Awaaz by Rahgir Rajeev is not merely a collection of poems; it is an emotional testimony, a quiet yet powerful rebellion against silence, neglect, and unfulfilled longing. This book feels like a confessional where the poet does not hide behind metaphors to escape pain, but instead uses them to confront it. Each page carries the weight of unsaid words, unheard cries, and emotions that have lived too long in the shadows. The book speaks for those who have loved deeply, lost silently, and continued to live with wounds that never truly healed. It is a voice for people whose presence never made a difference to the world, yet whose inner world is rich with storms, memories, and unanswered questions.
The central soul of Awaaz lies in its raw honesty. Rahgir’s poetry does not try to beautify suffering; instead, it preserves its rough edges. There is a persistent sense of loneliness throughout the book, but this loneliness is not empty—it is crowded with memories, regrets, hopes, and suppressed desires. The poet repeatedly returns to the idea that when there is no one left to listen, poetry itself becomes an act of rebellion. In this sense, Awaaz is not just literature; it is survival. The poems feel like they are written not to impress, but to breathe, to stay alive, to keep the soul from collapsing under its own weight.
One of the most striking aspects of the book is its emotional universality. While the poems are clearly rooted in the poet’s personal experiences, they never feel limited to one individual’s story. The pain of being unheard, the fear of being forgotten, the longing for a love that is unconditional and complete—these emotions belong to almost everyone at some point in life. Rahgir gives words to those moments when a person realizes that they have been strong for too long, silent for too long, and patient for too long. His writing captures the exhaustion of the heart and the quiet resignation that often follows deep emotional struggle.
The philosophical reflections on love are another strong pillar of the book. Rahgir does not see love as a transaction or a negotiation. In his view, true love is expansive, selfless, and dissolving—it does not shrink you, it does not cage you, and it does not operate on conditions. His critique of “marketplace love” is sharp and deeply relevant in a time where relationships are often measured in terms of benefit, convenience, and control. Through his words, he reminds the reader that the moment love becomes a calculation of profit and loss, it loses its soul. This perspective gives the book a contemplative depth and elevates it beyond a simple collection of sorrowful poems.
The emotional texture of Awaaz is also shaped by the author’s life journey. Knowing Rahgir’s background—his disciplined life in the Indian Air Force, his academic achievements, his engagement with fitness and endurance sports—adds an interesting contrast to the fragile, wounded, and searching voice in his poetry. There is a constant duality at work: on the outside, a life of structure, achievement, and motion; on the inside, a restless, aching solitude that refuses to be silenced. This tension between outer stability and inner chaos gives the poems their intensity and authenticity. They do not feel imagined; they feel lived.
Stylistically, the poetry is simple, direct, and emotionally driven. It does not rely on overly complex language or decorative imagery. Instead, its power comes from clarity and sincerity. The emotions are not hidden behind layers of abstraction; they are placed openly before the reader. This makes the book accessible even to those who are not regular readers of poetry, while still retaining enough depth to satisfy readers who seek meaning and introspection.
Awaaz ultimately feels like a companion for lonely nights and quiet moments. It is the kind of book that does not demand to be read quickly, but rather slowly, with pauses, with reflection, sometimes with a heavy heart. It will resonate especially with those who have experienced emotional abandonment, unfulfilled love, or the long silence of being misunderstood. Rahgir Rajeev does not offer easy comfort or quick healing, but he offers something perhaps more honest: recognition. He tells the reader, through his poetry, that their pain is seen, their silence is heard, and their inner battles are real.
In the end, Awaaz stands as a sincere, courageous, and emotionally intense work—a mirror to wounded hearts and restless souls. It is a book that does not try to fix you, but sits beside you in your brokenness, and sometimes, that is the most meaningful kind of literature.
