A Woman With No Name Poem by Sumita Jetley

No name they knew, no tale she told,
Just stories whispered, brave and bold.
A bell on thread, no knocking twice,
She lived in silence, smoke, and spice.

They called her "Madam of the Tale, "
The woman wrapped in midnight veil.
A flat of candles, ink, and grace,
A typewriter her sacred place.

She danced, they said, or maybe wrote,
With fairy lights around her throat.
The monsoon carried down her lines—
Storm-soaked truths and rebel signs.

"Don't ask the storm where it may go,
But who it is becoming so."

No screen, no blue tick to her name,
Yet still she burned, a quiet flame.
Until one dusk, a man arrived,
Heart cracked open, barely alive.

She let him in, no need for tea—
"Shoes off, illusions stay with me."
The air grew thick with unseen bloom,
The past and present shared the room.

"I don't create, " she said, eyes shut,
"I disappear... then leave a cut."

Then came the clack, the rhythmic spell,
Each letter struck where silence fell.
Her spine bent back, her fingers flew—
Not writing.
Calling something through.

A single page, a folded line,
She handed him the sacred sign:

"When you forget your name, the song begins."

And just like that—she slipped within.

He left, undone, a hollow hush,
The world outside returned to rush.
But in his chest, the echo stayed:
Of someone real
who slipped away.

He came again.
One ring.
No sound.
Just silence spinning,
Ghungroos bound.