The Hands That Built My World

Before I ever learned to dream,
My parents were already dreaming for me.

He walked through life
With cracked hands and tired shoulders,
Yet every step he took
Was toward my future.

He wore old shirts faded by years,
Sandals worn thin by endless roads,
But whenever his daughter wished for something,
The world suddenly became too small
For the size of his love.

He denied himself comfort
As though sacrifice was natural to him.
Hunger never frightened him,
Pain never stopped him,
Because somewhere ahead,
He could already see his daughter shining
In the life he never had.

Like the earth trusts the rain,
Like dawn trusts the sun to return,
He believed every word his daughter spoke,
Holding her dreams gently
As though they were made of glass and light.
Beside him stood my mother,
A woman stitched entirely from love,
Who wrapped her children in warmth
Even while the world remained cold to her.

Her own wishes lived silently
In forgotten corners of her heart.
New sarees never mattered,
Jewels never called her name,

At dawn,
She never disturbed her children's sleep,
Never placed burdens upon their tender hands,
Because she wanted them to wake
Not into struggle,
But into hope.

And together --
My parents stood beneath burning skies,
Selling watermelons sweet with summer,
Selling sugarcanes dripping with sunlight,
Turning sweat into school fees,
And exhaustion into opportunity.

Every fruit they sold
Became a page in my notebook.
Every coin they earned
Became a staircase beneath my feet.

While the world slept peacefully,
They carried storms within their bones
So their children could walk safely toward tomorrow.

People may see them
As ordinary souls passing through ordinary streets,
But I have seen divinity
In their sacrifices.

And if one day I rise high enough
For the world to speak my name with pride,
It will only be because
Two beautiful souls
Spent their entire lives
Becoming the ground beneath my wings.