My Home

By Kritika Pandey

In a world where daughters wear crowns of lace,

And fathers call them “princess” with dainty grace,

Mine stood apart, with a quiet smile,

And said, “You’re my Baahubali... fierce, not fragile.”

No fairy tales, no velvet throne,

He never taught me to be known

For beauty or charm or soft-spoken ways,

He built me for storms, not just sunny days.

When I stumble, when I fall and sway,

He doesn’t rush to take pain away.

He steps aside, lets me taste the fight,

But whispers, “I’m here if you can’t make it right.”

He never spoon-fed, never held too tight,

But taught me to rise, to stand, to write

My story in ink made of fire and grit,

He believes in the strength I often forget.

In my silence, when chaos curls within,

He hears the noise beneath my skin.

No need to explain, no need to pretend

He knows my heart like an old best friend.

When I lost hope in my dreams and art,

He held the shattered pieces of my heart.

“You are more than you see,” he’d always say,

“You carry stars others throw away.”

He saw my talent when I saw none,

When I felt like failure’s only one.

His belief stitched my spirit whole,

He breathed light back into my soul.

Now he’s away, in another town,

While I stay here in this joint family gown.

They laugh, they talk, and yet I feel

The absence of him is far too real.

One call, just words, nothing too loud,

But he knew me, even through the crowd.

“Are you crying?” he softly asked,

And I, weakened, dropped the mask.

The tears spilled out like rain unplanned,

And though miles away, I felt his hand.

He didn’t hush me. He didn’t scold.

He just stood with me, warm and bold.

Later, Ma said, “Don’t cry, we’re near.

He’s all alone, and you’re all here.”

But how do I say what she can’t see?

He is my home. Not just family.

In this crowd, I wear a smile that's thin,

But feel like a stranger in my own skin.

Because the one who sees beyond my face,

Is not in this room. Not in this place.

And when I rise, as I know I will,

When I climb the mountain, calm and still

It won’t be fame or fortune I’ll praise,

It’ll be his love that lit the blaze.

The world may cheer, call me strong and wise,

But only he will know the whens and whys.

He is the reason. The soul behind it all.

The hand that lifted me when I’d fall.

So no, I’m not a princess in a golden hall...

I am the Baahubali he raised to stand tall.

By Kritika Pandey