Welcome To !NS¡GHT

There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be…

John Lennon

We are no host and you no guest, this world a journey, we are all travellers. Welcome to !NS¡GHT — An Escape To The World Of Words, where we, on paper planes, fly beyond the horizon.

!NS¡GHT is an attempt to bring together the lovers of words, whose home is parchments and henna is ink, whose petrichor is old books.

Go through an array of verse and prose —

Also submit to us your writings and participate in monthly held Picture-Inspired Poetry.

Get an opportunity to become the featured writer at !NS¡GHT.

We accept submissions in the languages English, Urdu and Hindi.

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Last Word

By Ramsha Rizvi

When I read other people’s words
I feel hot and cold at once.
It is the feeling of your feelings
handed to you on a plate,
but your eyes are closed and the person who cooked the dish
doesn’t even know you.
It is having chills and blushing
and wanting to beg for more
but you’re always too shy to speak up so
the only way to go is to write some
of your own.
When I read other people’s words
I want to remember them.
The way I grasp to them, like the puffs of droplets
from a crashing wave on the sea,
they stick to my cheeks and slip through my fingers
and I lick my lips just to taste them
one more time.
There are so many wonderful words out there,
so many ways of love and loss
that I couldn’t possibly compare with these wondrous things
I read. I couldn’t possibly beat what I’ve read.
I can only try and improve upon what I’ve written,
one chill at a time, one dish,
one droplet, one sea:
one word.

Ramsha Rizvi, a girl in her 20’s, just taking a leap of faith and putting her work out in the open. Her writing is the only source of her finding her identity in this world.
Instagram Handle – @the_girl_with_the_blue_room


By Ramsha Rizvi

No one’s gonna say it for me
So I must say it myself
I am deserving
Of love and good health
I’ll always make mistakes for as long as I live
But I learn just as much, and repeat what I forget
My feelings matter, and I must forgive
Myself for my issues and flaws I come with
It’s okay to cry, and there’s strength in admittance
It’s time that I learn to love myself unrepentant
There’s strength in my softness
There’s an order in mess
Reborn from the struggles
I’ve worked hard for my rest
I deserve to be heard
I deserve to be seen
I don’t need to hold onto
I am deserving of happiness and light
Of people who understand me, people I won’t need to fight
I can only be me
No one more, no one less
So I’ll pick myself up, and live life at my best

Ramsha Rizvi, a girl in her 20’s, just taking a leap of faith and putting her work out in the open. Her writing is the only source of her finding her identity in this world.
Instagram Handle – @the_girl_with_the_blue_room

Depths Of Brown

By Ramsha Rizvi

There are billions of sets of eyes in this world — from the lightest blue to the darkest black and every shade of grey, green, and hazel in between. Many people have attempted to romanticize brown eyes with streaks of green or yellow, or romanticize brown eyes when illuminated by a flash. But if you’ve never been captivated by the pure and deep gaze of dark eyes, you’re truly missing out. Brown eyes are honest. There is something about the absence of any other color that makes them smooth and pure. You can drown in their depths.
Brown eyes so dark, you can barely see their holder’s pupil — those are some of the best. Eyes so dark, they could hold stars, so dark you could think you’re looking straight down into a soul. You can fall into them. Dark eyes are rich, whether warm or cool, melted with laughter or flinty with suspicion. There’s no escaping their hold.

Dark eyes can pierce you, or they can wrap you up in warmth and soothe you. There are few eyes more mysterious, more beautiful, and more luring than brown eyes. There are few things more comforting than the honesty of a dark, understanding gaze. Every shade from chocolate to onyx is beautiful. Just imagine: brown eyes in the darkness of night, blinking slow and pulling you in, inviting you to spill secrets into the quiet; brown eyes turning nearly black in the shadow of a scowling brow or the squint of a belly-laugh; brown eyes pouring out soul with their raw depth when they rain out tears; brown eyes dark with strength and trust.

Ramsha Rizvi, a girl in her 20’s, just taking a leap of faith and putting her work out in the open. Her writing is the only source of her finding her identity in this world.
Instagram Handle – @the_girl_with_the_blue_room

Nurse’s Song

By William Blake

When voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.

‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies.’

‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.’

‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.’
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoed.


By Shalini Singh

ना जाने तुम क्या हो, किस मोड़ पर कहां हो,
फिर भी मुझे तुमसे इकरार है,
हाँ, मैं दिल से कहती हूं, मुझे तुमसे प्यार है।

तुम हिस्सा हो भविष्य का,
परछाई नहीं हो अतीत की,
शामिल भी नहीं हो वर्तमान में,
फ़िर भी तुमपर ऐतबार है,
हाँ, मैं दिल से कहती हूं, मुझे तुमसे प्यार है।

अंजान हैं एकदूसरे से, पहचान कुछ भी है नहीं,
सोचेंगे सब अब संग तेरे, अरमान कुछ अब है नहीं,
ना जानकर भी तुझको, अब ये दिल तो तुझपे आया है,
हाँ, मैं दिल से कहती हूं,
मैंने तुम्हे हर रूप में अपनाया है।

तुम हो सफ़र के हमसफ़र अब, जान लो ये बात बस,
लिखा जो क़िस्मत का ये लेखा,
उसे ही अपना बनाया है,
हाँ, मैं दिल से कहती हूं,
मैंने तुम्हे हर रूप में अपनाया है।

Shalini Singh, from Maharashtra, India, is a student and loves to write poetry.

अपनों से उम्मीदें

By S. Aarfa Khalique

पनों से उम्मीदें करनी छोड़ दी है मैंने,
क्योंकि ग़म से बेहतर मौक़ा हमारी ज़िन्दगी में नहीं आता,
ऐसे वक़्त में अपनों की परख़ हो ही जाती है,
हमारी ज़िन्दगी में अक्सर अनजान चेहरे वाले मुखॉटें के पीछे अपने छुपे होते हैं,
और अपने लोग तो अपनापन का मुखौटा पहनकर भी, अपनेपन का एहसास नहीं दिला पाते।

S. Aarfa Khalique, from Jharkhand, India, has done post graduate diploma in management.

आखि़र इंसान हूं मैं

By Yash Bhopte

कौ था मैं ! कौन हूं ! इस प्रश्न से मैं मौन हूं,
इसका मुझे उत्तर मिला, राही को जैसे घर मिला।
जीवन की इन अठखेलियों से अंजान हूं मैं,
समझूं भी तो कैसे आखि़र इंसान हूं मैंं !

दुनिया क्या सोचे हर पल यहीं सोचा करता हूं,
चंद नोटों कि खातिर अपनी भावनाएं बेचा करता हूं।
एक ऐसी ज़िन्दा, चलती फिरती दुकान हूं मैं,
समझूं भी तो कैसे आखि़र इंसान हूं मैंं !

वक़्त पड़े तो परिस्थितियों में ढल जाया करता हूं,
अपनी इच्छाओं को दफ़न कर मैं सम्भल जाया करता हूं।
एक ऐसा वेदनाओ में डूबा पड़ा शमशान हूं मैं,
समझूं भी तो कैसे आखि़र इंसान हूं मैं !

Yash Bhopte, from Madhya Pradesh, India, is a high school student, who loves writing and sketching.
Instagram Handle : @Kalam_ka_sikandar

कब ?

By Shalini Singh

जिंदगी है ये उलझी इसे सुलझायेगा कब,
राह मे हैं जो कांटे उन्हें हटायेगा कब,
यूं जो बैठा रहेगा सबकुछ छोड़ कर,
तो दुनिया को अपनी काबिलियत दिखाएगा कब ?

है ना आसान कुछ भी यहां,
पर नामुमकिन भी तो कोई चीज़ नहीं,
ख्वाहिश तेरी मोहताज है मेहनतों की,
इस बात को ख़ुद को समझायेगा कब ?

बिखरे हैं जो तेरे टूटे सपने कहीं,
उनको मेहनत की माला मे पिरोएगा कब ?
रख दे सब ताक पे ख्वाहिशों के बले,
वरना ख़ुद को साबित कर पाएगा कब ?

रख तू लेगा सबक़ हालातों के बुरे,
अपने सही वक़्त को तू ये दिखलाएगा कब,
भूल जा पन्ने कुछ पल अतीत के कहीं,
वर्ना ख़ुद क आगे बढ़ाएगा कब ?

उठ जा चल तू भी यूँ ना सोता सा रह,
वक़्त को यूं ही सपनों मे खोता सा रह,
हाथ से तेरे कभी जो ये निकल जाएगा,
हाथ मलता सा तू फिर सिर्फ रह जाएगा,
ख़ुद को इस हक़ीक़त का सामना कराएगा कब ?

छोटी सी जिंदगी है ये बढ़ता सा चल,
वर्ना मंज़िल तक अपनी पहुंच पाएगा कब ?
वर्ना मंज़िल तक अपनी पहुंच पाएगा कब ?

Shalini Singh, from Maharashtra, India, is a student and loves to write poetry.

Brown Eyes

By Khushi Singh

Brown eyes,
Deprived of ephemeral joys,
Looking heavenward,
In monochrome of sky.

Jinx of flighty clouds,
Blurring the vision of axinites,
Not letting them laze,
In tender arms of wind,
Tender arms, like Mother‘s.

The indigo curtain,
Embroidered with sequences of shine,
Reflecting enlivened energy,
Giving hope, to vanquish the oblivion.

The brown eyes,
Telling inscrutable tales,
Now close themselves,
In the lap of darkness.

Khushi Singh, a high-school student, is a reader by day and writer by the night, who tells story through poetry.

Poets With Guns

By Zubair Javaid

Thorns were pasted, dyed with red blood, reshaped into a flower– that’s me
Freezing in scorching sun, dying out of thirst by the bank of sea- that’s me

A hopeless pen with ashy ink, jotting down hopeful words- that’s me
Blood ridden finger, scribbling down words on human bones– that’s me

Piercing my veins, watering the flowers with blood and savouring the smell of blood red roses– that’s me
Scribbling down her name with the bullet on the muzzle of gun- that’s me

Trees felicitating my words with shedding leaves, sky with ashy snowflakes and our so-called savours with bullets- that’s me
Gifting my beloved, the sight of my wounds, the decorated grenades, the necklace made up of bullets and my blood torn Pheran– that’s me

Over her delicate dry hands, scribbling down Freedom slogans with nails, and bedecking the muzzle of gun with beloved’s henna– that’s me
In the chilly nights of Chilly Kalan- under the shade of chinar leaning by its stem with guns like babies in my lap, and whispering freedom slogans with ice frozen lips to the hopeless falling snow- that’s me

The brightest of our days, darker than the darkest of their nights, with Lalteen in woods, its petroleum smell blending with hopeless air, yet eyes glued on the light emitting moth, reminding me of our siezed light- that’s me
Calm and quiet, the long separated lovers of my eye lashes, meet in glee, sleeping with peace in our graveyards and getting haunted by their flower gardens in dreams!- that’s me

The trees- with stems perforated with bullets, the nests like our houses deserted, birds exiled for chirping the freedom sounds! Their feathers like our hopes ripped apart- unable to fly, dying on land, yet scribbling down freedom slogans with their beaks on soil. Deepening those words on soil with the muzzle of gun- that’s me

The poets and artists, scribbling down words and images with stones and blood on walls in caves, Their poems as they say, tortured and torched, the alphabets rugged and erased with the muzzle of guns, the rhythm of their poems choked with the out-sounding grenades! The alphabets, the lines and stanzas mourning the death of their poets! The brushes of artists, the pens of poets exiled and trounced in jails- yet their life and ink as it is squeezed on land reforms into freedom slogans! The poets with their pens snatched and papers burnt, now write their freedom poems with the guns held like pens in their hands with the ink of bullets over bodies of tyrants as papers!
Blood torn and bruised in a land of poets with guns, visiting and writing poems over the soil of my beloved’s grave with my blood ridden fingers– that’s me

حسرت تھی دِل میں میرے

By Tousif Hujare

حسرت تھی دِل میں میرے شاعر بننے کی
بس اسلئے كے تجھے اپنی غزل بنا لوں

تجھ سے وابستہ ہر شے سے محبت ہوئی ہے
تیرے نام کی تشریح بھی قصیدہ بنا لوں

لفظوں میں تراش كے تیرا حُسْن بیان کروں
تیرے زلف كے سہارے قافیہ ردیف بنا لوں

تیری سادگی کی گواہی تو زمانہ دیتا ہے
تجھے اپنے ہر مصرے کا مفہوم بنا لوں

قمر سے تشبیہ دیتے ہیں شاعر معشوق کو
میں اپنے ماہوار کا تجھے ہی قمر بنا لوں

Tousif Hujare, 26, is a mechanical engineer, his medium being Urdu. Hobbies include playing cricket and writing poems.

ذرا سی اُداسی

By Mudasir

ذرا سی اُداسی ہے تنہائی کے اندھیروں میں
کون میری آواز سُنے دہائی کے اندھیروں میں
عُجلت تھی اُسکو جانے کی میں بھی چھوڑ دیا
بھلا وہ کیونکر رُکتا میرے پاس پزیرائی کے اندھیروں میں
دید کی خاطر میں نے تو خدا کے نام پہ جناب
کتنی بھیکھ مانگی ہے گدائی کے اندھیروں میں
تکیہ میرا گواہ ہے کتنا رویا ہوں زار زار
اُس کو یاد کرتے کرتے جدائی کے اندھیروں میں
اب شیدا کو نہیں سوجھتا کچھ آخر آخر میرا من
وہ تو ٹوٹ چکا ہے برائی کے اندھیروں میں

Mudasir (Shaidaai Baba), from Jammu and Kashmir, India, is a government employee and works as a computer operator.

I Write In Good Cheer, My Love

By Merlyn Thomas

I write in good cheer, my love
All things we have gone through,
Now the calling has come from up above
I have to go while you continue.

Love we have for each other
Words fall short of expression,
I’d rather leave it for you to savour
To cherish and hold in perfection.

When we were at it, it was worth its while
Overcoming obstacles life threw at us,
We faced with dignity, and without any guile
Fanning the flames of closeness.

I know life won’t be the same
When I am gone, I’ll miss you, my dear,
I know fate has played an unfortunate game
Our book of life has to be closed forever.

There is nothing to worry
For I am at peace and full of love for you,
There may have been times for which I’m sorry
The hurt I may have put you through.

We were made as part of twin souls
Lived till death do us apart,
Gone for just a little bit till you finish your role
Ready to join me when you depart.

Always be your smiling self
As I take leave and say goodbye,
Take good care of yourself
Don’t let sorrowful tears stain those beautiful eyes.

When it’s your time to end this journey
I’ll eagerly wait to meet you up there,
It will be a wonderful time to glory
Again, in each other’s arms, forever without any care.

Merlyn Thomas, a post-graduate in MBA, has been writing from the age of 16. Her passion stems from reading a lot. A whimsical writer, she writes in the spur of the moment. Apart from writing, she lives on music and painting.

ایک چُپ

By Ataullah Kadak

آئی جب عوام کی بات، اُٹھے بہت سوالات
تو کہتے ہیں تم چُپ رہو

نقطہ نشیں ہوئے جب حکمرانوں کے خیالات
پھر ایک چُپ، تم چُپ رہو

لڑ پڑے جب عزتِ نفس کے خاطر ہم ملازم
پوچھتے ہیں تم کون ہو؟ تم چُپ رہو

نارے لگاۓ پھرتے ہیں، سوچ بدلو دیش بدلو
کرو جب نئ سوچ کی بات، تم چُپ رہو

چلو آج ٹھان لیں اور بیاں کریں اپنے جذبات
ایک چُپ انکے لئے جو کہتے ہیں تم چُپ رہو

Ataullah Kadak, an avid reader and writer, finds solace in words. He tries to pen down the emotions which can’t be expressed by tongue. He is fond of Urdu and also writes in English and Hindi. 
Instagram handle : ataullah_kadak4996

There Was A Place

By Kirti Santosh

There was a place, that I used to see,
In my dreams, every night, I did see,
A land that had, always,
Joy in all walkways.
A land that had in plenty,
Happiness in bounty.
A land that had lives making merry,
With their kith and kin, never worrying.

A land that had brotherhood,
Across every neighbourhood.
A land, that was synonymous to nature,
With harmony amongst every creature.
A land, that sadly seems
To be just in my dreams.

Kirti, an IT professional turned teacher, took into poetry writing during the lockdown in COVID year. Apart from being a voracious reader, she enjoys music, sports, and drawing. She loves reading and writing in many Indian languages. She is a good orator and loves to recite poems.