By Arun Kumar Singhal
These words, immortalised in a soulful song from an early ’70s Bollywood film, have stayed with countless of us over the years. In that film, the hero—not a poet by profession or nature—finds himself transformed by love. He sees beauty, tenderness, and longing where once there was only routine. And so, he sings—awkwardly, hesitantly, yet sincerely—because emotions too deep to remain silent often find refuge in poetry.
The lines Main shayar toh nahin… resonate with many of us who love poetic verse, even if we may not claim to weave metaphors into couplets, paint vivid images like a poet, or understand the strict rules of rhyme and meter. Yet, when we catch the feelings conveyed, it brings immeasurable solace to the soul. It is here that I often find myself standing at the edge of emotion, quietly absorbing the unsaid—the realm where real poetry lives – involving transformation, feelings, and multi-layered meanings. Between the beats of a heart and the pauses in conversation, I feel what the poet tries to capture with words. I may not be a shayar, but I understand the language of feelings.
There is poetry in life, after all—in forms subtle, unspoken, and universal. The smile of a soldier, brave and unwavering even in the face of danger, speaks of sacrifice no poem can fully capture. The spontaneous laughter of a child, bursting like sunlight through clouds, needs no embellishment. And then there are silent tears—of compassion, of empathy, of shared sorrow—that speak volumes when words fall short. These are the verses I read with my heart, though I do not write them with my pen.
Main shayar toh nahin…, but sometimes, standing in the presence of such emotions, I feel like one. I’ve learned that poetry isn’t always made of ornate words—sometimes it’s made of moments. A quiet evening breeze, a mother’s tired yet contented eyes, the tremor in a voice that remembers someone long gone. All these carry an emotional cadence that poets strive to express, and listeners instinctively understand.
It would not be wrong to say, “Jahan na pahunche Ravi, wahan pahunche kavi.” Where the radiance of the sun cannot reach, a poet’s insight does. I have not written verses that echo across halls, but I have felt those echoes inside me. And perhaps that, too, is a kind of poetry—one that lives not on the page, but in the pauses of life.
So no, main shayar toh nahin—but I have feelings like a poet, and I have stood still in moments of awe like one. I may not rhyme, but I feel. And sometimes, that is enough to touch the sacred ground where poetry is born.
You may be wondering why I’m writing in such a philosophical tone. Well, as the age-old saying goes: “Jaisa ann, waisa mann; jaisa paani, waisi vani”– “As is the food, so is the mind; as is the water, so is the speech.” And indeed, “Jaisi sangat, waisi rangat”– “As the company, so the influence.” Our thoughts, expressions, and inclinations are often shaped by what we consume – not just physically, but intellectually and emotionally – and by the company we keep.
It is perhaps this belief that draws me, whenever time allows amidst my professional responsibilities, to immerse myself as a quiet spectator in literary gatherings. Be it forums of writers and readers, historians and poets, or spirited discussions on social and political thought—I find in these spaces a unique nourishment for the soul. They offer a mirror to society, a window into the evolving conscience of our times, and a platform where the expressions bloom freely. Though in many such discourses, I may silently differ in views from even the best speakers, even opposing or poor thoughts can teach us—if not consumed blindly.
It was in this spirit of quiet engagement that I attended, as an invitee, the Ahl-e-Sukhan-organised Mushaira and Kavi Sammelan held last month in the serene valley of Doon. There, amidst poets young and old, of national and regional acclaim, reciting their work as the lingering rain of August splashed the surroundings—each voice distinct, yet united by a shared reverence for the power of words—was soothing. Some verses undoubtedly went beyond my understanding, but their emotions were universally understandable.
Listening to them was more than attending an event; it was a journey through emotions, eras, and ideologies. From humorous satire to poignant social commentary, from romantic couplets to powerful verses on resistance and resilience—the poetic canvas was rich and deeply moving. Each genre, each dialect, brought with it a unique fragrance—and as someone who claims not to be a poet, I found myself unexpectedly, yet profoundly, stirred.
It was here that Main shayar toh nahin… returned to my thoughts once more. While I may not command the eloquence of the poets on stage, I understood the undercurrents of emotion they carried. The event wasn’t just literary entertainment—it was a reminder that poetry, in all its forms, is the heartbeat of a reflective society. At times like these, just being a spectator is enough—to listen, reflect, and carry those impressions into life.
Perhaps, after all, that is what Main shayar toh nahin… truly reminds us: that poetry is not confined to pen and paper, but flows quietly through the way we live, observe, and feel. One need not be a poet to stand at the edge of beauty, to let emotions shape our silences, or to recognise the sacred music in ordinary life. And maybe that is the truest poetry of all—the kind that doesn’t seek recognition, but simply teaches us to feel more deeply, to see more clearly, and to live more fully.
So no, main shayar toh nahin… But sometimes, in my most reflective moods, I almost feel like one.
(Arun Kumar Singhal has been a resident of Doon for over five decades. He cherishes life’s simple pleasures and carries a quiet regret at witnessing the valley he grew up in transform—from a serene retreat into a noisy, bustling hub, with its original charm now surviving only in cherished memories.)
