Untethered I sit here,
At my worplace in July,
Languid and adrift,
Inertia engulfed me--
Though I yearned to do something fruitful.
Apathetic workplace
Enervated me.
The sun climbed high,
Yet my heart refused to rise.
The hours dissolved into quiet emptiness.
The afternoon too passed like an unwritten page.
Yes, am an Asst Prof,
Caught in a monotony
Too deep for words--
Too heavy to escape.
-- Sai Varenya
22/07/2026
10.24 am
I'm disgruntled
My career dreams disillusioned.
A girl who dreamt of power,
A girl who dreamt of serving society,
A girl who was always curious,
A girl with a maverick mind
A girl who always smiled,
A girl who was once very smart, brilliant,
bright student, admired by her teachers.
Now, lost her brightness,
Submerged within a cocoon
Woven by all the wise elders advices.
She was so true, passionate, optimistic, and ambitious.
Turns of fate changed everything.
Now she cries bitterly,
No one to calm her.
She is rich in character,
Rich in knowledge,
Yet, unable to secure a stable job.
In the path lead by others, she treads.
A path she was forced to take
By the pressures of life
And the lack of money.
To buy a career--
It was against her ethics.
With empty pockets
Her coaching dream, too, remained a distant horizon.
-- Sai Varenya
20/07/2026
Time: 6.17--6.53 pm
He appears like a comet
My bestie, he is--
Talks once in a blue moon,
While my heart waits
For his presence
So patiently...
He was a nightingale
In days now vanished.
Now he blooms like Kurinji flower--
Rare, distant, and fleeting.
Yet, my mind returns to him
Every day, every night, every breath,
He is absent, yet alive within me
I call him a valuable friend,
Though his warmth comes Like sunlight through clouds--
Felt for a moment, then gone before I can hold,
-- Sai Varenya
Time:7.30 pm-7. 39 pm
A compadreship started years ago--
The one I forgot gender.
I emptied my mind to my twin soul today,
And I saw my words
Spill, flood, overflow.
I sensed a dull ache in my chest,
And heard a drum beating
Found it's my heart.
Suffocation in my nose
When oxygen was plenty
I don't know why
I felt very strange
Not normal for me
Though normal, my friend calls it.
-- Sai Varenya
18/04/2026
Time: 2.21 pm
Whensoever Aughtime reverance and homage quivers to Chiaroscuro Eidolon I...
Whensoever I behold any persona Seraphic...
Whensoever wayfarer adored me
Whensoever my heart whispers, they are good and true, a gentle light my soul can trust,
Whensoever my heart and mind bow in unconscious reverence...
In a fleeting span of days Or months, the illusion melts away.
Reality breaks upon me like an unbidden light...
The illusion crumbles with lightning's speed
And yet, again and again, it returns...
Certain masks slip and scatter in sudden silence--
Yet only a few are unveiled before the world.
Everyone I met whom I adored and held in deep reverance--
Those untrue were, and still are, unveiled by fate.
Composed by Sai Varenya
Date: 21/08/2025
Time:7. 24 pm --7.59 pm
Heartbroken Teacher
(A poem composed by Sai Varenya during a fleeting emotion. )
I'm a heartbroken teacher,
Worn by waves of silent pain.
I can’t endure the weight of emotion—
My aura suffocates
In the presence of pretense.
I hate what teaching has become—
Its true value drowned,
Engulfed by false praise,
Fakeness, and actors
Who wear borrowed passion like a mask.
Composed on 06/08/2025
Time: 10.31 am
Teach "Err"
--Sai Varenya
Err is wisdom
Fabrication is intellect
Truth lost it's hue
Corruption stains the eduworld.
Composed on: 04/08/2025
Time: 5.22 pm
The Vision
by Sai Varenya
(Based on real vision I had today few minutes back --28/07/2025 Wrote: 2.32 pm. I had the vision in between 2.15 pm -2. 25 pm)
When Ugram Veeryam Mahavishnum
Jyalantham Sarvatomukham
resounded from Amma’s phone,
a cold shiver rose—
through my chest,
and along the back of my spine.
Brunch paused mid-bite—
for I was no longer just sitting.
I felt myself
wrapped in red silk,
a sacred madisari—ancient,
draped low near the legs,
comfortable like a Punjabi dhoti.
No pallu flowed,
only pleats wrapped with ritual grace.
I climbed the steps,
still in that vision—
not with closed eyes,
but in open-seeing stillness.
A big golden belt clasped my waist,
subtle yet divine.
The saree’s lower folds hugged my legs—
pleated in madisari style,
pure red pattu,
with golden kasavu glinting faintly
around the hem near my feet.
No pallu in sight.
I saw myself—
a young, youthful girl of my own age,
precise, divine-like.
I saw my feet—
adorned in Paduka-style golden slippers,
anklets resting in silence.
My skin was luminous,
pale like conch-shell glow.
The same unwaxed hand—mine—
yet held in a timeless frame.
I saw the hair—
wavy, long, unbound,
cascading like river-darkness,
flowing to my waist.
No face revealed—
only presence.
Around the neck:
a choker—
square red stone,
surrounded by white ones,
like a temple star-garland.
I also saw a small golden crown
above my temple head—
not covering the entire head—
just for a second.
Was it a dream?
A vision?
A flicker from some past birth?
No illusion lingers that long.
No daydream chills your spine.
It was not fantasy—
it was remembrance.
Nascent avowal of love from my first
classroom muse,
Filled me with poetic muse
That stirred to verse
On the sly.
A secret bard in a world of her own...
Penning emotions...
When feeling out of her'self'.
Covert Confessions of raw sentiments to a private journal,
The dawn of a poet begins.
Thinking deep into the night,
For a creation to inspire,
For the mandatory submission,
To college magazine,
Sleep invaded me
A dream surreal began to gleam--
And from its glow, was born "My Dream".
A College love wrapped in stillness,
Whose feelings bloomed in silence,
Though no words passed,
Love echoed loud.
Though all sensed the bond we never
named,
Stirred my soul to pen
My debut novel and a verse in Kannada,
And a handful of few more verses.
Dr Prashant's grant of freedom
To pen a poem or tale creatively wrought,
Instead of tour report,
Ignited the lethargic muse inside me to pen
"Preface to Hyderabad".
My kindred soul's sweetheart's eerie unveiling,
Gave birth to Sartarica,
And from this breath begins Dipsao's Crazy World.
My Soul's Sorrow-tinted hours
Yearning for the divine
I wove a handful of sacred verses.
Dr AK's wooing of me
Yielded tender verses
And a cloistered novella.
My Ashlin, my former beloved,
A great singer he is,
Breathe through his voice,
Turning my posthumous verse
to melody.
Verse bloomed in the spaces--
Between our digital world--
Never etched in ink--
As tempers flared occasionally.
Out of the heartbreak,
Tears became the ink,
Sorrow the script,
There begins a fiction--still in fragments.
Though it's name whispered my mind,
Its cover drawn by heart.
Every wave of pain, fury, hopelessness... I pen
Out of the blue...
Drifting with the flow...
A shocking revelation of
A dear friend's betrayal
At the workplace...
A marvel my heart dares not grasp.
Ceaseless refrains my colleagues echoed time and again,
My head scorched with burning heat.
So sprang forth "Beneath the Guise".
Doldrums stirred the memories of my bygone heart.
Fond echoes of the time-worn treasures
I poured into poetry
And found comfort.
With every hurt ache,
I pen...
As defiance, as solace, as catharsis.
My Colleague Shaheel's
Word on the matter of admission
In the official group
Stirred my unease
Of the uncertain future of our department.
And so born "Last Class...?"
Parting ways...
In the hush of night
My mind wandered,
Reflection and affection--
Missing my passout students,
A quiet longing,
a flame rekindled
"Four Warriors in English"
And "Etched in My Heart".
Am I a voice wrapped in rhythm?
I don't know.
Do others see the poet hidden in my words?
The power is theirs to weild.
The muse hides when I am told to compose.
The contest can't summon my silent song...
It spills from my heart at times of deep emotion...
And that's what Wordsworth whispered: poetry is...
Come what may, I will write on...
To soothe my soul, to cradle my thoughts in calm.
A poem written by Sai Varenya.
25/06/2025
Etched in My Heart 💫
-- Sai Varenya
(A poem dedicated to my dear III BA English pass out students --batch 2022-2025, MCCHE& T)
To my dear students, now parting ways,
III BA class, I'll cherish always.
A short time we shared, yet so profound,
In memories, your laughter resounds.
I stepped in when Jasna bid goodbye,
Not knowing your hearts, I still did try.
Not Athira’s ease, nor Anjana’s cheer,
Yet I held you close, held you dear.
You seemed like kids though grown in age,
Each one of you — a unique page.
Playful Bisna, your smile so sweet,
An African Malli Leaf—your love complete.
Sahal, who’d laugh through class with glee,
Ziyad, who’d nod though lost at sea.
Sameeh, who’d doze through morning light,
Yet faced his hurdles with quiet might.
Twenty-six exams — one massive feat,
A tired soul, yet no defeat.
Shahana, whose presence was rare,
May next year gift you ranks so fair.
The gentle twins, Fiza and Fayyha,
Cat lovers both, silent as a sigh.
Sama Fathima — quiet, bright,
With books and dreams held ever tight.
Raihanath, who earns with pride,
A self-made path she does abide.
Sanah left midway, fear in tow,
Yet hope for him continues to grow.
Minhaj, the lens behind the scene,
English tough, but dreams still keen.
Smiling Shaja, full of jest,
Your humour made our moments best.
Vaseema — serious, wise, and deep,
In studies rooted, goals to keep.
Fathima, who once was near,
Now chose a path that's far, yet dear.
Siya and Riya — I still mix you two,
But love for you both remains ever true.
Wushu's warrior, Ashfack by name,
A youth of bold will and unyielding flame.
With passion and power your journey’s begun,
Weave your future beneath the rising sun.
May the Olympics see your glorious stride,
Bagging medals with India's pride.
Etched in my soul, you all will stay,
Since that fateful 2023 day.
The pranks, the laughs, the joy we knew,
Bisna’s mischiefs — still fresh as dew.
No formal farewell, no grand display,
Yet I send these words your way:
Your degree — just a paper thin,
Your true strength lies deep within.
Let your heart be kind and true,
Let your dreams take flight and pursue.
Marks don’t define you — don’t you fret,
It’s your values that the world won’t forget.
To those who left, do return if you can,
Your journey is yours, design your plan.
Seek marriage? Be self-reliant still,
With honest hands and a faithful will.
Each job has worth, all work is grace,
Walk your path with gentle pace.
When children look to learn from you,
Be the mirror that reflects what’s true.
You’re the future — the nation’s spine,
Let your legacy brightly shine.
My blessings and love, forever flow,
In every seed of hope you sow.
You’re always my students, near or far,
Guided by your inner star.
May God bless and keep you well,
In every chapter, story you’ll tell.
The Four Warriors of English
-- A poem about my dear MA English students Batch 2023-2025, MCCHE&T
The four brave hearts have now moved on,
Their chapter closed, their journey drawn.
Yet stepping into their vibrant space,
Always brought me peace and grace.
My comfort zone, my sacred ground,
Where joy in teaching I had found.
Varadath, Devika, Pranav, and she—
Vishnupriya, all dear to me.
No groupism, no harsh divide,
Just unity walking side by side.
They learned with hearts so open, wide—
With calm respect, and gentle pride.
Bilingual moments, laughter, light,
Their presence made the classroom bright.
Though farewells never came to be,
No tears were shed—but stayed in me.
They were more than just my class,
A fleeting time that came to pass.
They were the soul of MCCHE&T,
Where love for teaching bloomed in me.
I miss them now with every breath,
Their absence echoes more than death.
But hope is strong, and prayers sincere—
For happy days and futures clear.
May kindness guide their every deed,
May honesty be what they heed.
May peace and wisdom light their way,
And make them proud each dawning day.
Let not just trophies mark their name,
But how they played life’s truest game.
Good humans, humble, strong and wise,
With stars of values in their skies.
To them I send my blessings deep,
May love and courage ever keep.
And may their hearts forever be,
The pride of parents—and of me.
-- Sai Varenya
The Last Class?
(A Lament by Sai Varenya)
At MCCHE&T we stand, unsure—
PG English, once proud, now obscure.
Will we vanish with tomorrow’s light?
No new names, no future in sight.
Admissions rise—one-fifty strong,
Yet none for us. What went wrong?
The digit zero—India’s own,
A circle of fate we've come to own.
Seven scholars, chalk-stained and wise,
Cast nets beneath indifferent skies.
We hunt like fowlers in morning mist,
Promising dreams we barely exist.
To every child, we plead, persuade,
With crafted words and hopes displayed.
Yet English, once their gentle muse,
Now struggles—few choose, most refuse.
Fees, a wall too high to climb,
Love for words can't match the dime.
Some dream beyond the state's old gate,
To foreign lands, to courses "great."
Is it the age—of one child, maybe two?
Too many options, too much to do?
Or have we failed to make them see
The magic in a metaphor, the power of poetry?
Results we boast—bright, sincere,
Yet no one comes. We live in fear.
What shall we say to Sajith Sir?
That silence filled our register?
Jobs hang thin on hope’s faint thread,
No students—our classrooms dead.
Teachers without pupils fade,
Like sunset’s light, like dreams unmade.
We dial strangers, plead, implore,
Knock on hearts, still closed doors.
Conviction strong, but response weak—
Is English now an antique?
Yet still we teach, still we write,
Still we stand beneath this night.
For even if no voices call,
We are the keepers of the fall.
Let the world forget our name
We lit the spark, we played the game.
And if we fall with empty halls,
We fall as teachers—after all.
Dreams in Vain
Dreams in vain dissolve,
Vain distress consumes the souzl,
Heartache whispers low.
-- A short Haiku poem by Sai Varenya
13/06/2025
8.50 PM
No Tears Can Heal My Murivu
No tears can heal my murivu,
it's deeply cut.
And the murivu grows deeper
day by day.
Pain lingering
in my subconscious
has now leapt out
through my eyes —
as tears.
My tears tell a story,
a story of my pain,
a story of disillusioned dreams,
a story of who I longed to be.
Tears purify my mind,
if only for a while.
But still —
the mind remains unhealed.
-- Sai Varenya
13/06/2025
9.02 PM
I Wish I Were with You on A1171
(A Lament for the Lost, and the Left Behind)
I wish I were with you in A1171,
On that final flight, beneath a setting sun.
The day my dear 241
Fell from the sky — and I came undone.
If fate had etched my name that day,
Perhaps a life might find its way
Back to the earth with breath and light,
If I had flown into that night.
But here I stand — a soul unhealed,
With wounds too deep to be concealed.
Each day I cry, each night I ache,
My dreams lie still — they will not wake.
My hopes are hushed, my spirit worn,
A desert heart, unloved, forlorn.
No hand to hold, no eyes that see
The aching truths that live in me.
No voice to lift me when I fall,
No warmth that answers when I call.
No mirror shows a smile that’s true —
I’ve forgotten how to simply be... or do.
Death is no friend — I know it well,
But sometimes it feels like a safer shell.
Not for joy — for peace, for rest,
To lay this sorrow from my chest.
Yet here I am, and still I write,
My grief a candle in the night.
The world may never truly see
The silent storms that rage in me.
But if these words can bear my pain,
Like petals soft beneath the rain,
Then let them float on winds above —
In memory, in loss, in love.
I wish I were with you in A1171,
But I remain… beneath the sun.
--Sai Varenya
13/06/2025
2.29 PM
Tears in Bloom
Tears bloom from my eyes —
when the dam breaks, they rush out,
watering silence.
--Sai Varenya
13/06/2025
2.39 PM
This is my first Haiku poem.
Scheming Abusive Anarchy
Sowing discord with Insidious Lies
Tainting truths
You turned me into insane
With your toxic intentions
I didn't fight in your chaotic game,
For I refuse to fight with a fool.
That's why I chose to walk away,
With dignity at length.
--Sai Varenya
04/06/2025
8.44 PM
The Teacher I Never Wanted to Be
-- Sai Varenya
I hate being a teacher—
Not the teaching,
Not the curious eyes
Or the minds hungry for meaning,
But this mask they force on me,
In this place
Where truth is a trespasser.
They say,
A teacher must be a role model.
But I’m not your flawless figure—
I carry cracks,
Scars unseen,
Flaws I don’t flaunt but don’t fake either.
Still, I stand
For truth.
Yet here—
Truth is an exile.
I am told to cook marks
Like recipes for praise.
Fabricate success.
Lure students with glittered lies
For the next admission season.
I speak what my mind refuses,
Nod when my soul says No.
Behind the curtain,
I’m not cast to shine,
But to serve shadows—
A puppet they prefer silent.
I was cheated.
Ignored.
Ghosted.
Felt like the air around them—
Present, but never seen.
At times,
I retreat into myself
And question my very breath.
Yet—I breathe.
Still here.
Wearing this uncomfortable mask
To please a crowd
That only claps when truth bows low.
I hate being this kind of teacher,
Who couldn't nurture truth,
Or build the future
With the bricks of values and virtue.
They worship marks—
But marks are just ink.
Degrees—just paper.
What matters
Is how you treat a stranger,
How you speak when no one’s watching,
What you choose
When no one applauds.
To all my students,
To colleagues
And the parents too—
Happiness is not measured in grades.
Peace can't be printed on certificates.
Wealth means nothing
If your heart is bankrupt.
True richness?
It’s in living freely.
In being honest—
Even when it hurts.
In serving with soul,
Not smiling for show.
If this world won’t let me teach
With truth in my hands—
Then maybe one day
I'll walk away,
To teach life
By living it
Loudly,
Lovingly,
And without lies.
Sai Varenya
04/06/2025
8.26 PM
The Lie You Called Love
(A Poem of Betrayal)
Why did you walk into my life,
That cold February in 2020,
Wearing masks of charm and care,
But hiding only cruelty?
I trusted you —
Blindly, hopelessly so,
That was my flaw,
And how well you played the show.
You laughed behind curtains,
Pulled pranks with a smile,
Made me your puppet,
At least for a while.
Though something felt off,
Something didn’t align,
I silenced the warning,
Pretended it was fine.
I thought you loved me.
Oh, what a fool I became.
You fed me sweet stories,
Each one a poisonous game.
You brainwashed my dreams,
Promised stars in the sky,
Spoke of a future
Built on a beautiful lie.
You painted me visions —
A job I’d adore,
As Assistant Professor
Behind college doors.
But truth surfaced cruelly,
A cooked-up deceit,
And I watched my ambition
Fall to my feet.
From that moment onward,
The spiral began,
Headaches and heartaches,
No strength left to stand.
I wished it would end,
Too many nights in despair,
Lost in the silence,
Screaming for air.
Why did you do it?
What joy did you gain?
Leaving behind
A trail of my pain.
Yet here I am —
Broken, but breathing still,
Fighting the storm
With a quieter will.
--Sai Varenya
04/06/2025
8.07 PM
HOUSE AND LAND (1941)
(Poem)
Wasn’t this the site, asked the historian,
Of the original homestead?
Couldn’t tell you, said the cowman;
I just live here, he said,
Working for old Miss Wilson
Since the old man’s been dead.
Moping under the blue gums
The dog trailed his chain
From the privy as far as the fowl house
And back to the privy again,
Feeling the stagnant afternoon
Quicken with the smell of rain
There sat old Miss Wilson,
With her pictures on the wall,
The baronet uncle, mother’s side,
And one she called The Hall;
Taking tea from a silver pot
For fear the house might fall.
People in the colonies, she said,
Can’t quite understand…
Why, from Waiau to the mountains
It was all father’s land.
She’s all of eighty said the cowman,
Down at the milking-shed.
I’m leaving here next winter.
Too bloody quiet, he said.
The spirit of exile, wrote the historian,
Is strong in the people still.
He reminds me rather, said Miss Wilson,
Of Harriet’s youngest, Will.
The cowman, home from the shed, went drinking
With the rabbiter home from the hill.
The sensitive nor’west afternoon
Collapsed, and the rain came;
The dog crept into his barrel
Looking lost and lame.
But you can’t attribute to either
Awareness of what great gloom
Stands in a land of settlers
With never a soul at home.
About the Poet:
ALLEN CURNOW (1911 – 2001)
Allen Curnow was born in Timaru, 1911. His father was a fourth generation New Zealander and his mother was English born. Besides, his father was an Anglican clergyman and he lived in a variety of Anglican rectories around the far south of the South Island. Curnow studied at both Canterbury and Auckland universities and worked for various newspapers during this period. In between he prepared for the Anglican ministry however, decided not to be ordained in the early 1930s. His religious upbringing and personal religious crisis were an important influence in his writing. Later, he returned to the South Island in 1934 and went back to working for newspapers. Meanwhile, he became good friends with Denis Glover. During the war years, his writing became influenced by history and the idea of national identity.
It can be seen that after the war he moved to more personal and universal themes. Finally, he died in 2001at the age of 90.
