India, May 24 -- In the corners of my childhood notebooks-right behind the pages no teacher ever turned-I found my first classroom. Not the outer one with chalk and blackboards, but the inner classroom, where emotions whispered, and my pen translated them into poetry.

It was about me-my reflections, my awkwardness, my questions, my tears.

I wasn't particularly good at English. But poetry didn't care. It just flowed.

It wasn't the kind of poetry teachers expected-no descriptions of flowers or meadows or sunsets. It was raw, emotional, and deeply personal. I never shared it. I didn't even think of myself as a poet. But behind the exercise books I didn't have to submit, my words danced freely.

For the longest time, I wore that ability li...