Mother do you know?- Aaheli Choudhury

Mother do you know?

I never cry in front

Of anyone.

I break off the skin

on my finger

I press my lips to it

smothering the bleed.

Mother do you know?

I never know how to

look you in the eye.

I eye my untied laces

they obey me, mother-

saving me the expense

of expression.

Mother do you know?

the day you last combed my hair

I saw fear in your eyes

well, I’ve been plenty of fun mother

it’s marked everywhere on my body

Mother do you know?

I can lie ever so still on my bed

hand on my chest

trying to ascertain

whether I'll die in my sleep.

I turn on my sides

I listen to my heartbeat

against my folded hands

I pray, it never stops.

I pray, I never know-

what other sounds haunt the night.

Mother do you know?

you are my shining light.

Us women

we are children for a short while

but mother, mother did you know

I haven't been sleeping for a while

did you see the hands on me

you must have, right?

clawing my neck

pressing my breasts

slipping down my dress.

you must have seen, mother.

So why didn't you say anything?

Why weren’t your arms around me?

Why won’t you touch me anymore?

Mother, do you know?

Dream - Nehal Jain

I had a dream.

A dream in which

you were mine to keep.

A dream in which

We climbed to the rooftop

And talked for hours

While my hands were tangled in yours.

A dream in which

I slept on your chest

On a movie night

We used to have every weekend.

A dream in which

We got drunk

And danced in the refrigerator light.

A dream in which

You got us caught by the cops

While trying to kiss me

Under the street light.

A dream in which

We used to go stargazing

And instead of them

I found you

Staring at me, always.

A dream in which

We drove to the ice cream parlour

At 3 in the morning,

And ate the whole tub of ice cream

While sitting on the car’s bonnet.

A dream in which

You slept on my lap

After coming

tired from work.

A dream in which

You woke me up, every morning

With a forehead kiss

And some tight hugs.

A dream in which

You took me to the bed

When I used to sleep

On the couch

While waiting for you

To return home late in the night.

A dream in which

We had our little infinity.

A dream that

I never wanted to end.

A dream that

Had everything I wish for.

A dream that

You don’t care about.

A dream that

Only I dream of.

The InK- Shubhi Bhardwaj

Poem - The Ink

The ink flows without a dread,

Like a flower blooms in spring,

It rebels and do the unrealized;

It imagines and flies high,

but never stops in a midway,

It speaks the unsaid,

And pictures the morbid and uncanny,

It paints the world difficult to grasp yet enthralling,

Like a flute, it sings the songs of freedom and life,

And its words dance on rhythmic tone, as if some wind unrolls.

It fights for its right,

And unlock the doors beyond our sight,

It never shies away to say the truth,

To side with the justice for the roots,

It unlocks the door of hope,

It sighs the labels with a marked desire,

It creates the better world for all

Where it welcomes all without a biased eye.

It becomes an eye of god,

It fantasizes the world of beauty and hope,

Where everyone is free to articulate,

And dance like as it is a season of rebirth,

And here it redeems all.

It even articulates the complex soul,

It puts a question mark, asks the questions that never been asked,

It explores all the greys,

And shut all the blacks and whites with a ready sight.

It is never tired as it has to tread the long road with an ink to flow;

It never sleeps because it has to write,

the ink always flows, never ceases to die.

Falling for the storm over and over again...- Sunaina Pradhan

The dark clouds hovering over the skies,

Along with the winds, my mind flies,

My mind brings a short movie to me...

Of all my memories as if the camera was nothing but a bee,

Wandering from flower to flower,

Each one with a story of its own,

And suddenly the clouds let out slight shower,

As if my tears to me were shown.

It was day but still night,

There was thunder and instances of light;

The trees swayed with the winds,

That were now turning violent,

And so did I but I was silent,

The leaves fluttered,

And I uttered,

"It feels good,

Reminds me of me"

And then the winds started their rage,

As if for long, they were kept in a cage;

I could relate with the winds,

Rain telling the story behind my tears,

All those memories of days and years,

Suddenly halted and the winds were quiet now,

I went inside the four walls,

With my dried tears,

Like an ordinary person as I left my extraordinary side with the winds.!

I fell for the storm again,

With a storm within my head,

And I know I'll keep falling for it over and over again,

I keep falling for the storm over and over again.

ಕಲೆಯ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಭಿತ್ತಿಗಳಿಲ್ಲ!- Vedashree BN

ಹಳ್ಳಿಯೊಂದಿತ್ತಂತೆ.

ದಾರಿಯ ಎಡ ಬಲ ಕೈಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಹಸಿರಿನ ಮದರಂಗಿ.

ಗುಡ್ಡ ಬೆಟ್ಟಗಳ ಅಂಗಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆಚ್ಚಗೆ ಮಲಗಿದ್ದ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ,

ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಮನೆ.

ಮನೆಯ ಸುಣ್ಣದ ಘಮ ನಿತ್ಯ ನೂತನ.

ಮನೆಯ ಅಂಗಳ ಜಗದಗಲ ವಿಶಾಲ.

ಮನೆಯ ತುಳಸಿಯೇ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯ ಆಲದ ಮರವಾಗಿತ್ತು.

ಸುತ್ತಲೂ ವನ.

ವನದ ಒಳಗೆ ಹರಿವ ಝರಿ,

ಮನೆಯ ಒಡಲನ್ನು ತಂಪಾಗಿಡುತ್ತಿತ್ತು.

ಮನೆಯೊಡೆಯರು ಯಾರು?

ಉಳಿಯಲು ಬಂದವರೆಲ್ಲರೂ.

ಅಡುಗೆಯ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲವರು,

ಜಗುಲಿಯ ಹರಟೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲವರು,

ಹಿತ್ತಲಿನ ಹಸಿರಲ್ಲಿ ಇನ್ನೂ ಹಲವರು,

ಚಾವಣಿಯ ಚುಕ್ಕಿಯಾಟಕ್ಕೆ ಬೆರಳೆಣಿಕೆಯವರು.

ಮನೆ ಗಟ್ಟಿ.

ಭದ್ರ ಭಂಗುರ.

ಅಚ್ಚರಿ!

ಕೆಳಗೆ ಕಂಡರೂ, ತಿರುಗಿ ತಿರುಗಿದರೂ,

ಹಿಂಗಾಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಬಂದರೂ, ಮುಂಗಾಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಎಡವಿದರೂ,

ಈ ಮನೆಗೆ ಗೋಡೆಗಳೇ ಇಲ್ಲ!

ಬೇಲಿಗಳ ಮೈಲಿಗೆಯಿಲ್ಲ.

ಬದನೆಯ ಕಾಪಿಡುವ ಸೀರೆ ಪರದೆಗಳಿಲ್ಲ!

ಹೋದಷ್ಟೂ ಮನೆ.

ಸೇದಿದಷ್ಟು ಹಾಲೀಯುವ ಬಾವಿ.

ನಡೆದಷ್ಟೂ ದಾರಿ.

ಮುಟ್ಟಿದಷ್ಟೂ ಅಂಬರದ ಅಟ್ಟ.

ಅಚ್ಚರಿ!

ಮನೆಯ ಕಟ್ಟಿದವಳು ಕಲೆಯಂತೆ!.

Fish in ponds meet often.

Fins in oceans seldom brush against each other,

for,

the waves keep them apart.

The water loosens her hair wider and long.

The curls of the sea let go of shapes.

Being vast lets you wander.

The two legs sway away to move.

The lips part ways for the words to grow out.

The redhouse pumps out its red kins to the whole country, away from its hometown.

Just to keep the land alive.

Being away, keeping apart, stretching vast, blooming distant.

The sense of space can push out a sigh,

and can also lead to wander's long lost brother, lost.

Space is for the exploring early men,

not so much for the civilized.

Everyone fears space.

Millions of air gallons to breathe.

Wings with a heap of feathers,

So many ways to swim,

Too deep of earth to spread.

Everyone fears space.

Even,

the astrobud leaving home on a spaceship, the night before parting,

looks at sky, looks back home, teary - hearted.

Sun shines, puts on a suit, leaves home.

Reaches the white court with craters.

No one to play.

Looks back home, only now, from space.

Space can be lonely.

With the universe in front,

the space can still feel lonely.

But in the cosmos of art!

There!

It's all a daily celebration of their cousin space!

They invite space and her family

Art let's mystery take up a hundred rooms in its suite,

brings in all the air, feathers, roots and the webbed feet right into the living room.

That's how art lives.

With space and freedom as roommates.

Everyone's floating on art!

Paints flow, while bricks break.

Notes dance, while notes are counted.

Frames move, while stocks collapse.

Art holds while grace grooms it.

Bing bang happened and everything spread outwards.

the pieces play hide and seek, even now.

Someone hushed!

Creation's on play!

The green room, full of civilizations and wars and eras and relations, were ready for their turn to bathe in spotlight.

.

.Everyone's free in art!

A dot grew.

For space, for stars.

Trees grow out,

We pour out through love.

Out. Free to step,out.

Everyone's safe here.

Doors are locked.

Roofs are sealed.

We're good to go to skies.

Our own. In us.

Galleries open for everyone,

concerts echo in cities,

Poems on library shelves.

Space is at your door,

Will you let in?

Or will you break down the doors, for,

everyone's free in art!

all the space is peeping through, blinking at you.

Will you?

विश्वास - एक अक्स!! - Achla Mishra

किसी शिला को आधार बनाकर,

धर्म का उस पर चन्दन लगाकर,

उसे यूं ही शिरोधार्य नहीं करना|

श्वेत से उस प्रकाश में भी,

सात रंगों का संगम है|

शाश्वत सी उन नदियों का भी,

निश्चित एक उद्गम है|

जो लगे उचित सर्वदा,

दृष्टि को दे आनंद अथाह,

उस पर यूं ही आंख मूंदकर सहज विश्वास नहीं करना|

समंदर की उन लहरों में भी,

उसके आवेश की वाणी है|

विशाल, अनंत उस आकाश की भी,

अद्भुत अनेक कहानी है|

जीवन रूपी यह मरुस्थल बुनकर,

अभिलाषा की प्यास से छनकर,

महत्वाकांक्षा को यूं ही अपना सारथी स्वीकार नहीं करना|

असंभव में संभव निहित है,

असफलता में सफलता विदित है|

जब पग डगमगाने लगे तो महज़,

इस भूतल को ही दोषी करार नहीं करना|

आधुनिकता के कांधे पर बैठकर,

परंपराओं की बेड़ियों में जकड़ गर,

दोनों को एक साथ ही श्रापित नहीं करना|

हो विश्वास यदि मन में,

कोलाहल न होगा चिंतन में|

करना तू खुद पर विश्वास,

कर जाएगा यह भवसागर पार|

यदि प्रश्न चिन्ह लगे तुम पर,

आत्मसम्मान से ऊपर उठकर,

अपने अस्तित्व में उसे कभी अंगीकार नहीं करना|

Was it my fault, Mom? - Jiya Arora

I was nourished in a womb,

heard that this world is cynical, and the people were demons.

Alas! women were always told to be in their tomb.

My mother told me she would give me a body to which I'd be soon known. Little did I know, those demons considered my body as their own.

One day, I heard noise all aloud,

they were none other than the selfish people, screaming at my mother for raising a girl child among this crowd.

Rape threats were constantly thrown at her.

I wish I could soak her tears, and fears. With no identity of her own, she was a man's daughter, and a husband's wife.

With numb hands, she caressed me, but could not promise to grant me a life.

Was it my fault, mom?

I were to be identified as a woman.

It was my fault to have a vagina,

it was my fault to have a cleavage.

Yes, it was all my fault because no one blamed those demons for having a thinking so sewage!

Unfortunately, I started to grow inside.

How devastating it was to wake up to a drenched pillow soaked in her maternal tears.

I told her I could live inside this beautiful cage of unconditional love, and care.

But I was a girl with dreams, and to raise me in this world wasn't fair.

Maybe I had no right to live..

Slowly, I was losing my breathe

I smelled blood, and sins

Oh, and within a blink

I was vanished

Yes, I was a girl child, and I was killed in the same womb where I was nourished.

The Land and its Mandi- Mary Samuel

Beyond the high-rises,

Beyond the boundaries

of stoic civilisation,

Away from the maddening

rat race,

Away from all the din of modernity,

lay a small patch of muddy land

with no trees- an open patch.

It lay still for all

but one day in the week;

and then for that one day,

this land comes alive

christens itself as the “mandi”,

and adorns itself with

hawkers and fruit sellers,

vegetable sellers and flower sellers.

And like the deluge, they come

the city people.

They walk through the pathways

between the heaped vegetable

Stop, stoop and pick up

the wares, to examine and

then bargain,

with their purses tightly clutched.

“Smell these fresh flowers”, the flower sellers scream.

“Will remind you of paradise”, one of them adds.

“Buy a few for your loved one”, another adds.

Each flower basket resplendent with myriad colours

of orange, white, red, and pink

“Fresh greens:”, the vegetable seller claims,

“Will make you strong”, one of them adds.

“Buy for your kids”, another adds.

“Three for One, One for Three”, they all shout,

inviting, luring and appealing.

Beads of sweat rolled down their foreheads,

Drops of fresh water being sprinkled on

their treasure, their torn vests declaring another story.

There are few women, with babies and kids

playing nearby; they scream too

and sometimes wait in silence, unable to compete.

“How much for this? How much for that?”

“Reduce a bit, let’s bargain”, says the buyer

“Oh didi, oh bhaiyya, we are poor and have to get by

Can’t go so low, so let’s agree to this”, says the seller.

They look at each other, the buyer and the seller,

and then nod their heads,

both happy, to have struck a good deal-

the same drama unfolding at every makeshift shop.

The land hears and listens

to the sounds, the cries, the buzz.

It smiles to itself, amused at the buyers and sellers.

It takes long breaths, enough to sustain

Itself for another week.

It takes in all the sights, all the scenes

for this is its lifeline- a reason to go on,

a reason to look towards hope,

for who knows when it will be killed

for the huge concrete buildings and the modernity?

Seeking Life -Bushra Khan

I embarked upon life's journey,

Accompanied by joyous souls.

Laughter and merriment filled each day,

With no worries to weigh me down.

Gradually, the glimmers waned,

Colors faded into shades of gray.

Uncertainty burdened my weary mind,

Anxiety and confusion held their sway.

In search of solace, I turned to my mother,

Known for her serene and gentle nature.

I poured out my troubles, seeking her aid,

To escape this entangled dismay.

She tenderly caressed my parched hair,

With oil untouched for quite some time.

Within the dim room, silence settled in all corners,

As she shared wisdom, so sublime.

"Look beyond the window," she softly spoke,

Where a little girl danced with a rose.

Her eyes sparkling with sheer delight,

Radiating goodness wherever she goes.

"What else do you see?" my mother asked,

"Does she fear the thorns, or brave their sting?

Will she cast the rose aside in discomfort,

Or handle it gently, learning the joy it can bring?"

Her gaze met mine, and she whispered,

"Though pricked you've been, don't let love fade.

Embrace the beauty despite the pain."

Her words, wrapped in enchanting wisdom,

Were a balm for my longing soul.

In her presence, I felt humbled and blessed,

For she was my beacon, making me whole.

375- Nidhil Vohra

That December, Delhi stood in disbelief. The Indian flag fluttered reluctantly at the top of the Lal Qila which stood an embarrassed red. All the minarets and all the monuments handed in their two weeks’ notice. There was no honour left to protect, no pride left to fight for. Delhi was mourning. Her people gathered in a conglomeration of hurt, hoping to overpower the smog that sheltered the city from the eyes of all those fortunate enough to not live within her maverick borders. A loud cry came from within a loud cry. Everyone knew.

Shouting and screaming

in streets that were used

to not much else. Lights

Do you see

the people begging

for change today

amongst

the people begging

for change today? Camera

From Safdargunj

to Hazrat Nizamuddin, this time

those who weren’t

privileged enough to forget,

chose to remember. Action

Everyone knew. The milkman who worked at the dairy in Khan Market had mentioned it to his wife over dinner, who narrated it to her sister over the phone the next day. Her sister was quick to bring it up when she dropped her dirty laundry off at the washerwoman’s. The washerwoman, during her rounds that day, spoke about it with everyone and that is how the engineer’s wife found out. Her children overheard their parents discussing it when the engineer returned from his job at the cable factory. During recess, the class teacher was shocked to find her sixth graders chatting about something so despicable, so vile. The class teacher rushed to the principal’s office leaving the class monitor in-charge. The school didn’t hand out newspapers that day. A loud hush-hush.

Swift, sound, and sans mercy

justice arrives in

the unexpected

the unanticipated

the unprecedented victory

of good over evil.

One justice is

enough justice

for the year.

There remains

little else to do now.

Now we must sleep, again.

A loud hush-hush. The celebrations soon disappeared and all that remained was silence. The silence revived the decay. The mufflers were shed, and the monkey caps were replaced by a sea of Gandhi topis . The December gave way to a similar January (albeit in a different state) which transitioned into a February of equal depravity (albeit in a different year) and then March, April, November. Not a month was spared. Delhi stood in disbelief. Trying to look outside while it peered within.

The smog thickened.

Pot of culture - Tamanna Bangthai

A pot is on the stove in every household;

Water, beans, salt and emotions-

Everything boiling in a quiet chaos.

A mother's hand stirs the mixture every now and then,

Before the meals, after the clothes.

It's always summer in the kitchen,

Even when the only brothers of the house

are dieing in a cold war,

Even if the air inside stinks of sweat and suppressed rebellion.

The water keeps boiling,

Flooding the pot into a graveyard

of beans and emotions.

Unshed blood trickles down brows,

cheeks and the salty vessel.

The clouds gather outside-

Is it going to flood there too?

Do I hate humans?- Neha Borah

Being a hostage to linguistic tapestry, I find no solace,

No ethereal link to withstand time's pace.

Amidst this intricacy, am I a misanthrope?

Advancing in defiance, where deviance finds scope.

Hunching beneath repetition's heavy trance,

A choice between assimilation or a unique stance.

If I choose to lock the door, must that label define?

When close quarters nauseate my core, is "misanthrope" mine?

Yet, am I just a product of life's circumstances,

Budding from stories, caught in existential branches?

Rising to meet reality, stories lived or heard,

In this duality of tales, my essence stirred.

Is "misanthrope" a label that I should embrace?

When I seek solace in my own chosen space,

Society's norms seek to encase and mold,

Must I be broken for not fitting the fold?

Distant, selective, a realm perhaps of frost,

Qualities that some deem forever lost.

They don't allure me as they should,

For perhaps I'm not meant to be understood.

So, decide what you will, label or let be,

Because in the end, it's my essence that's free.

Amidst this dance of existence, I find my place,

In the unique rhythm of life, my soul does embrace.

A Yearn for Tranquillity- Vaishali Rastogi Sahni

I see you demons, I know your place in my psyche,

For you breed on my shadows, my fears and my lies.

You, the dark clouds that blind my vision,

Blur the doors and ways to my intuition.

You bring the stormy nights when I give in,

To the inhumanness of my brutal instincts.

I see you demons, I see you clear,

So, I call my gods, as I seek release,

Consider my urge, my will to fight,

Please stay with me, and hold me tight.

Listen to my prayers and attend to my plea,

You make me hopeful, to set me free.

I churn and churn, my inner sea of thoughts,

Where I am going? Where have I gone?

Find me my gods, please lead me back,

To a place in my heart where true happiness unpacks.

I know these thoughts are an invisible trap,

But I am utterly caught up, fixated in its wrap.

So, I wait patiently and work with you my gods,

To heal myself from all that makes me rot.

The Saree's Perspective- Krutika Zambre

I

am just a Saree,

Yet I'm certain,

If Van Gogh ever saw me, he'd paint

The Starry Night

A little earlier,

But that is alright,

Because Raja Ravi Varma did.

You see,

When he beheld,

Liquid gold

Dripping down

From the tender hold

Of the Woman Holding the Fruit,

Tucking me on her shoulder,

ever so slightly

As if gently tucking her hair,

He too saw beauty bare.

Oh, I was there!

When Damayanti dissolved,

In the gentle tear,

Of her yearning life, wistful despair,

For the swan prophesied,

Nala dared to love and loved to dare.

I am just a Saree,

But the secret lies rare

That I was woven soft from moonlight threads

to touch you

how milk touches a baby's chin

I am for the skin,

What red créme is for lips,

Thumka is for hips,

Aamras is for sips.

I carry the fragrance of mogra and sweat,

Wilfully absorbing all your sins.

I am the map of your moles,

Body and soul,

Soul and body,

Body and soul,

Soul and body,

Body and soul.

Oh, I know I am just a Saree,

But let me tell you,

The best way to wear me,

Is to remove me–

When you will,

If you will,

As you will.

And though they tell you differently,

Sakhi! Don't let the old men fool you.

Let me be silk, let me be see through.

Sakhi! Don't let the old men fool you.

I'm not here to hide your waist, but to frame it,

Admire it.

Sakhi! Don't let the old men fool you.

Your world isn't confined to a paithini's six yards.

Sakhi! Don't let the old men fool you.

Turn your modesty into a house of cards.

Sakha! Don't let the old men fool you.

You,

Can wear me too.

Oh, I am well aware I am just a Saree,

Yet within my Kodava pleats, I bear the anger of Kaveri

I hold your desire, your fire, your innocence, your rage,

I am here to safeguard your curves; who turned me into your cage?

Oh, I was there,

As they clad your sweetheart silken flesh garb more and more.

They may tear and fold history,

But in my embroidery, I etch the score.

I was there,

In every crime you concealed cruel behind shut doors.

I was there,

Honoring every Dalit heroine's knees; their frayed silk forbidden to touch the floor.

I was there,

Absorbing the blood from her breasts as Nangeli fought.

I was there,

When even justice abandoned Draupadi, but I ..

I did not

But oh,

Oh, you denizens of the world, you heed not

real voices of real people with real history and hearts

I,

Well, I am just a Saree.

Into the night- -Shruti Nadagouda

The raven haired soared high into the zenith

Gulping the fiery spirit beneath

Unleashing a silvery blaze

Sweeping the lonely sparkling haze

Waching over the whispering willows

Drenching the teary trails with her bellows

Slashing the glittering mirage

With her silvery sword

Vanishing into the crowd of wispy guards....

काली बदली- Kartikeya Srivastava

आषाढ़ की भीगी रात,

काले बादल ठहरे है

अब, अँधेरे में

घाट की सीढ़ियों पर

खड़ा हु मै,

कुछ खास खोया नहीं है

अभी तक...

एक आईना बिछा है

पानी में, मेरे सामने

बहती लहरों से

उलझ रही है

तस्वीरें आईने की;

सूरज सोया है,

पहरे पर खड़ा

सब देख रहा है चाँद -

कही चित् चिताओ की

लपटों को उड़ते,

बहते पानी में विसर्जित

अस्थियो को उठते,

कही हवा में छिपकर

मैली अफवाहों को

किसी शहर-गाँव मचलते,

कहीं खोयी दिशाओ में

यौवन को ढलते,

किसी भीड़ में चलते

पैरो की आहट से

धड़कन की रफ़्तार बदलते,

कही बाढ़ में घर-मचान उजड़ते,

किसी रददी में

भीगे अखबार के पन्नों

पर पुराने वादों की

स्याह को धुलते |

ऐसे कई नज़ारो को घटते,

जैसे काली बदली के

जगह-अंजाम बदलते

और

(चारे में मछलियों सा)

फसते एक एक कर

आँखों में मेरी तुम्हारी।

Red- Vasudha Bachchan

Red

It was all red

The beautiful little dress with lace

The one that mama made me wear

Her stolen bindi on my face

Red

The color of youth, of love, of beauty, and care.

Red

It was all red

The roses in the small backyard

Where my brother and I used to play

Rudolph's nose on the Christmas card

Red

The color of lights, of water balloons, and Santa's sleigh.

Red

It was all red

The drops of blood in my underwear

The shame that I was taught to feel

The monthly pain I had to bear

Red

The color which now I couldn't reveal.

Red

It was all red

The clinking glasses of cabernet

And his cheeks as he took my hand

The color of my lips on Valentine's day

Red

The color of disapproval and a love that was damned.

Red

It was all red

The garland he put around my neck

And the fire that sealed my fate

My mother's embrace and my father's peck

Red

The color of weddings, of henna, and a strange new mate.

Red

It was all red

The stains I couldn't give the sheets

The proof a man's love demands

The anger and hatred that would never cease

Red

The color of character as this world understands.

Red

It was all red

The pain and the blood all worth the wait

Of the new life that suckled at my breast

A love so pure and free of hate

Red

The color of protection and a mother's nest.

Red

It was all red

The life that now begins to wane

The death that takes my red away

Which brings me both relief and pain

Red

The color that they made me need, the color that now they snatch away.

White

It is all white now

My life that I let others define

The choices that I could not make

The blame is no one else's but mine

White

The color of a life wasted away, full of regrets and bitter heartache.

Beauty of process ( A piece of conversation between a father and his daughter)- Sakshi Saraswati

You say I would grow even if all the things I never wanted are unfolding before me ,

And I am living here amidst this clown show.

How can this be easy?

How shall this pass?

My soft petal,be gentle with yourself ( He replied)

It's okay to feel the emotions you are having,

It's okay to pray for survival.

Do you remember how that strongest of trees fell off during the storm , how so many branches were lying down and the simple flower survived.(My Father asked me )

Miracle ,magic !!!( I exclaimed)

Might be one ,

It's not bad to have a place for miracles in our lives,

Be thankful to all the blessings you have in your "now",

Be thankful for the blessings you may not count presently,

We do encounter angels maybe sometimes in disguise.

But we were talking here about the "tree",I said

You know ,it's okay for the tree to fall or to loose some of its branches after fighting upto it's level best. (He continues....)

And for that ordinary yet beautiful flower to feel ebullient,

To enjoy the magic of it's patience afterall it has survived storm and heavy rains.

I asked -

Nobody would have expected so from that little flower.

The flower wasn't thinking about anyone actually (He replied)

The flower was focused on itself so much,

Having its own do or die battle

The struggle it was in that was far more important and was about its own existence,

Now that's greater than who admires it's beauty or who thought of its strength.

But the tree would have felt bad about its 'downfall'.....( I asked)

It had strong roots hard enough to bear the storm definately.

But the tree was once a little seed,

It has gone through a hard-core process , so many storms it has survived already,

It's okay to loose sometimes after giving your best try.

( My Father comforted me with his words)

The tree has got so much of experience,wisdom of survival are deeply written in its bark.

( I answered back )

But wait!

So many branches were fallen off ,it didn't looked like what it was before (I asked)

Why pondering so much? Everything gets healed with time,

( Papa just smiled while saying this)

The flower would have felt like a warrior

( I remarked)

Offcourse,

Why not?

The flower is allowed to feel its triumph and dance in the sunshine .

If pain comes in no bias format why shall victory be associated with few?

( He explained)

The flower is a warrior of its own battle,

Has got rights to cherish all the emotions .

( I smiled while my father said this)

Well you should not compare always,

See, everything falls into a place of perspective

Like the flower is so pretty .... everyone adores that.

But the plant,

The plant is in awe of the process.

When the little seed inhaled air for the first time ,it got a knock about the time it has to go through in order to flower....

"Complex process",for a simple and sweet flower.

"Patience" , the process teaches

(No shortcuts,I interrupted)

You can't skip , "The beauty of Process".

( And I .....

I smiled with a sense of relief when Papa said that)

Stare-gazing- V. Akshai Kumar

Staring at the sky watching the clouds move ,

I remember the night when I danced with you .

Staring at the sky watching the stars shine,

I remember the day when you said you were mine.

Staring at the lights

watching them glow up this town,

I remember how you stood by me when I fell down.

Staring at the trees watching them shake in the breeze ,

I remember how you’d hold up your sneeze .

Staring at the plane watching it fly across ,

I remember how the distance between us grew so fast.

Staring at the empty roads watching them cover up in shadows,

I remember how we became fierce foes.

Staring at the night and just watching it pass by ,

I still remember

your last goodbye.

The Stag- Rishabh Motwani

Nature’s not swift to answer this inquirer who’s interested,

it keeps him at bay;

gives just subtle responses—

to keep him from making the chase.

Especially when the season’s damned.

Like the rain,

with its clairvoyance and surreal timing—

it always falls in conjunction with my tears.

And, I ask,

“Why such antilogy, between state and responsibility?”

Why do I have to be bounteous in providing,

when I have the same deficiencies?

Why such dichotomy?

Why do I have to helm this power, of which I can never be a recipient?

I don’t even have to sniff to tell when something’s off,

I know exactly what your ears want to eavesdrop on,

even if you try your hardest not to let it on,

I know everything your mouth redacts, and everything to which your eyes give a pass.

I can emulate and even paint my heart the same blue,

to understand what you’re going through.

But what’s the use?

I’m not being ungrateful,

please don’t misconstrue…

It’s just distasteful—

when everyone’s blind to the parts of myself that I have to lose,

just for their breakthrough.

I am never able to find the way back to myself,

whenever I reacquaint someone with their truest self.

Will Graham—

will he find his way back to his own abode?

Doubtful,

as he jumped in too!

Heightened empathy didn’t brace him for the fall,

and now nobody knows his whereabouts.

He made about every chase,

all the while running from himself,

but nobody came for his save,

and now he’s probably slain by the same antlers that petrified him.

But God only knows.

What if I follow in his footsteps, unbeknownst?

What if I’m haunted by the same ghost?

Oh, cursed is my existence,

so, I wail.

My heart’s wretched from past layers,

it becomes more beautiful with every new wreckage,

Ugh!

What do I do with it?

Don’t know…

So, I wail and I wail.

Then it rained,

Nature’s way of numbing my pain…

but it won’t work today!

This blue is devilish,

it’ll consume me if somebody doesn’t come for my save,

the hero will fall again today.

And he indeed did;

I slipped as the thunder struck.

Useless adrenaline kicked in only after a moment too late,

I was out of luck!

Now I’m gasping while falling midair,

ironic how I can’t breathe even after overdosage,

air’s screaming in my ears louder than I am,

and my tears, my spit can no longer follow my mouth open.

And splat!

After the blackout,

I could still feel me,

faint yet prominent,

like the break of dawn after a moonless night.

I thought it was the end,

but somebody had saved me,

dragged me out of these mud pools of self-pity.

It was a Stag, golden.

And as I eyed it,

it paced forth and drew closer,

and it caressed me.

Stroked me gently and sent me to sleep with an inner vision.

I asked the angelic voice glowing inside my head,

”Why was I cursed?”

It replied with a sweetness unparalleled,

”My Love, it was for your own protection.”

And I regained from the comatose, half-baffled.

The Stag had left when I’d woken,

so, it took a while to make sense of the revelation.

But the first thing I saw after that certainly was a token—

a rare bloom flower,

that had got a new life in the soil of its dead past selves.

It marked the beginning,

the beginning of the rewriting.

I finally understood what I bring to the table,

I finally understood why I can't reduce my passion to the mere shedding of layers,

why I can’t limit my standards of devotion,

why I can’t depend on anyone—forever.

It's a curse meant for my protection, because it’s preeminent.

Ah!

Nature, you did your thing.

Composed my stellar new theme by playing on my heartstrings—

well worth the risk.

Now I can see wood for the trees,

and waves for the ocean.

Now I know where Graham was coming from and where he might’ve ended up…