(Name changed to protect identity)
At just twenty-two, her world stood still,
Steel bars ahead, silence to fill.
Behind her, a childhood torn and frayed,
Ahead, uncertainty, sorrow, and shade.
She entered with sorrow weighing her soul,
With eighth-grade education, no clear goal
But behind those bars, hope found its way,
A broken life began to bloom each day.
India Vision Foundation became her beacon of light,
Guiding her through the longest nights,
She rose again, 10th, 12th, a degree in hand,
No longer just surviving, but learning to stand.
Needles and threads stitched more than seams,
Macramé, beauty, and bag-making dreams.
She became a mentor, a leader, a guide,
With trembling hands now filled with pride.
But stitched beneath that rising flame,
Was the ache of a child who never came.
A son she held when he was two,
Sixteen years passed… and letters were few.
A mother from distance, in silence she cried,
For every skill learned, her soul had tried.
To one day return, not broken, not shamed,
But whole and wise, and gently renamed.
Today she lives in a humble space,
No riches, no noise, just quiet grace.
Her son, now seventeen, waits with time,
And she dreams of healing, line by line.
Pooja is more than her prison tale,
She’s wind through storms, a ship that sailed.
A woman once caged, now soaring above,
Held not by past, but stitched with love.
This is not just reform, it’s rebirth.
The rising of strength from the weight of earth.
For even the weakest threads can mend,
When purpose and hope beautifully blend.
