from spreading.
"Apne level de lok"—
People at my level.
A simple phrase, yet a complicated understanding of trust with others.
Thoughts clutter like the attic of an old house,
until they block the window,
until they crowd the door,
until there is no space left to move.
I pick them up, each one—
a memory, a worry,
a glimpse of what could have been—
and place them on the shelves of my mind,
crowding the walls,
stacking high until the weight
of all this living, unlived,
bends my back.
There is a comfort in this clutter,
a strange solace in knowing
that nothing will be forgotten,
nothing will be lost.
But in the dim light,
as shadows stretch and bend,
I see how little room is left
for anything new.
I sift through the mess,
and I wonder:
is it better to hold on to what is known,
to keep it close,
even when it no longer serves,
or to let go,
make space for the emptiness
that frightens me so?
And maybe that’s what overthinking is—
a kind of hoarding,
a way to fill the void
with things that do not breathe,
do not live,
but still, somehow,
take up all the space.
Selfless service strips away the layers,
one by one, until all that is left
is the rawness of being,
a clarity that cuts through the fog of ego.
It is in the smallness of the act,
the unnoticed kindness,
where my heart expands,
where the edges of my being blur,
dissolving into something greater,
than I had ever imagined.
The weight I carry,
the invisible burdens of living,
fall away like autumn leaves,
making room for the light,
the unnameable peace,
that comes from forgetting myself,
in the service of others.
Each gesture, each offering,
a prayer in motion,
lifting me beyond the confines of my mind,
until I am more than my worries,
more than my pain.
Seva is the stillness I sought,
in a world that never stops turning,
the moment where I cease to exist,
not in loss, but in becoming,
part of the pulse of all things.
In giving, I am healed,
in serving, I am set free,
and in the reflection of another’s gratitude,
I see my true face,
unadorned and pure,
a soul washed clean,
by the simple act,
of care made tangible.
Why should common sense
be an act of rebellion?
Why should justice spoken by a woman
be anything other than justice?
Why should she be bold,
when he is just a man
doing what men do?
They will wear the names—
bold, strong, brave—
as armor and as chain,
until the world learns
that their voices are as natural
as the sun that rises
without permission.
Racism, like an uninvited guest,
stared at us in crowded streets,
mocking accents, questioning clothes,
our skin.
An untranslatable story.
Financial shadows loomed large,
counting pennies in pounds,
stretching rupees across miles,
sending hopes in envelopes back home.
Kar Ki Sakde Aa? (What Can We Do?)
We ask ourselves,
facing mirrors that reflect both journeys and destinations.
Realising we are still learning to answer.
Ghar di (the home) dispensary,
A Sikh family's generational health sanctuary,
When ailments strike there is no delay,
'Gharelu nuske,'(home remedies) become the way,
They mix and match with hope and trust,
Turning to knowledge at home first is a must.
Ayurvedic secrets in old ice cream tubs,
Balms for aches, oils for hair and body rubs,
Capsules handmade with saunf (fennel seeds) and ajwain (carom seeds),
Hand-picked for their health benefits from a culinary terrain.
Homeopathic drops in labelled vials,
Disappearing symptoms after enduring trials,
Vitamins to strengthen and restore,
Patanjali's natural blends to explore.
Over-the-counter medicines and those prescribed,
These were the treatments that doctors described,
Miscellaneous items, an assortment of care,
All find a place, awaiting their use there.
Where are the words of mothers who whispered lullabies,
Of daughters who penned letters, waiting to become free with butterflies?
Where are the thoughts of sisters who shared their dreams and fears,
Of lovers who etched promises in letters soaked with tears?
Silence can be a double-edged sword,
When voices are hushed, their truths are ignored.
Across the generations, a common thread,
Of mental health struggles, often left unsaid.
Generations past, stories kept veiled,
Racism, discrimination and prejudice, make voices frail.
Their words, like petals, wilted and torn,
In this deafening silence, courage is hesitantly born.
Experiences and stories, unseen and confined,
Left to remain locked inside, often replayed by the mind.
The love for community,
once alive and pure,
became a fleeting memory,
lost in the blur.
Generations shifted,
priorities rearranged,
in the rush of modern life,
values estranged.
In India's cotton garments,
Health beliefs are weaved,
Ayurveda whispers,
Ancient remedies are believed.
Turmeric's power to restore,
Gingers talent to revive,
In kitchens treatments are made,
By elders they are prescribed.
Neem's bitter leaves,
Versatile and all-purpose,
How Dadi creates an antidote,
Depends on the diagnosis.
Yoga's healing asanas,
Breath's sacred flow,
Balancing energies is important,
For improvement to show.
Cow's milk is revered,
For it's strengthening properties,
And for giving us ghee and yoghurt,
Endless possibilities.
In the land where rivers sing their song,
Reside the Punjabi women,
Fierce and strong.
In vibrant hues of their culture's embrace,
They dance with joy,
A traditional grace.
Their laughter echoes,
A melody sweet,
Through trials faced,
Without accepting defeat.
With voices bold,
They speak their mind,
A legacy of courage they have defined.
Punjabi women,
Pillars of might,
In every realm,
A radiant light.
With hearts as vast as the sky above,
They embody strength and infinite love.
I could marry the man I love,
But -
Loki ki kain gaye ?
"She's definitely blackened her face with him before",
My family will not claim me their daughter anymore.
The stories will spread like wildfire,
Stories calling me a whore and a liar,
My life will become a hellfire,
For wanting to marry out of my own desire.
Finally she's ripe and tender,
And we thank God for her 'special day'.
To her husband she will surrender,
And her father's wish she will obey.
Her brothers stand proudly watching the transaction,
As she's plucked gently from her room.
Her silence condemned her mothers inaction,
She craved protection from her mothers womb.
Across the room, a stranger twice her age.
Perhaps it's her delicious aroma that makes him salivate?
For her, all the world is a stage,
There was no escaping this tragedy, it was too late.
To celebrate let's start by listening to their voices,
and begin to value women who make their own choices.
Where I come from,
The village alarm is the conversations between parrots, crows and peacocks,
Where I come from,
The ceremony of tea fuels the household with energy to start the day,
Where I come from,
The air carries the scent of a fusion of freshly cut fields and dust,
Where I come from,
The hands of farmers are weathered by hard labour and their hearts beat in their land,
Where I come from,
Buffaloes and cows vitalize the villagers with milk that is churned to make butter,
Where I come from,
You'll find a Church, Gurdwara, Mandir and Mosque located not far from one another,
Where I come from,
Vehicles blow musical horns, and driving is no different than being on a roller coaster!
Where I come from,
People are helpful, high-spirited, and hospitable,
Mothers are considered the human form of God,
And fathers are the hope that lights up the home,
Where I come from,
The imagination of children keep them entertained with different games throughout the day,
Where I come from,
The elders carry their youth into their old age and love watching new generations grow,
If you were to come to where I come from,
My mother would welcome you by pouring mustard oil in the corners of our gate,
You'd be greeted with smiling faces firmly feeding you sweet treats,
The people of my village will be excited to get to know you and share their own stories,
When you come to my village it will feel familiar to you.
Copyright © 2024 amanrattan.com - All Rights Reserved.