In the depths of winter
When our hearts turn sour
Rises hope, the bird of gold
Flies to the end, the edge of cold
Catches spring, waiting for her turn
It squeaks, it cackles till it burns
Lighting my way, dispelling the dark
As i walk the walk, an echo starts..
"not too far, not too far"
(A poem dedicated to those who confide in the stars and the Moon of the night.)
Her heart is a sorrowful cemetery of softly whispered 'almosts' that were lost in time ,
and when the sky's sapphire shades fade away into an unfathomable darkening abyss
they wickedly steal her sleep and torment her in her dreams like a bittersweet rhyme ,
of the words that are helplessly flooding inside her head and never reach the shore of her lips
She stretches her slender hands to touch the Moon who guides the dreamers that swim at night ,
and to hold the stars that are radiantly ardent like little life boats scattered across for those who wander
the cosmos disguises itself into an incredibly eternal sea that beckons to those who lay awake in the faint light ,
to the ones who believe in the pure magic of love to stay afloat against the tempestuous billows in sight.
© Nitya Sharma 2022. All rights reserved.
Premise of a distinguished eatery
I slouched as we waited for our sweet dough
Me and my beau
Uninvolved in our short lived discourse
I had brutally invaded what tried to be a family supper but lacked enterprise, on a parallel table as I recall
Eavesdropping on the audible
I gawked as late as I broke my heart with what I saw
Wounding of a frail soul, a toddler doll
Outstretching her limbs and her infantile dialogue
Yearning to be tended
Screaming her throat of a hatchling
Her tender pink mouth, her appeal, gibberish
All to acquire attention but failing
Like a crimson heart of a butchered hen, she was exposed
Whilst her mother and possible sister stared through their phones that shone
on their faces like glowworms
The two women had abandoned the doll
If only I could comb out her unrest through my fingers into her wavy hair shawls
And it was only when her poor heart yielded
And bulbous tears rampaged
Till mucus in her lungs roared
That her unresponsive mother responded
In a fairly agitated tone
But into oblivion her voice was now lost
Her face rather resigned
A defeat she appeared to often endure
Perhaps into an unwilling memory I had walked
As a voice testified, confined behind my jaws
“She was but a fish tossed far from the shore”.
SUCH A BEAUTIFUL SCENERY
FAR BEACH, RAINS AND GREENERY
SEARCHING FOR THAT FEELING
WHILE LISTENING TO AND SINGING
THERE IS NOT EVEN A SECOND WHEN I DON’T MISS HIM
EVEN THOUGH I HAVN’T MET HIM
YET FEELING THAT EMOTION
HOPING TO MEET HIM ONCE WITH PASSION
DO THAT FEELING REALLY EXIST?
WHERE LOVE IS SEEN THROUGH EYES
WHERE FAITH STILL CONTINUES BEHIND
WHERE EVEN LOVING IS NOT ENOUGH
YOU WANNA SURRENDER YOUR LIFE
SELFLESSLY WITH NO BLUFF
OR MAYBE ITS JUST MY IMAGINATION
WANTING TO COME TRUE WITH SO PASSION
OH, I WISH IF IT COULD HAPPEN
WHERE EVEN HE WANTS ME WITH PASSION
GAZING AT ME WITH A SMILE
PRAYING FOR ME TO BE IN HIS LIFE
WHERE EVEN HE IS SEARCHING FOR THAT FEELING
WHILE LISTENING TO AND SINGING.
As time went on, you had to exert influence,
just hurting and assaulting in the literal sense wasn’t enough, I guess.
You wanted to reduce them to a concept,
an associative complement,
nothing on its own,
a voiceless ornament.
The old ones were better in comparison,
at least they didn’t wilfully reduce somebody’s existence to mere association.
Thinking a woman is only ever fit to be a man’s wife,
you place her under a glass ceiling—
clip her wings, peg her ambitions,
and cage her in an environment that deters her journey before it even begins.
How abhorrent!
All the cuss words are centered around women and used incessantly by tasteless little men,
while proving their point,
that nobody wants to listen.
Eve and Sita facing the sole brunt of Man’s Lust—insatiable,
since time immemorial.
And the language chosen can be very telling,
especially of the source from where it’s originating.
You really have to nosedive and sink to the deepest pits of misogyny and envy to put together words that revolting!
But you can only do so much to hurt someone,
and centuries of oppression and subjugation,
have made these wingless angels,
breathers of fire!
Now they fear no one.
A state one achieves when they’ve seen everything.
I’m not surprised that these angels have started referring to themselves as ‘Goddesses’,
they’ve moved on from the ‘Men’ that had claimed to have ‘made them’.
It’s full circle.
It’s long deserved.
Amidst the chaos, they were always destined for emancipation.
काय असते हो नक्की कविता?
कोणी सांगेल का मला
कविता वावरत असते आसपास
सगळे कवीलाच लागतात शोधायला !
कवितेत कवी शोधायचा नाही .. कधीच...
तो असतो एक माध्यम सशक्त ,
ज्यांना होता येत नाही व्यक्त
त्यांच्या मौनाचा हंबरडा आणि वेदनेचा हुंकार फक्त !
कवितेत कवी शोधायचा नाही..
त्याला जोडायचं नाही कवितेतल्या पात्रांशी
त्याच्या लिखाणात ...
आपल्याच भावना शोधायच्या नाही !
सतत का करायचं परीक्षण
त्याच्या कवितांचं भांडवल कधी करायचं नाही
आणि कवितेत कवी कधी शोधायचा नाही !
कवी म्हणजे काय हो ?
प्रतिबिंब समाजमनाचं
कोलमडलेल्या मनाला पाठबळ आधाराचं
चालू घडामोडींवर प्रभुत्व ओळींचं !
अन्याय सहन करून देखील ज्याला फुटत नाही वाचा ..
मौनातच गौण राहण्याचा ज्यांचा असतो साचा,
निराशेच्या गर्तेत ज्याची संपते आशा
कविता असते अशांसाठी उन्हातली छाया !
कधी विनोदात लपेटलेला दुःखांचा हास्यफवारा..
कवी तर असतो फार वेगळा,खोल अन् गहिरा,
काव्यातला मुखवटा त्याला सतत चढवायचा नाही
आणि कवितेत कवी कधी शोधायचा नाही !
कविता लिहिण्यासाठी नाहीच जरूरी..
प्रत्येक घाव काळजावर झेलणं ,
आजूबाजूला घडणाऱ्या गोष्टीत
फुलतं त्याचं लिहिणं
नसतेच प्रसन्न प्रत्येकावर
प्रतिभेची लेखणी ,
योग्य शब्दांना काव्यात गुंफण्याचं कसब
प्रतिभेलाच जमत हसतखेळत !
विषयांच्या दुनियेत फिरतो अवांतर..
दुखऱ्या मनावर घालतो फुंकर ,
वेदनेचा आवरेना गहिवर
एक कविता स्फुरते अन् भाव होतो अनावर !
कुणाच्यातरी वेदनांची तार ,
कवितेशी येते जुळून
पोळणाऱ्याचं मन शांत
होऊन जातं कविता वाचून !
म्हणूनच या वैद्याचं दुकान कुठे शोधायचं नाही
त्याच्या शब्दांचा शब्दशः अर्थ कधी घ्यायचा नाही ,
व्यक्त होणाऱ्या संवेदनांना कधी छेडायचं नाही
आणि कवितेत कवी शोधायचा नाही !
कवितेत कवी कधीच शोधायचा नाही....
Glancing to the ceiling;
Next to the window,
half past noon;
Still in sheets.
Swaying, eyes to brain
back and forth again
in the beauty of naked silence resilient
Piling off the bed
in blues, with cracking beeps outside.
I stormed past the room
to the main door
digging the peep hole deep.
Prompting, my curtain drawn past
now seemed teary.
Running back to the room
I arrayed down, hiding my tissues within.
Unlatched my cosy live-in
prior the next wild knock planting.
In dimmed smile, ‘Namaste Dadaji’
escaped my lips.
Bowing down to his feet
I took my share of blessings.
Two familiar figures
with smirking face
infiltrated in bereft space of my shielding.
Defensive; My mum’s voice
pulled strings
all behind.
‘Uncle bhi aaye h’, demanding the welcome
to be refined.
Exchanging our gazes
I snapped down on floor sheets.
My gauged heart I stitched for years
felt the unease
Obliged to touch his feet,
My innocence, caged in resentment
Wondering, if this brush was enough
to recollect his past thunder-
the dusk; the sorry faces;
scent of grandma’s cremating remains
The endless faith taking me
to follow him blindfolded
Hastily, falling in a sea of nowhere
Waxed and probed with his filth hands
quenching his thirst
Sniffing clothes inside.
Panicked to save the physical me
leaving in lurch, how all terrified.
My flooded heart and weeping soul
so far I betrayed
Concealing back his gruesome sins
luring my world at stake
Suffocating inside, zipped lipped
alone for all these cold nude nights.
Wishing to ask him;
by all this, if he was satisfied-
Now getting back on my spine
I walked out of the room
With scratched old scars,
overfilled heart
finally clogging the aisle
to my lost elegant shine.
Ever been to the shoreline at dawn?
With the wind blowing unsure of a separation or union-
Yet the waves give an undying promise to kiss the sand;
And the unadulterated beauty floods your vision.
But you claim “it’s the salt pricking the eye!"
Have you ever lost someone you loved?
When belying those unfulfilled promises becomes the hardest part,
Every song swells up your eyes as memories twist the knife stuck in your chest;
And the logical mind is at constant war with the unreasonable heart.
But you sniff away saying “ it’s the flu burning the eyes!”
Were you ever left homeless under a dark stormy sky?
When whirlwinds threaten your existence and lightening crashes without a care;
A helpless prayer springs out of those reddened eyes
And tomorrow seems doomed shrouded in ominous fear.
But you let the rain hide the tears and thunder drown the cries!
Did you ever feel the solace of being acknowledged?
After years of struggle, hopeless days, sleepless nights and self doubting debates ;
The moment finally arrives - recognised by the audience, understood by your people, heard by the universe;
And the unending interlude gives way to peaceful acceptance of fate.
But you fight to hold back the tears as your heart rejoices!
Where words fall short and emotions are overwhelming,
Whether trembling hands or sweaty feet, pursed lips or pounding chest;
Tears help to bridge the distance between breakpoint and survival -
Be the trough of failure or on glory's crest!
At your best or at your worst – they are your window to the world,
So let them flow, do not be ashamed, do not wipe or hide;
And the next time you wake up on a wet pillow,
Remember you made it till here, and own them with pride!
Those crystals convey your truth, they negotiate your sanity with stress -
Although through stained cheeks, heavy lashes or not an instagrammable smile;
But tears let you breathe, tears share your burden,
And tears are a sign that you are human, you are still alive!
Nothing distinctive distinguishes our lineage.
There are no tangible heirlooms to honour and pass down
No folklore, no traditions, no silly anecdotes
No accounts of valiant men fighting the first war of independence
Or any subsequent ones, really
Emancipation is not a concept we're familiar with.
Well, there is one story
I'm blanking on the details;
I'm sure my mother could quote it verbatim
Ages ago, my grandmother's great-grandmother
Witnessed a bush catch fire and die, and thought no more of it—
She turned her back to a forest ablaze.
The forest was sacred; it unleashed something ungodly—
I've seen it with my own eyes
Mother considers it as something holy, still
All our forefathers have preserved it well—
Collective trauma, unfulfilled desires—
They've clutched it in their iron fist.
Moral policing, constant surveillance,
Preaching God's will incessantly.
Sanctioned asphyxiation is child's play, elementary
We're taught early; we're taught well.
No display of affection, complete indifference,
Cruelty begetting cruelty.
Our bodies know nothing about crescendo, diminuendo
Though mother was a singer once—before she was silenced—
Before the fumes from the fire took hold of her lungs
There is no music, it said
There is only monotone
There is no room for emotion.
Every room in the house is filled to the brim,
Flooding over with unwept tears.
Scattered around haphazardly, floating with no restraint,
Are shoes too big to fill, pearls too heavy to carry.
My sister doesn't see it that way
She handles things with grace.
I've been the black sheep, the anomaly,
The wet dog stinking up the house
Gouging and biting back,
Weeping, wailing, screams ricocheting off the walls
Swollen throat and severed hands
Scarlet screeches of agony.
But then, my darling, the guilt began to settle in.
Look— it makes itself at home right in my chest
It lingers; it festers like a gunshot wound
It turns my body into a cemetery,
Into a chamber for cryo-conservation,
I carry my aunt's sadness and echo my mother's beliefs.
The family curse reverberates in my bones—
A constant reminder of our roots—
You, too, will throw up dead flies yet chant the same prayers as your ancestors
Honey, I have spent the entirety of my life under my mother's roof,
Please believe me when I say this
There is no scope for resistance or revolution.
There are days, still,
When I want to take a chainsaw to the family tree,
Put an end to the supply of kerosene
Let the bushfire die with me
But I am my mother's daughter; you are mine
We're fools to expect an alternative ending.
When someone leaves they leave their traces behind.
Hair strands in your clothes
Cigarette butts that were smoked together.
Half finished ones like the conversations you could never finish
Like there was always so much to say and always very little time.
When you left
The creases on my sheets kept reminding me of you
Your hair strands with the blue hair colour on them
Weird how it still hasn't washed off?
Don't worry, I don't hold on to my feelings anymore
We can force our minds not to think about each other still
But what do you do with these traces?
Do I throw out the cigarette butts?
You never lit them off fully, there was always a spark left behind, burning slowly to the end
I never stomped them off too because maybe I wanted to keep the spark? However slow it might get
I remember the day we decided to separate
Felt like two ships sinking together and no one could save them
There was a mutual understanding that we were both drowning but no one could save another
I hear you have found someone to stomp out your cigarettes fully now
I am not jealous,
Maybe a little?
How do you find someone so perfect to replace all the gaps we left out?
Maybe it is not about finding someone perfect
Maybe it is about being so imperfect together that they are the only person who could see through you
The other day, I saw a couple hug each other
And I remembered you used to say, if you hug someone tight enough you could squeeze out the sadness from them like we squeeze out the last ounce of toothpaste using all our strength to get the last bit out?
I used to laugh it off then, but I think I get it now
When you hug someone you tell them you care, that if they die someday, you'll be sad
I will leave this letter open ended because I never want to stomp out your cigarettes.
smear-laden in lifeless mud
slinging herself over the last bit of the ruthless saw
trrrrrrrm trrrrrrrrrrrm brrrrrrrm...clack
the machine, it screams so loud..
she flinches as it cuts through her
her gentle green eyes turn a dull grey
the long tresses caress her face
as she takes the fall
my heart sinks.
if you followed the twisting vines nigh the wound
you would see
the vines that came crashing through
meet the earth in its roots
it is where
she now plonks in blood
..and in the splattered mud
it is where life must happen in green
i muse out loud
raising a brow, she heaves a sigh
her gentle eyes concede silently
it won't be long, her parting glance says it..
standing aghast- clenching herself
thud!
a deathly silence deafens me
and a numb stupor rises and engulfs the sky
a dull fainting thump– thwack– it strikes again
the machine, it still screams so loud
trrrrrrrm... trrrrrrrrrrrm brrrrrrrm..rrrrrrrrrrrrrr....clack....
there’ are bits splattering on the earth
yet it roars on
the machine....
trrrrrrrm trrrrrrrrrrrm brrrrrrrm...clack
maybe it plucked the last root on earth?
....a loud scream echoes, the machine falls mute
at last
the scream lingers on yet so fresh in my drums
hanging in the air, heavy like a sumo wrestler
as I follow the scream, a lifeless void steeps up and enters my heart
If Dying was an art in decline, I would pick it up,
But like everything else, I would do it with dread,
Fear, supple its derangement, I would want a cup,
Caramelised syrup of my blood, into your head,
I would inject, spirits of salts, to soothe you,
To see you turn into and onto the creature I have,
Become. I despise leaving, an alive, disturbed you,
It will spit you out, munching on you, keen to have,
Your eyes, your ears, your nose, then your tongue,
Unearthing your tongue off your abode, It will,
You will, on a pile of reeking structures that strung,
Once, deepest red melodies justly did overfill,
The streets of light and royal azalea. She would,
Write, despite the fight with the bright, white knight,
He would weep, weep beside the stone that would,
Hold his shining light, buried under the chasmic night.
“You, you killed my son”, she screams, screeching,
The desolate expanse of serenity isn’t innocent, she,
Did murder, blood on all her hands, she left hers dripping,
While a man of desperate passion leverages the intellectual,
Later dethroned and then provided an apology with, he,
Would live, his massacre outlives, both represented, graphical.
“They’re here, they are here”, I hear, and I try, I try,
To leap forward as they had yesterday asked me to,
But here they were, catching hold of me, of my cry,
Of my sister, not her mister, they would later hand us to,
The sweltering heat of life, the final act of it all,
But before it all, there I was, torn, scavenged upon,
And there she was, lifeless, torched with violence,
No, torched by meaningless hatred, here we lay on,
No one, to bear these petrified embraces, this violence,
Upon justice, spares the predator, we were not the prey,
But what was required for their continual corrupt prancing.
Yet then again, here I was, dicing my fingers, licking off me,
The pungent stench of who I truly had become, I was not,
I am not the culprit you make me out to be, tell them not me,
It is not me; it is not I, I promised him I would leave not,
A year without intending to send three words that are capable,
He told me so, he felt alright, the flowers I weave made him so,
Was he flattering me? Why? I wouldn’t want him be incapable,
But I painted him myself! I had seen him alright, I did, but go,
Go away, the bearings have hired themselves rigid, turgid even,
It wouldn’t budge, for, unlike this lover, they are never mistaken!
Not a psychologist by profession but I am a psychologist by action,” I said.
My daughter curiously asked, “How?”
I asked her, “What do psychologists do?”
She thoughtfully said, “Heal people towards mental wealth.”
“Impressive!” I said,
“I do the same! Strive towards mental wealth
For nation’s health.”
“Not an advocate by profession but I am an advocate by action,” I said.
My daughter queried, “How?”
I asked her, “What do advocates do?”
She further said, “Argue for the client in dispute.”
“I do, but not exactly as in the law suit,” I said,
“I help them debate in pursuit of not letting the truth dilute.”
“Not a counsellor by profession but I am a counsellor by action,” I said.
My daughter inquired, “How?”
I asked her, “What do counsellors do?”
She instantly said, “Guide you to choose what is right.”
“I do the same,” I said. “They are led towards the light
By choosing what’s right.”
“Not a life coach by profession but I am a life coach by action,” I said.
My daughter wilfully asked, “How?”
I asked her, “What do life coaches do?”
Enthusiastically she said, “Motivate people to soar high.”
I affirmed “Matchless is each one’s strength; I always say
& by make believing in themselves, self-motivated are they.”
“Not a stand-up comedian by profession but I am a stand-up comedian by action,” I said.
My daughter chuckled & asked, “How?”
I asked her, “What do stand-up comedians do?”
Amusingly she said, “They are hilarious till your stomach hurts.”
Through a hoot of laughter I said, “Not so much nuts!
But a little chuckles that effectively works.”
Radiantly said my daughter, “Mamma, so so much by action;
I now understand what it takes to be an inspiring teacher, by profession!”
I loved you,
unconditionally
just like a moth
wanders aimlessly towards the light.
Impetuously oblivious
of the fatal ramifications;
imprudently valiant,
yet naive.
I had no inkling
that I'm treading along the same path
of inevitable doom.
‘Twas when the dark spark
from the distant shore of doom
arrived,
I suddenly realised
the truth I was
desperately absconding from,
that sometimes,
love could be fatal
but, alas!
By the time I cognized
It was too late,
and I had already
suffered the same fate.
My poor tastebuds!
It always sees everyone eating exquisite food
But it feels like my tastebuds dont find it good
The aroma is too good to handle
But tasting the food becomes a scandle
Grass like food- asparagus, spinach
Scares me like an evil witch
Sight of a glass of milk
Gives me an irritating itch
When we travel to a foreign destination,
my tastebuds go on hunger for that duration.
My aim is to find even a single slice of pizza
To give me a sense of elation.
- Aanya, 11 years.
Eyes, where we start our journey of love,
Two beautiful souls meeting at college.
On that first day, I made my love castle in my heart,
A place where only love and passion roam.
Eyes, two beautiful windows of emotions,
Filled with joy, depth, and tears.
In their depths, I found my soul,
In the language of eyes, what more can I say?
They held the promise of a future bright,
As we started on this romantic flight.
With each glance, a new chapter unfolds,
In the story of a boy, whose spirit never gets old.
So here we stand in two different cities,
But our eyes communicate daily.
For in your blue eyes, I’ve found my forever,
A beautiful love story that never can be ended.
In a world of steel and stone I stay,
No longer certain of our future ahead
We once gazed into heaven’s skies
But to those heavens I now cry
howls of sorrow
the rivers of freedom no longer flow
And the deep trenches and hills stand still with fear
And the plains remain concrete as glass, as shadows grow
As the scent of humans linger near
Like a looming parasite
His spirit continues to run through the ancient streams,
His voice weaves into my land of dreams
I take his howl and make it my own
A whispered promise in nature’s tone:
Though separated our hearts remain entwined;
With no compasses, with no signs
I shall find you in the valleys deep
And in nature’s arms where our love shall be
the rivers of freedom gush with might
And the deep trenches and hills reach for the skies
And the open plains stretch beneath our feet
In the heart of this red earth, where we’re meant to be
Abandoned to time with unfinished stories.
Dear Ma,
Am I a stranger now?
Or has the stranger always been me?
We come from the same roots,
Yet I feel like a leaf about to detach,
Floating on a breeze you don't recognize.
Desire is not a sin—
After years of loving in a silence
That even words cannot penetrate,
I find myself sitting alone
At the foot of your bed,
Staring at the idols of gods you pray to.
Your hands, laden with years and prayers,
Fold into devotion for gods
Who never had to come out.
I whisper love in a tongue you've always known,
Yet today, it sounds foreign to you.
Do my confessions make you falter
In a language we used to share?
Dear Ma,
I still am the son
Whose first steps you cheered,
Whose scraped knees you healed.
I still need your love
In a language I haven't forgotten.
Are you willing to speak it,
Or have we lost our mother tongue?
Why do men believe they are superior?
That they go through more than we do
They don't know the struggles we face
Why do they pretend that everything is a first-place race?
If we go through something, they tell us they have it worse
Sometimes I believe being a woman is a curse
A female is always haunted by the stuff she hears
The tales of male both far and near
Innocence is like a fragile bloom
In a world where darkness looms
She walks the path with a wary in every stride
Scared of what the shadow hides
She hears things that hurt and takes it with grace
Hiding the truth of fear behind her face
Her voice, a whisper, choked by dread,
In that moment she wishes, she truly wishes, she was dead
The pictures that the magazines show us
As the pressure of society surrounds us
A cruel world shows us an unattainable dream
When we don't look like that, it makes us want to scream
The mirror becomes our biggest fear acting like a judge and jury
Casting shadows on our worth in a cruel fury
We don't realise that our beauty isn't skin deep, it's hidden in our soul
Our kindness and patience are truly what makes a woman whole.
रास्ते भी एक थे दोनों के और मंज़िल भी एक थी।
ख्याल भी एक थे और ख्वाहिशें भी एक थीं।
मिलते थे जब अकेले में दोनों तो खूब बातें होती थीं।
और जो भीड़ में भी हों करीब तो नज़रें ज़ुबान होती थीं।
प्यार सच्चा था उनका और मोहब्बत भी पूरी थी।
पर शायद खुदा ने ये कहानी लिखी ही अधूरी थी।
इश्क़ तो सच्चा कर लिया पर हिम्मत कच्ची रह गयी।
समाज के बनाये रिवाज़ बौहत बड़े और खुदा की दी मोहब्बत छोटी रह गई।
न हो पाए वो एक ,
न हो पाए वो एक।
लेकिन अब भी मिल जाती हैं नज़रें बाजार की उस राह पे।
जहाँ से एक सड़क जाती है मंदिर को और दूसरी जाती है दरगाह पे।