The Birth of a Poet--Sai Varenya

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

 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 -- Sai Varenya

 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? -- 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 

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

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

 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