A Lost Love- Hamdha K

My eyes are devoid of tears

My throat dry as sand

Screaming your name

Hoping it'd bring you back.

I know it won't

No matter how much I beg

How much I cry.

You won't appear beside me

Won't hold me

Won't tell me it'll be okay,

Like you did whenever I felt like crying.

Now I cry myself to sleep

Bathe in my tears

And dress in my sweat,

Wishing to see your delicate face

To say that I'm here for you

To beg you to give life a chance.

But I know it's all

A dream long gone.

You are not here,

And never will be.

If I could see you one last time

I would ask - no, wail -

'Was I not enough

To make you stay?'

Hearts Pledge- Ashwani Sharma

Hey women !

Mother of all,

See around,

Do you need anyone?

Does anyone love you?

Have you ever felt loved?

Stop pretending.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your patience has been tested,

You know your limit,

It doesn’t mean you break yourself.

Your emotions drained,

Stop yourself.

It is your weapon.

Don’t forget !

You are Goddess-of-Power(Kali)

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your motherhood challenged,

You are not a machine,

Realise your choice !

You can procreate.

It doesn’t mean you have to kill your dignity.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your body is not a material.

No one can touch you without your consent.

Even if it is a consent,

No one can take you for granted.

Don’t mould according to others' minds !

Your voice is not a radio,

No one can pause it.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your walking judged,

On the ramps, On the roads,

In the night and during the day

Your thoughts being manipulated,

Your words are suppressed,

Words from other mouth can't define you,

You define yourself.

Don’t forget !

You are Goddess-of-Knowledge(Saraswati)

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your smile wiped out,

You can't gaze a stranger,

Stop being misunderstood yourself,

Your tears are ignored,

Because society presume you meant to cry,

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your decision hijacked,

Your actions silenced,

Your reaction misunderstood,

Money doesn't drive you.

You drive the money,

Don’t forget !

You are Goddess-of-Money(Lakshmi).

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Where are you lost?

What are you waiting for?

Why are you doing this?

Do you have a reason?

You are free !

Wake up. Rise now.

You are the birth.

You give the birth.

You give wings to all,

You owe nothing to this world.

You give dreams, you give hope

You are giver,

Everything immerses in you,

It’s the voice of your Son.

Who can’t see you like this anymore !

Listen to his urge,

Time is you !

Wake up. Rise now.

Stay: A Memoir of Disillusionment-Annie- Ananya Nayak

Stay: A Memoir of Disillusionment- Annie

A seething dragon of vapour

Rising from the vermillion shadow cast on the coffee cup

I move my hand through the wisps almost in a stupor

I feel no warmth.

I wonder if we’re all just-

A sea of souls under a sky of osmosis

Taking in

Feelings and thoughts and opinions and suppressing our

projected psychosis

A sky full of stars or empty lights on a faded screen ?

A song during monsoon on a broken chair on which you lean

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

You grasp the warm coffee cup, the skies harken,

It’s raining but it’s like your ears haven’t awoken,

It’s muted, it's faded it’s

Time itself.

Drawing out the edges on a grey canvas-

The cup is streaming but there’s no heat, a net without prey.

No red no ember no blue no yellow in the sky only the stratus

A paler, emptier grey.

If I just stay-

In the fabric of diminishing sunsets-

Perhaps I could imagine the warmth as well, feel the sunsets’ beat,

one cloud of red

but is it warm or a collective matrix of pixel assets

of seamless grey indexed in crescents

of lies and promises to effigies of-

effigies of

rotating sunsets in the future past

slideshows of clouds

of promises that are grey and collapsing boxes of dreams

Taxes and credits and ever lit shrouds

Seas of people and waves of apologies,

Extended deadlines and taxes and

Promises.

Promises to yourself promises to imaginary effigies,

promises to sunsets that are grey,

But perhaps you could reach them if you stay?

Perhaps you could steal a vein of heat that you caught,

at that old soup deli that never changed-

That lived in a time and not in a place

That lived in memories from the future

Perhaps if you reversed the pace.

The flicker of a candle not too far away,

of time encroaching and closing

Shrinking, a box made of dreams, caging

Holding your life in a cacophony of strings,

Protesting the clean grey skies

The boxes, the futures, the sunsets that are canvases and lies

The repeat and scroll over and over and over

And over and over as long as you lean.

Lean on the chair with grey in your eyes

Do you want to stop leaning?

You spy a fabric behind the skies

Holding together the curtain of clouds

Is it cold and steely and soulless behind the digital skies ?

In that it wraps and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless

decisions that all lead to debits and credits

Checks and balances

Promises and receipts

and promises to effigies

To effigies of the future to uncertainties

tame uncertainties that are burning with ember within

neatly coloured boxes of grey

boxes that line up within the screen.

and if you just stay.

stay.

stay.

stay.

stay at your rectangular desk of teak wood that is so neatly grained

with your fourth journal that is slightly stained

with promises to effigies of the past

Promises to tears that were never cast

It feels cool and steely and neat and comfortable and

grey

and if you just stay

if you just stay-

In the fabric of diminishing sunsets

one cloud of red

but is it warm or a collective matrix of pixel assets

of seamless grey indexed in crescents

of lies and promises to effigies of-

effigies of

rotating sunsets in the future past

slideshows of clouds

of promises that are grey and collapsing boxes of dreams

Taxes and credits and ever lit shrouds

Of loans and checks and delis of soups that lean

that lean in to the chair at the teakwood desk

that ran perfect circles of grains within the stains

Of your journal that stared at

the greyed edges of the sunset clouds in disdain

A sea of souls under a sky of osmosis

Taking in

Feelings and thoughts and opinions and suppressing our

Own psychosis.

Seas of people and waves of apologies,

Extended deadlines and taxes and

Promises.

Promises to yourself promises to imaginary effigies,

promises to sunsets that are grey,

But perhaps you could reach them if you stay?

Perhaps you could steal a vein of heat that you caught,

at that old soup deli that never changed-

That lived in a time and not in a place

That lived in memories from the future

Perhaps if you reversed the pace.

The flicker of a candle not too far away

of time encroaching and closing

Shrinking, a box made of dreams, caging

and if you just stay.

Holding your life in a cacophony of strings,

Protesting the clean grey skies

The boxes, the futures, the sunsets that are canvases and lies

The repeat and scroll over and over and over

And over and over as long as you lean

and if you just stay

stay.

stay.

stay.

In that it wraps and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless-

decisions that all lead to debits and credits

Checks and balances

Promises and receipts

and promises to effigies

To effigies of the future to uncertainties

tame uncertainties that are burning with ember within

neatly coloured boxes of grey

boxes that line up within the screen.

just stay

stay at your rectangular desk of teak wood that is so neatly grained

with your fourth journal that is slightly stained

with promises to effigies of the past

Promises to tears that were never cast

It feels cool and steely and neat and comfortable and

grey

and if you just stay

stay and watch the grey filled reality

of a soup deli in the rain of

Taxes and

Credits and boxes of dreams that promise you effigies

Promise you effigies that you can promise to

that stay in a time not in a place

away from a time when

you didn’t stop your slowing pace.

of-

blinding hexadecimals

Screeching pixels that promise you

Incremental extensions in cardinals

that tick away at your credits

And debits and taxes and

and

Flowers that are sketches of grey and not real and

Sunflowers in a coffee cup gone cold under

On top of my teakwood desk with tears falling

On journals that write about the clouds asunder

cloud below bellowing

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay Annie

stay within the leaning chair

and make your promises to effigies and credit your taxes to

Sliding clouds that roll to uncertain futures

That colour crimson scribbles around

skyscrapers and windowless fixtures

Fixtures that ~inthatit~ that wrap and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless

blinding hexadecimals

Screeching pixels that promise you

Incremental extensions in cardinals

Sliding clouds that roll to uncertain futures

That colour crimson and

Fixtures that ~inthatit~ that wrap and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless-

cloud below bellowing

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay Ananya

slideshows of moving screens and I

What if i just leaned in

[And tore the slide show]

the sky perhaps it’s not real perhaps

the incremental effigies are clouds pre-recorded

future memories reeled in a ordered

balance sheet of choices

And if if i could just

not let the flicker i caught slip between the nuances

and maybe the cup, it can crack a bit and the journal can turn a page

and the desk is fibrous not just a entry stage-

and if i close my eyes I can see the red, true red not

an hexadecimal array of lies

.. .

.

.

Of balance sheets and credits and debits and boxes of dreams pre-recorded cages of effigies of delis that promise you sunsets not grey

That perfectly wrappppppp ararouroundround-

Stay.

Stay stay oh won’t you stay

Stay and look at the violet sunset

Albeit manufactured albeit a default asset

won’t you stay, Annie, won’t you stay, and clear your debits and credits?

the cup could be warm if i tell you i saw steam

That I saw the fog on the window that i screamed

When i touched the handle because it was too hot

It really was red believe me and-

To Annie:

Stay within the sand

I’ll erase your checks and balances.

I’ll erase your pre-recorded dreams

I’ll erase your disappointment at the red

hey look at the blue dusklight and how it gleams ?

could you take your broken chair

And once again lean ?

lean on your teakwood desk chair (edited)

take on the boxes of collapsing dreams and checks and balances and I’ll change the sunset for you

From red to violet to orange to blue

And I’ll add a deli at every subway and you’ll see at least one sunbird coming from the salty waters and

Every now and then I’ll give you a glimpse of a steel fixture that staggers

In this paradise of convoluted grey

i will promise you effigies that you can promise to

in a draped out sunset of blue and grey in

If you don't

Question why they are grey

I’ll manufacture a steam draft for you, Annie

from your cup if you so wish

if you so wish it to feel the ink in the line.

I’ll draw it for you

i will draw in the outlines and stitch the edges with glue

and wrap around the

Sliding clouds that roll to uncertain futures

That colour crimson and

Fixtures that ~inthatit~ that wrap and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless-

If you could just take me at my word

I’ll make the saffron seem real

and Annie you could you could ignore the steel

what can I not give you in this effigy of promises

Of futures and pasts and credits and balances

Screeching pixels that promise you

stay and watch the grey filled reality

Sunflowers in a coffee cup gone cold under

decisions that all lead to debits and credits

Checks and balances

Promises and receipts

and promises to effigies

To effigies of the future to uncertainties

tame uncertain-

I’ll write you a world here within the grey lines, Ananya

first i could write you:

A sky full of stars or a empty lights on a faded screen ?

A song during monsoon on a broken chair on which you lean

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

and violet sunsets and wedding feasts

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

The sound of cicadas a cruise on the beach

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

A million little butterflies flying over a sea of orchids

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

a travel blog a parfait of kiwis and mangoes

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

A June wedding that you always wanted with the tulips all picked

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

maybe a song that made you cry umm i could see your lover standing by and

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

By the rose gardens and looking into your eyes

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the desk that is broken.

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the sunset that is broken.

broken broken broken chairs and assets of unresolved glitches ?

and hexadecimal arrays and i can’t control the ASCII that seeps from my pen at my journal that sits on the teakwood desk

violet sunset clouds that gleam with their stitches

the stitches in plain disarray, staring

I always knew there were stitches in the skies

I always held the cup that could not give me

warmth but only steam drawings

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the sunset that is broken.

अपराजिता- Meena Khan

अपराजिता

ये फौज है, हमारी जान है, हमारी शान है। जब खबर मिली वो नहीं रहे, हमारी तो दुनिया उजड़ गयी ,पाँव तले जमीन खिसक गई, जीवन व्यर्थ सा लगने लगा। खुद को सँभालना मुश्किल हो गया . अंतिम विदाई आँसुओ से नहीं, गर्व से देना, उनका ये कहना सच हो गया।

एक फैसला और आज हो गया, उनकी वर्दी को अपना जिस्म बना लूँगी, व्यर्थ न जाये ये बलिदान' उनकी जगह को अब मैं भरूँगी। छोड़ के श्रृंगार, अब वर्दी का श्रृंगार मैं करूँगी,

बहु से बेटी बन कर फौज में, मैं लडुगी । फैसला ये सुन सब दंग रह गये, कैसे करोगी ? तुम्हारे बस का नहीं है। तुमने तो होश खो दिये। फर्क नहीं पड़ा, तिरंगे में लिपटा शरीर जो आपका था, बस एक फोन घुमाया और ये ऐलान कर दिया- मैं सेवा में आना चाहती हूँ। वहाँ से सकारात्मक रुख पाकर, मनोबल बढ़ गया,

तैयारियां शुरु करने लगी मैं, जंग के लिये फौलाद बनने लगी मैं, कमज़ोर के लिये प्रेरणा बनने लगी मैं, वर्दी पहन उनके करीब रहने लगी हूँ मैं जमाने से लड़कर खुद खड़ी हूँ मैं, जो कहते थे तुमसे न हो पायेगा अब तो कहने लगे तुमसे ही हो पायेगा, शब्द बदलने लगी हूँ मैं । "लाचारी बेबसी से गर्व का जीवन जीने लगी मैं, अपने हीरो जैसा बनने लगी मैं, सेना का अहसास बच्चों को देनी लगी हूँ मैं। अपनी सौतन को खुद पहनने लगी हूँ मैं, शहीद विधवा से लेडी कैडेट बनने लगी हूँ मैं। कड़ी ट्रेनिंग से निखरने लगी हूँ मैं, आपके साथ होने का अहसास करने लगी हूँ मैं। एक फौजी की पत्नी हूँ मैं, हर परिस्थिति का सामना करने लगी हूँ मैं, देश के लिये बार-बार प्राण दे सकती हूँ मैं, प्रेम को अलग पहचान देती हूँ मैं।

ऐसा कदम उठाकर, हज़ारों बेबसों को बल देती हूँ मैं, शहादत को आपकी, एक और फौज देती हूँ मैं एक गौरवशाली इतिहास की साक्षी बनती हूँ मैं, मैं कुछ भी नहीं, ये सब आपकी देन है, प्रेम आज भी आपसे बहुत बहुत करती हूँ मैं, और अपनी अंतिम साँस तक करती रहूँगी मैं..

I Think I Know Why People Die- Tanisha L N

It's midnight, all lies, all venom, all pity rises to life again,

Somebody has crossed all boundaries of sanity;

Somebody's been labelled 'absurd' again,

Somebody's the fresh tragedy.

They chose to vanish without a trace, without a goodbye;

But I think, I know why people die.

Somewhere beyond the warmth, peace and safe doors of one's abode,

Lies a broken shell of a woman, flesh torn and soul dismangled;

Someone gasping for breath, wanting to explode,

Their life a Web of deceit, hope a distant dream, and their core a meaningless tangle.

No arms to run into, none their eyes can meet, nobody heard their cry,

Sometimes, even when just on the inside, I think I know why people die.

Somewhere hums somebody's inner child,

the beloved, aspiration embodied,

Self, lost in the chaos, beaming eyes, their voice now a crushed rattle.

Heaving shoulders now life-less moulders,

their innocence drugged,

A graveyard of numbing pain, lost hope

and broken dreams is what's left of their battle.

I know what, between life and violent guitar strings lie,

I think I know why people die.

Somewhere somebody's years of penance flows down their cheek,

Despair masked with delicious fragrance,

shadows dealt with, with angry utensils and a knife.

Eyes of ambition now with the offsprings' burdens reek,

Their identity? Somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, somebody's wife.

When beings shudder into fragile pieces and they raise a question "why?",

I think I know why people die.

Somewhere when the city lies asleep, breathes into his pillow a man,

His entire existence, a string of unsolicited advice;

All self replaced with blame, authority and in times of need, " Be a man!"

His chest, a creeping hollow, his body a mere device.

When power is validated and hidden remains his deep sigh,

I think we know why people die.

Between daydreams of victory and dangling onto cords of hope,

I think we've all been there, done that, many a times.

Between achievements we desperately cling to and vulnerability we deny,

I think we know why we did; All of us died.

Our Bhagwad Geeta- Manvi Chaudhary

Our Bhagwad Geeta

In the midst of darkness when we seem to become completely blind,

a glimpse of Krishna then gives a wink of sparkling light saying, My Child! why do you whine?

He is there for his devotees everytime,

Regardless of the fact whether they call him or not in their struggling times.

The medium which paves the way to his lotus feet divine,

is called as devotion which is just like a beautiful sunshine.

Knowledge which vividly speaks about how to start,

is called as Bhagwad Geeta which teaches the path we need to embark.

An instructional manual on art of living and dying,

it’s a perfect amalgamation of questions need to be answered in a line.

Imparting the pearls of right cognition of what to do and what not to do,

completely practical and depicts easy steps to go with the flow.

Arjuna gives an example of all possible difficult situations where we cant be fine,

and Krishna is the rescuer for all these situations that need to be reinclined.

With 18 chapters and 700 shlokas its not just a book, but a ticket to reach Goloka

the permanent abode of Krishna which harbours one of the most precious biota.

Supersafe and comfortable devotees are there in the hands of Krishna’s shine,

where they are away from sorrows of this material world’s wine.

It gives the glimpse of importance of surrendering to god which renders responsibility unto the hands of god,

and also depicts the science of soul with an understanding of joys and sorrows to be the same cup of bowl.

Main teaching it imparts is the knowledge of Karmayoga,

which simply means to work happily without expecting the results of actions we wear as a toga.

Teaching the importance of spiritual guide in our lives it encourages to follow our mentors life,

proclaiming the significance of devotion in one’s life it shows how it serves as a bridge to burn our karmas to make our life a delight.

Parading the right knowledge of modes of goodness, ignorance and passion it gives idea about mood swings and stubborn nature of individuals in complete session,

giving the root cause of anger to be profound attachments, it beautifully explains every aspect of life in a beautiful angle.

How to be healthy and how to be happy all knowledge lies in Bhagwad Geeta of your personal copy,

What is god and what are his forms all are explained on this divine platform.

Need of hour is to awaken our mind,

To extend our hands to these ancient scriptures of God’s regime.

Experiment and Experience are the keywords if anyone wants to dive into the spiritual world,

Trust me the most precious gem will then instantly be added to our lives like to a lion’s den.

Ode to Twenties!- Esha Mahendra

In dawn of a new decade,

no more a teen with small steps in adulthood.

Surviving the university grade,

and fantasizing the unlikelihood.

Lots of fellows with close knits,

yet live through by oneself.

Having fun even in titbits,

Ready to face life ourself.

Anxious for coming times.

yet so lively and easy-going.

Mostly off your hands aligns,

Thinking, paging and reviving.

Back and forth in action,

reach bottomline to the peak.

Looking for new interaction,

being in two minds for help to seek.

loving the new ongoing streak,

on contrary, wishing it to be still.

The quarter-life-crisis to speak,

mostly in midst of chill.

Over episodes of sad, tired and ill,

a cultured human sustains.

Achievements become ladder with thrill,

Making up mind in rains.

The adventures, the heartaches,

the failures, the success .

Miles to go whatsoever overtakes,

Gunshot of Decade here to bless.

Cosmic Reverie : Inside the Human- Yash Lodi Rajput

Lines on palm doesn't reflect the reality,

At this moment, I have a thought.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

You don't know who you are;

I don't know who I am.

This world is just an illusion,

What happens is just a game.

What is your aim in life?

Why are you searching for fame?

No one is satisfied here!

Everyone's situation is just the same.

Everyone is caught up in senses,

Everyone love sense a lot.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

What can be the definition of love?

Have you ever seen the fourteenth moon?

Did you ever had time to meet?

Or you always said l'd see you soon.

Have you ever welcomed the rising sun that captivates your mind?

Have you ever bid farewell to the sunset?

Did you met them after putting away the umbrella?

The rain drops comes from so far only to get you wet.

Human nature is to love, and this love exists in your heart,

It doesn't care whether you have anything or not.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

Everything on Earth, happens for an important reason,

So don't afraid and face it like a lion,

Whether it's a wonderful event or even an accident.

Never give up at all, no matter what the condition.

Whoever has a weaker position than you,

In front of them, always be kind.

Twice a day, Even a broken clock shows the correct time.

No one is wasted here, keep my advice in your mind.

There is no limit to human desires,

How will it fill? As it's not a pot.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

Learning not to dislike the city I live in- Aishwarya Ganapathy

What this poem is about?

As a child, born and bought up in Delhi, I struggled a lot to identify myself towards a particular culture. Whenever I moved to my parent's hometown down south to Tamil Nadu, I was not South Indian enough and of course, my slips in Hindi and my different and more vibrant cuisine, often led to offensive and weird questions in my own so called friend circle.

Anyway, as my favorite poet says "When you have a problem as a poet, you write, to understand if not solve"

This poem came to me as my acceptance towards who I am and where I belong as I struggled during COVID to fit-in in Chennai.

This poem is hence, titled, "Learning not to dislike the city I live in- an ode to Chennai"

Here it goes!

Poem:

This city isn't tangy except for the "Sambaar". Yes its sambaar and not sambur.

Anyway where was I?

This city isn't tangy except for the "Sambaar" and you cannot particularly find an exquisite street food.

Though not all the streets are the same. And, sure the weather and the rickshawaalas aren't mostly (please mind me) nice.

If you decide to live at my sister's place, there will always be a howl of a man that makes me want to shut my ears. Until I understand with grace that he is living on a food I will always despise eating.

There will always be too much noise and people & too many vulgar jargons to comprehend. And, Oh! The Whispers! and gasps!! at lady senorita with a crop top and even a mere jean.

Because what you don't understand is easier to be judged.

But the city..., also holds at each door

a woman

a man

a child

who bleed red when cut.

The only difference being the cardamom rich aroma at your house has been replaced by the unmatched fragrance of "filter coffee".

The city holds light and small bits of life in its proud and swollen heritage that takes kindness to the backseat sometimes.

This city is surely beautiful, exactly and differently, from Delhi, in all of its sunrises, sunsets and even moonsets.

I know we all are different and we are supposed to be. However, despite our unmatched geography, history and culture, I want you to remember that there is one thing common across all of Indian and us i.e.

Both light and darkness.

~Aishwarya

Of living and dying and hoping to be saved- Sumedha Rastogi

Of living and dying and hoping to be saved-

I don't wanna die

I actually don't.

On the contrary, I want to live

And I will live.

I'll live for the things I want to do and haven't done yet

I'll live to feel the sand under my feet and the sea crashing against me

I'll live to feel the snow between my fingers

I'll live to see the cherry blossoms blooming and the autumn leaves falling.

And I'll live for the books sitting atop my shelves and the stories I've not heard yet.

I'll live.....

I-I..want to live.

But sometimes, sometimes it doesn't feel that way.

Sometimes, I just wanna throw everything away

And at 3 in the morning, my thoughts don't exactly stay at bay.

They come and they come and threaten to never leave

Till it all starts to blend together, the good and the bad, my success and my failures

Till the house that I live in doesn't feel like my home.

And I try to cry out for help but it feels like I'm at the bottom of the sea

Where the pressure is more than 1000 times the normal

And I can't speak because it's crushing me but I hold on,

I hold on to the last threads of sanity and wait

Till either the sea inside me crushes me whole or the sun outside rises and gives me hope.

BIGOTRY- SARANG GUJAR

It began with a contrast.

A contrast painted by wretched souls.

The charmers swayed the flames of hate and rekindled the latent spate.

Their sleight of words fanned the ignited hell.

It spread like a swarm of locusts.

Swallowed everything that came in its way.

And with impunity, they paraded their naked hate.

Sad, it created a chasm.

A chasm to be filled with dead souls.

Death is Green- Ashima Bunny

A green witch in your fables

Always escaped

Brought nothing but death

I remember running to bed

Before it struck ten

"One, two, three and green,

You will turn into a witch"

It's midnight,

Time for my potion, a concoction

For my health

"One, two, three and green,

You will turn into a witch"

What is green?

It is grassy

It is mossy

It is muddy

It is slippery

It's the earth and my body

It shines

It devours

"One, two, three and green,

You will turn into a witch"

Am I sleeping? Am I dead?

It is withering

It is lost

Green to brown, to black, to dust

An aching lullaby, ebbing away

From skin to my bones

It's your fables versus my yearning

Like leaves versus autumn

A devil and a goddess

A death, turning green

I always behaved, I hope I was a good protege

"One, two, three and green,

The witch is coming"

This green

Is creeper

A dart left to kill

A poisoned wound

It's midnight,

Time for my potion, a concoction

For my health

Green, witch and death.

The Scribbled Home-Aarushi Kapoor

Radha scribbled on the walls every time

Amma called her ‘paraya'.

So, this time she wrote

‘no milk for Radha' as Amma

snatched the glass from Radha

and gave it to Raghu.

During afternoon meals,

Radha would question

Amma about the rules

of fractions she learned from

Master ji in her maths class

and scribbled on the red brick wall

‘1/4th for Radha, 3/4th for Raghu' as

Amma divided the rotis.

When Baba's tea stall went bust,

Radha was made to untie her red ribbons

and was forced out of school.

All day she would climb the mulberry trees with Malti

and at night she would scribble ‘no school for Radha'

on the same wall

while writing an essay on

girl's education for Raghu's homework.

Few years later when Baba had no money to

fight hunger, he married Radha off to a stranger

with her hair tied up

in red school ribbons.

Later, on her wedding night her mother-in-law

got almond milk for her son and

Radha scribbled ‘no milk for Radha’

Every night Radha stayed awake watching the stars and whispers

Amma's last words, “ this is not your home" and

would think of her name scribbled all over the walls of the

home.

Her home with her name, which she could never claim.

The fragrance of love- Jessinda Mathew

Have you ever smelled love??

Do you know the fragrance of love?

Is it strong or is it light?

Does it stay or does it go?

I smelled it the day the little boy pulled my dress

to show me a puppy who was tired after a race

I was looking at the puppy faces..turn by turn

The fragrance was same and was filled with love!

I smelled it again, in a mother’s eye

when she allowed her child to fly

It had traces of fear but moments of pride

It was of course love at first sight!

Can I miss it when the father gives off his daughter?

The fragrance of love spreads deep and wide

It gives strength to both for the days to come

You try to hide the emotions.. but the fragrance stays strong!

The family you are part of ; the people you are close to

Near or far, they stick together like a glue

the close clan who stands by even after a fight

The fragrance of love keeps all of us together and tight

I can smell the fragrance when I am with my friends

Some a little light and some a little strong

But I need them at each moment.. lifelong

I preserve the fragrance for a lousy rainy day!

How was I miss the fragrance in my office..

The fragrance spread in between the works..

A little talk and a big laughter spill over the papers

The lunch room takes the fragrance to a different level.

Enjoy each moment and halt to smell

The fragrance that will make you dwell

Spread you own fragrance far and near

Take a little of mine before I go afar!

An Immigrant’s Dilemma- Shubham Dayal

My birthplace, India, is where the mother in flesh and bones is revered as a God, while the Motherland is hoisted on a pedestal higher than the almighty God.

I was born in a land that is diverse, colorful, and enriched with cultural ethos and values.

I spent the first half of my life in a country that teaches equality and justice for all, the practice of which may be contested by some.

I was born where nature's bounty is considered a blessing, and sharing a morsel is an essential humanitarian element.

Indeed, my birthplace deserves the title of my Motherland, as it taught me about humanity in its finest form.

A decade ago, I landed as an immigrant in a place with which nothing ever matched; At first sight, time raced past in the United States, forcing me to think whether this country ever stops and introspects it's unconventional self.

The concept of God was different; the meaning of life and culture all seemed a lopsided comparison.

This artificial abode did not carry the values my Motherland imbibed in me.

As time passed, I would remember my Motherland thinking of the joys and the frolic I enjoyed there. However, gradually I realized that this foreign land also listened to my anger and complaints and paid heed to the angst within me without asking for favors in return.

As days, months, and years passed, the remembrance of my Motherland started to flay, and the love for the promised land slowly but cautiously enveloped my mind and soul.

This land allowed me to vent and express, to challenge and experiment. Just like my “Janmabhoomi”, this “Karmabhoomi” of mine is about love and love alone. Like any other mother, she forgives, forgets, protects, and provides, sometimes unintentionally failing, yet trying at all times to love her children alike.

Therefore, I ask myself, will it be callous on my part to redefine the home where my heart resides?

Shall I worship the one who nurtured love within or the one who guided me to experience all possible emotions in an entire human life?

Will it be blasphemous if I address her as my new Motherland? Perhaps, I could have two mothers and have the best of both.

Am I the only one, or is every immigrant like me torn between the birth and the guardian Mother?

As She Never Flew Before- Aditi Srivastava

She lies lost with her injured wings, on the shore of the vast sea and rides the waves alone,

When along comes the dolphin to show her the way back home;

She holds on to his fins, gentle to the most affectionate touch as she nestled around him,

His eyes could not hide the glee of the reassurance,

And for now he knew she had too much;

He leads her through the water towards the rising sun,

Opening for her all the horizons of hope and faith as before there were none,

Towards her days of freedom from where she can see through the glimpses of the beautiful run;

He is a protector who protected her from the rough waves and guided her through the darkness,

He is a friend who healed her broken wings and kissed her maybe which is not a goodbye,

As he knew for once that if was a hope that she needed as her eyes never have shined this bright;

For now it is time for her to mend her wings,

As she never was this happy to take a flight back home with the most beautiful memories to cling.

Metamorphosis- Sarthak Chaturvedi

From what I have been told

by movies, people, and texts,

a person becomes a star

once they are dead

and I have laughed it off every single time,

thinking fables- are meant to make children laugh,

to make them smile,

to be taken as lightly

as the weight of the emptiness between me and them.

After all, how could a person

who dangled a little, slowly walking,

move so far away this quick.

Thinking now, everything that's growing or dead,

was once a child with the softest skin;

like Dadi, like me.

And it hits me, the point of these fables.

As a child, I could be an actor,

pretending to fall asleep to get carried.

A doctor, healing with kisses.

A singer, because she complimented me.

And lately, I have not known what I am,

much less a hundred things in my entirety.

It's fascinating,

I wonder if this is my inheritance.

Fascination;

the point of the stories.

After all, I had never wanted to know

before her hands felt cold,

all the things she had ever been.

I remember her saying,

that her room initially had mud walls

as smooth as her skin was then.

Every time we make a decision,

we lose a choice to make,

we lose the second-best experiences,

and in disposing of anxiety,

a sliver of fascination is traded

with something stable, something concrete,

and a mark appears on the person's skin.

Perhaps, grown of age and works,

blemishes, hardening, a scar

from jumping off a ridge

out of curiosity.

My father mentioned,

He wanted to put an AC in our room,

at the family house in the village,

located directly above Dadi's room

whose every corner, freshly painted,

is now made entirely of concrete.

In the last stage,

of the soft, uncertain skin of the child

come wrinkles.

Right when the person has hardened,

inside and out,

The wrinkles become seemingly infinite,

like the infinity of the stars

and all of a sudden, instantaneously,

the heart and the skin,

both become soft, like a child again.

That should have been my first hint,

that at any moment,

a person is capable

Of becoming anything.

The second, a practical example,

when we burnt her body,

and it disappeared into a form

which I could barely take in with my eyes

but can not yet realize,

to be one with the Ganges,

to breathe as one with the Gods

she devoted herself to.

Maybe giving up a certain amount of fascination

is necessary to gain an understanding of realizations.

56 hours now, I haven't laughed or cried at the movies,

haven't looked at the cosmos with curiosity or certainty,

but something more than wishful thinking,

as against all my beliefs

the stars, despite intent stares

do not seem to be flickering,

as it feels, they have flickered away.

I suppose,

fascination and aspiration are unknown kin

who leave an inheritance for the other

on death.

And in a moment of comprehension

of the stagnant beauty of ever-changing infinity,

they become stars as well.

As I lay on the Earth of our village,

where she had spent a large chunk of her life

without me,

I give the sky the fondest look,

realizing that I am just as far from the stars

as they are from me.

But I try my best to find her,

I know she has with her sharp senses.

Yet I do not wish she exists as a star

but materializes in its belly.

An instance,

in the all-encompassing probabilities

and combinations of elements,

found in endless nuclear reactions.

For she must be reborn like her beliefs,

and I must not allow her loneliness.

It all becomes a possibility

in the boundless stretch of space,

after all, are we, like all,

not made of the same matter

as that of the stars?

As it turns out,

the space between things

is not empty, but rather,

filled with pieces of people, wishes, prayers, hate, affection.

And as my back sinks further into the soil,

I stretch my arms upward,

reaching for the sky,

for things that one might never reach

given a million lifetimes.

But I feel a pilot's rush,

I understand now,

the sky also looks up to me,

that when the longing to embrace

each other is enough,

access to the sky,

becomes a simple matter of admiration.

A colorful nightmare- Urvi Agrawal

One day, he messaged her

Out of the blue.

Her heart skipped a beat,

Her face turned red with love.

He turned her life bright

As yellow as the sun.

She got her hopes up

This was a positive sign

They decided to dance

Till the next day arrived.

She put on a new dress

Studded with purple emeralds,

That made her feel like a queen.

Puffed her face,

The pinkish hue lit up her room

Strapping on her new heels,

She went out to dance

Under the moon.

The blackness of the night couldn’t deter her

From meeting her love

Excited and elated

She waited till he arrived

Upon seeing him,

Her face turned white

For in her sight,

There was an evil

Waiting to capture,

Devour her soul

She wailed and shrieked

Tried to run away

The straps of her heels

Broke away

As she squirmed on the ground

Fear grappled her

She heard distant steps

She thought this was the end.

She looked up at the sky

The silvery moon said:

Stand up and fight!

This was not the end.

She reached out and grabbed the shards

Crystal clear they were

Soon they turned red.

A gold light emerged from the sky

Wanting her to take to another place

It was not my fault, she said

Of course, it was, said the light.

It was you who went out at night.

Fighting a lost battle

The universe seemed so unfair

She just wanted to wake up

From this nightmare.

If Repentance were a Poem, Would the Planet Go Deaf?- Meharpreet Gandhi

When I die

Bury me under the soils,

Where I can whisper healing to the land,

For I've sinned;

I am guilty of having myself intact,

When what keeps me intact, suffers.

Lay me to the ground,

For I've lied on bitter grounds.

Engrave the word 'honesty’ on my skin,

I deserve such taunts.

The scars I leave on earth

I'll whisper poems for their healing,

In prostration, asking for forgiveness.

Crying tears, I promise, only to water

All the hopes that by err found ropes,

For a potential suicide,

But bury me only where the sun shines brighter,

Than the glittering parts my greed swallowed,

To live happily, only for me.

For not having been able to do,

What I should have.

Repentance, Guilt, Shame.

When I die, ask me

if being alive was all that it took to be dead?

There will be enough said.

Mind you, I won't fill in gaps,

Only silence can answer the hypocrisy.

Dead barren land of mysterious wonder.

You'll know when the sun nurtures,

All parts of me, planting a quite, quiet truth.

So, I don't want to say

Let the rivers run,

I want to say,

bury me beside a stagnant one.

So I know it won't wash away my repentance,

I want to create distance.

Once my heart mends,

I'll stitch you rivers and skies and land

Its fish, birds and sand.

Touch the trunk of me or hands,

Besides flowers and fruits, It bears some simple truth

Can you feel the aura?

Reminiscing and remaining Dead.

So, Send flowers to my grave

And I'll whisper them poems.

Keep me awake,

sinking in soils and drowning in oceans,

And remember to ask me,

If being alive was all that it took to be dead?

Cold- Disha P Dinesan

Cold.

I feel cold.

Your eyes that look at me are cold,

Devoid any emotions.

Where did the ocean-deep eyes go,

That I fell for.

I look back into those soulless pits,

Feel myself shiver.

Cold.

I feel cold.

As I bleed

Through the wounds your dagger-like words inflicted on me.

Where did the warm words that held me when I hurt go?

I lay on the ground,

The bleeding doesn't stop,

Feel myself shiver.

Cold.

I feel cold.

I am scared.

The world around me doesn't care and never cared.

But you, I thought you would care when I fell.

Where did those arms that held me when the world threw me at the floor go?

I hug myself

Missing the warmth,

Feel myself shiver.

The cold has just grown

Become ice blocks that shut me out.

I am not sure.

Did you shut me out,

Or did I shut myself out?

But I do not want to cry

I can't breathe

But I do not want to show you what you wish to see

My defeat.

But they fell,

The tears of,

Destruction and anger and betrayal

And I feel the ice melt

As I feel the emotions built up in me melt away.

The ice cracks,

And I see the daylight through the crack

I crack it wider with the knives you threw at me

I feel the warmth that you took away from me

I feel the soul that you stole from me

I see myself

And I realise

I should have let myself out sooner.