"A Virago, an Amazon"- Sneha Dubey

As I come from school, she opens the door, her eyes so puffy

Her trembling hands take my bag, is she beaten absurdly?

She smiles at me, her so usual reassuring smile...

Seven years and now, she's living like a hostile.

They lock me in, she screams and screams,

It's a game they tell, am aware of their schemes!

A mistake she does, they burn her wrist

She tries and tries, everything unnoticed

One year, I broke a glass, they threw my cars

She brought new, they burned her with cigars.

She's a burden, so is her daughter,

We are the toys, the answer to their anger!

A loss in their business, she gets tortured;

Begging for food, her life is imprisoned.

Sacrifices she make, for a dream of mine

She stands up for me, they break her spine!

A happy family for others, love and care they present,

Women they respect, that's such a mordant!

Red marks and blue marks, she calls it pretty makeup,

A bottle with a cross, she calls it cough syrup.

An advertisement I saw, the bottle kills the person

Scared am I, is she going for self destruction?

Hurriedly I rush, the bottle I seize,

Crying and embracing, I bring her to ease...

Her head on my lap, I see her scars,

They're not humans, these demon avatars!

Courage and pain, let's call the cops

I take the phone, her jaw drops!

She wipes her tears, her usual reassuring smile...

"Beta, I'm fine, this is my lifestyle"

Where shall we go? Whom shall we express?

Who will support us, when our own family is a mess!

Not our family, they are enemies,

Heart yet heartless, they snatch my candies.

I shriek and shriek, she holds my hands

Here he comes, understanding our plans.

His belt aimed at me, his eyes filled with rage,

She stands tall, a spark of courage!

Her hair he drags, I dial the number,

She pushes him, a kick in his bladder.

Freedom we have, them behind cellars

Months and years, a victory over monsters!

Quiet you remain, the more they suppress

Stand up for yourself, that's a success.

A daughter and a mother, unbreakable you are

A woman, a girl, you're a superstar !

Hands they lift, break them and be brave, And that's the message "Sneha" gave!

If she is a Goddess, she can be a lady don, Not weak but she's a Virago, she is an Amazon!

The Perseverance - Swapnil Bhardwaj

The Perseverance

He perspired hard to plough,

the winds weren't helping, the rains weren't coming,

but he persisted not to bow.

Trying to farm impossible in the red,

flexing, pushing in profuse sweat.

The Land bore shrubs and thorn,

as if saying to him – ‘please go away son, your efforts will not born’.

With limited means he worked expeditiously,

using the spade and his hands, he dug the red judiciously.

He buried the grain and aerated the red,

trying to gain the moisture.

Ploughing under the burning sun,

he wasn't afraid to manufacture.

Carrying his bread - he walked from far home,

punctual to fields at dawn, he ploughed till gloam.

Sitting under the boabab for rest and shelter,

his aim was to grow unimaginable from the loam.

Wrinkled face mother earth meant the drought was prevalent.

Hand on the forehead, he looked for hope.

Tired, helpless, worried for his family,

without bread and water in future, how would they cope?

He gradually became weak and ill,

his sight turned bleak, and future seemed still.

His steps were shaky, the skin turned dry,

he thought of the family and decided to try,

for he could not see the children suffer, nor let his cattle die.

Remembering wealthy days, he himself thought and tell,

"So what if I am not nabob, I will live well."

He plunged himself again in the barren,

buried the grain and aerated the red,

trying to gain the moisture.

Ploughing under the burning sun, gave his all in this adventure.

With lost hope he looked down the dried well,

returning from thirsty fields, he felt the moist smell.

stood around the red, stretching his hands far wide,

the Rain God listened, to the efforts he tried.

He sat under the boabab and watched the thirsty fields,

drinking and accepting gracefully, the Land realized he was a man of steel.

Speaking to the Rain, speaking to the Land - he thought and tell,

"so what if I am not nabob, I will live well."

आंठवा फेरा- Akash Shukla

एक घर होगा एक गाड़ी .

आँगन मे एक दुलारी .

आधा आधा जुड़ जाएँगे .

एक दुनिया नई बसाएँगे .

लेंगे हम चल कर साथ कदम .

दुख दर्द कर अग्नी मे भस्म .

एक खुशी भरा जीवन होगा .

सुख ज़्यादा दुख थोड़ा कम होगा .

कुछ साल चलेगा घर अपना .

तुम होगी इन सर आँखों पर .

फिर घड़ी मुश्किल की आएगी .

बात थोड़ी बिगड़ सी जाएगी .

हम दोनो मे झगड़े होंगे .

कुछ छोटे कुछ तगड़े होंगे .

हम दोनो रूठ ही जाएँगे .

पर बच्‍चे हमे मनाएँगे .

हम अपनी ग़लती मानेंगे .

मन मे कुछ और ही ठानेंगे .

जीवन है चलता जाएगा .

सूरज एक दिन ढल जाएगा .

तूफ़ान गरजता आएगा .

सुख की गठरी बिखराएगा .

मस्तिष्क मेरा बौराएगा .

तुम मुझ्को बात सूनाओगी .

बच्चों की नींद उड़ाओगी .

मैं चीज़ें घर भर फेकुंगा .

बच्चों को रोता देखूँगा .

अहंकार तुम्हें खा जाएगा .

क्रोध मुझमे आजायेगा .

सारे सपने हम तोड़ेंगे .

कस्में वादें सब छोड़ेंगे .

बच्चों के आँसू फूटेंगे .

वो बचपन से ही रूथेंगे .

मैं अपनी शान दिखाऊंगा .

मेरे उपकार गिनाऊंगा .

तुम अपनी लाज बचाओगी .

था उपकार ना फ़र्ज़ जताओगी .

वह प्रेम का धागा टूटेगा .

यह हाथ फिर तुमपर छूटेगा .

तुम भी आकर लड़ जाओगी .

हद छोड़ आगे बढ़ जाओगी .

बच्चे बिच में आएंगे .

चाहकर कुछ ना कर पाएंगे .

मर्दांगी मेरी जागेगी .

निर्दयता सर चढ़ नाचेगी .

तुम मुझको खूब ललकारोगी .

मैं दस तुम दो तो मारोगी .

मैं तुमको फिर धकेलूंगा .

अंदर के दुःख को झेलूंगा .

तुम घर से बाहर चल दोगी .

मेरी करनी का फल दोगी .

बच्चे तुमको जा रोकेंगे .

मेरे शब्द उनको टोकेंगे .

वोह डर कर हाथ छोड़ेंगे .

खुशियों से अपना मुह मोड़ेंगे .

मेरे मन में बहुत सा दुःख होगा .

पर बोलने के लिए न मुख होगा .

मैं तुमको याद करूँगा हर पल.

अहंकार लेगा मेरा मन छल .

मेरा घर अब न घर होगा .

एक चिड़िया होगी ना पर होगा .

दुःख की बदरी छायी होगी .

क्रोध की गहरी खाई होगी .

दो आंखे मुझको देखेंगी .

मेरे ज़ख्मों को सेकेंगी .

ना माँ का सुख दे पाउँगा .

बाप होना भी भूल जाऊंगा .

बच्चे बचपन को भूलेंगे .

उदासी की गोद में झूलेंगे .

कागज़ और एक कलम होगी .

हस्ताक्षर उसपर तुम दोगी .

रिस्ते नहीं परिवार भी टूटेंगे .

एक नहीं चार भाग्य फूटेंगे .

उम्र पूरी हो जाएगी .

बच्चों से दूरी हो जायेगी .

हम दोनों अलग मर जायेंगे .

पन्नों को दीमक खा जायेंगे .

मेरी प्राण प्रिये एक वादा दे .

दुःख ना सुख चाहे आधा दे .

सेहरा जब सज के आएगा .

जब मंत्र पढ़ा जायेगा .

एक फेरा हम ज्यादा लेंगे .

एक बात का हम वादा देंगे .

चाहे आये तूफ़ान कई .

हम देंगे साथ रहेंगे वहीं .

झगड़ों में कभी ना छूटेंगे .

इस कदर कभी ना रूठेंगे .

हम जिस्म दो, चार जान होंगे .

तुम पर अर्पण मेरे प्राण होंगे .

हम दोनों बिन दूजे के आधे है .

ये ज़िन्दगी से जुड़े वादे है .

बहुत कहा मैंने तुम जानती हो .

मुझको अच्छे से पहचानती हो .

इससे मान कर ना चलना एक रस्म .

ये आंठवा फेरा है एक कसम .

ये आंठवा फेरा है एक कसम

My Family's Teeth- Mridvi Khetan

Teeth.

What are these teeth?

Tantalizing

Teasing

Tormenting?

Pulled together

Not by accident

But pulled together

By taste

Sometimes pulled out by

The hope of tomorrow

They are treating me

These teeth

Staring at me

Their whites in the open

Are caressing my face

Their sharp canine

Cutting through my skin

They say my name means gentle

Oh! So gentle

That a tooth is enough to tear into my heart

And create its jaw in the vessel of my breath

Hers was a little yellow

Stained as if with the highlighter

She so often uses in her craft

His was more white

A reminder of the blankness he always felt

Being the last in the family

No more bullet points after his

The last comma

The last exclamation

Everyone’s teeth so beautifully centered around the table

The Crown of England

Stolen, but treasured

These smiles seem stolen by the treaty

The treaty we have made to stick by each other

A treaty not bound in any written code

But a treaty of the hearts

Made a million years ago

And still there in place

So we stick to it

A smile we give to it

Sometimes that smile

Just to abide by this code

But sometimes it’s more

It’s there for me

For once, I’ll believe they are there for me

Not by default but by intention

They are staring at me

Teeth pulled out

The whiteness, a submarine I’m riding in

Till it drowns

Those teeth ornamenting faces of the people I adore

Am I the food?

Is it for me?

I hope so

I want those teeth to myself

No

I don’t want 10 sets of teeth in this already tightened jaw

No

I don’t want another set of molars to crunch on that extra granola

No

Not another canine to quench the hunger for meat

The teeth I want

Aren’t physical in form

What I want is what’s behind

No

Not the bacteria stuck from the food they just ate

No

Not the retainers behind my dad’s face

What I want is what makes those teeth pull out

For once, not treaty

I remember it wasn’t war that one time

That one time, it was congregation

Communion

Community

Cohesion

Collage

A collage of the infinitesimal pieces that make us each individual

A unique collage of everyone’s canines

That come together to create a picture of collision

A collision of hearts

That make art

And I am drowned in that gallery

I am the centrepiece

Those teeth shining brightly at me

Admiring me for once

Lulling me for once

Looking at me for all my intricacy

For once

The cake I’m cutting, a symbol of how far I’ve come

Not in my journey as a human

But as an artist

And there they are

Teeth pulled out

Acknowledging my art

Better

Chewing on my art

And finally

Tasting it

How did it feel?

Passers-by- Samparna Pattnaik

Tall and majestic pines

followed by some small,

unnoticed ones,

all underlining the empty road

towards my new place.

A green stretch on both sides

left a grey strip out of its reach

just like my life between

a bunch of sunflowers, peonies

and sweetly prepared homes.

The one maintaining the road

really has a long way to go and

a bucket full of strength. But then again,

I wondered, what the road had done to deserve

the maintenance that only kept it

from grabbing the touch of the fine dust,

the dried leaves and someday maybe a tree or two.

Jokes on the helpless road,

jokes on the silly cleaner of the road,

jokes on the dried leaves and the fine dust and

on the trees and on greens and yellows and reds

that all see each other and maybe sometimes converse

but don’t ever meet the eye.

Perhaps the tree doesn’t deserve that friend,

the friend that seems distant even to heart.

Perhaps the road is just a flood,

a flood that forgot the warmth of gentle water

and in the sequence of that mayhap,

had accepted the barrenness of his skin.

I may have seen them today and

maybe we had all conversed our queries,

but I don’t quite recall as to how I was able to do so,

that too, with a tree, a long road having a long body

that makes me feel weird to think of as a living thing.

I wasn’t my mother who cared for her trees

more than her jewelery

nor was I the sweeper who

would always start his day with the statement,

“Let’s get you cleaned up, eh?”

But today, I felt like I wanted to listen

to the greyness of the road, to the emptiness of the tree

missing a friend away by a thin strip of road

and to the crunchy sun that was melting

at the end of the day when the sky got dimmer.

Since the heart only ever feels.

It doesn’t respond to the logic of deserve,

unworthiness and worthiness.

Since when the heart takes over,

we all know to an extent or more

that our head even obeys its wishes for our soul.

The scenery got quieter, but quieter didn’t mean lighter.

It was as if the scenery was painting a piece of my heart

and it was all too overwhelming to see it with two eyes,

hear it from both ends, smell the heartache of all the pieces

and walking away with no words

because of no answers.

And I too understood the pain and felt it under the skin

and just like how my spectator understood my pain and

felt helpless as they watched me fall,

I too felt a lifetime of helplessness

that couldn’t be escaped.

It is the dilemma of a spectator,

the paralyzed eyes of an observer

whos’ heart has frozen in the time of that moment.

In the end, we are all but passers-by,

We’re all the travelers of an empty road and also,

a road that empties and fills in as it wishes.

Commits of Her Nightly “Books”-Syona Rajput

Down unseen doors and locks.

Where her crimes, once stacked in shelves, now drop.

Hidden from men and their "lawful” mocks.

For them, it's a mere stroll to the shops.

Tip-toeing feet, twisting knobs.

Antics, of the books behind, she reads.

And follow her, the beasty throbs,

her toes unleash.

She deciphers the lock,

she forever finds sealed shut.

Entering her crime scene,

she half breathes, half sigh of relief.

Loosely holds her collection of crime,

in case she must flee.

Absorbing words from paper, as quick as

blood soaks, rugs or sheets.

Meanwhile,

For the journey back,

her toes in ice.

For the journey back,

she recites her alibi.

Dark eyes? Just ages glares.

Red feet? A life her belly wears.

Dusty hands? Perhaps cleaning somewhere.

With all words abandoned, on the pages,

she slips back, with silent success.

So she starts to weep,

at the thought of the toes,

she now breeds.

PAIN- AKHIL SEBASTIAN

PAIN

It's there in me.

It's there within me.

It's there in my reflection.

It's there in the way I reflect.

It's there in the way I bite my teeth.

It's there in my clenched fist.

It's there in my ignorance and my wisdom.

It's there in my aggression and my compassion.

It's there in my arrogance and my humility.

It's there in my scars that crawl all over my skin.

It's there in my lungs, flooded with smoke.

It's there in my paper-like flesh that covers my weak bones.

It's there in my heart, craving to carve out my art.

It's there somewhere,

Where I can only feel.

And not touch nor taste.

And not see nor hear.

And not smell nor breathe.

It's there in me, within me.

A constant companion.

He wakes up with me,

Or is he the one that wakes me up?

He wakes up with me,

Or was he awake all night?

At night when I go to sleep,

I wish he sleeps as well.

I know what it's like to be awake,

I hope he gets some sleep.

Somedays, I wake up to realise that he's not there.

So I carry on without him, knowing he'll catch up along the way.

His absence is freedom at first,

Like feeling free from the weight that burdens your shoulders.

But how long can I live without him?

Sometimes,

He hides somewhere near me or in me throughout the day.

And only shows up at night,

Like a surprise call on the Eve of remembrance.

And sometimes,

He waits till I am asleep.

Only to show up in my dreams that I could never decipher.

Sometimes,

He wouldn't show up for a long time.

And that's when I get worried.

What happened to him?

Is he dead?

Did I kill him?

What happened to me?

Am I dead?

Did he kill me?

And then I wait.

Patiently.

I hope that he'll come back and say hello.

The more he is away, the more I am lonely.

It's strange to realise he's all I've got.

I seek him in the lines in my palm.

I seek him through the lines in my poem.

I seek him in the eyes that I meet.

I seek him through the lies that I write.

I AM HERE BECAUSE I WANTED TO.

US- DHREETHI BISWAS

It's your smile

that makes my heart flutter,

It's your eyes

that makes my mind dream,

It's your voice

that makes mine stutter,

It's you and the desires for us

that makes me scream.

You raise my heartbeat

with your calmness,

You are the light to my darkness.

Your silence is my happy place,

With you, I can be my own face.

You made me believe

That being imperfect is perfection,

You made achieve

The answers to the impossible question.

You arouse the ocean waves inside me,

You arouse a silent storm inside me,

You arouse the lightening bolt inside me,

You arouse the Me inside Me.

I never fell for you,

I always bloomed because of you.

I never felt any different with you,

Cause you were too good to be true.

Before you, it was

Forever, not so true,

But after you

It's just, Forever is you

Love for you is like water,

Even if it vanishes from the Earth,

I can get it from heaven for that matter.

It is not a crush or a fling,

I'm done waiting for the bell to ring.

I think the perfect time has come,

For my desires for US to blossom.

Will it be the same- Arundoti Roy

Will it be the same

Now that you are gone?

Will you come to the door to greet me

Like you used to before?

Will your heart cry again

When I get hurt?

Will you smile again

If you see me peeking through the door?

Will it be the same

Now that you are gone?

Will you hold my hand tight

Like you used to before?

Will you stop my fall

When I stumble on this path that is life?

Will you be my anchor

When the tides are too high?

Will it be the same

Now that you are gone?

Will you still be there by my side

When the world is not?

Will you believe in me

When my judgement is cloudy and I doubt myself?

Will you wrap your arms around me

When everything goes down and the night is too scary?

Will it be the same

Now that you are gone?

Do you remember me

Like I do you?

Do you cry for me

Like I do for you?

Do you long to hold me in your arms

Like I do to be in yours?

This wound in my heart,

Gnashed so deep

That it keeps bleeding crimson,

The memories of you

Like alcohol being poured on the wound,

This pain, this hurt paralyzes me,

But I want it to keep bleeding yet,

Till the day you meet me on the other side

And hold me in your arms,

Then put your hand over my heart, and say-

"It's okay to be hurt".

Mother's Tale- Misbah Ibrahim

There lives a beautiful woman in my house,

where roses are shy off in front of her love.

She use to dress up herself not so good as she dress me smart.

She use to tie up her messy hairs in a bun and comes running from the kitchen with a charming face and a sweaty forehead to handover me a tiffin box.

Frome waking me up to dress me for for school, from combing my hairs to tieing my shoe lace she forgets to take a rest unless she sends me to the school.

Then with tired eyes she sits chanting for me to return home safe.

Even after dealing with the tired day,she is the most interested person who loves to listen my pity dumped story of the day. And that beautiful women is my 'Mother' who loves me unconditionally.

Moon also get shy and whispers the night,"Let's go back ,she is a mother and she is not going to sleep for her child".

_____Misbah Ibrahim

The carriage ride with my Armor of truth - Esther Simte

It started that evening at sunset,

The church bells toll, which was unstoppable.

As they burned down our churches and houses,

The unending war,began with a love not so true.

The enemies aren't outside but within troubles.

Still they stand proudly,not perceiving the end

Will be doomed,as they'll wander with pain

For slaughtering us,as their minds are full of rivalry.

Asking for peace,as they walked rallies

While they kept on attacking our villages,

Spreading falsified news,as they blamed us.

Oh God!Where are the truths?

I heard soulful wailing of the innocent fellows,

And grievous stories,with memories linger,adieu.

Burn's my heart into ashes along with the burning homes,

Summer comes and winter goes,all ending in smoke.

Still i tried to cover all my grieves

With shadow of the moon.

Determine to live as gentle as i could,

And wipe my tears away.

As i realised that i was blind-folded

On the carriage ride that they called life,

And the nearing storms won't kill my patience,

Yet i need to endure,the vicissitudes of life.

Hard to distinguish between the authenticity

And the erroneousness of this world.

So,i put on my Armor of truth,

To take a flight with my open wings of verity.

‘Let’s recollect’- Divinia Mercy Mynsong

A desire to rewind old days

Gloomier-shabbier little Me,

Has nothing to do with actuality

The only time tears

Flows down ponderously,

Is being beaten up for not having enough milk and cookies.

Playing out unawarely

Wish I to re-live ancient days,

When school bag was the only burden,

And not being introduced to life’s dilemma and traumatising situations.

Those days, when the little Me,

Wakes up cheerfully every morning,

When dancing, loving and laughing was free of cost,

That I barely had times to worry.

Wistfully, those merry days

Have got their own limits

And thus, one only can cherish them,

As wonderful and indelible memories.

Unheard echoes- Aatika Sartaj

Unheard echoes

She got hurt,

yet refuses to show

Craves for love ,

hard to find one though

Surrounded by evils

with pretty good faces

Feigning sympathy,

in it who were aces

She wants to be heard ,

no one barely know

Wishes to put words

to those unheard echoes

She acts hard rock

yet tender to the inside

Once touched to core,

feelings tougher to hide

Hiding her tears,

putting all her ache aside

Does ever got to know

what's on her mind

They broke her heart ,

She left out unheard

Figure of generosity

she holds yet cursed

Why good ones can't get

the glory they hope

It's always that rogue

who owns the damn show

Countless being sold

for the bribe they've got

For the fame that's hollow

the sanity they've lost

They'll praise her warmth

pious heart someday

She'll never stop being good ,

come what may.

Name - Aatika Sartaj

Instagram username - s_a_r_t_a_j_0110

Bio - Myself Aatika Sartaj I am an undergraduate medical student in SNMC, Agra and I am a writer too who believes that words if molded in a perfect way can change someone's life and I am to here to share my very thoughts.

Death is Green- Ashima Binny

A green witch in your fables

Always escaped

Brought nothing but death

I remember going to bed

Before it struck ten

"One, two, three and green

I would turn into a devil"

It's midnight,

Time for my potion, a concoction

For my health

"One, two, three and green

I would turn into a devil"

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

I would turn into a devil"

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 my skin to my bones

It's your fables versus my yearning

Like leaves in autumn

A devil and a creature

A death, turning green

I always behaved, I hope I was a good prot

"One, two, three and green

Ph! Take me to the devil "

This green

Is creeper

It is a poisoned wound

A dart left to kill

It's midnight,

Time for my potion, a concoction

For my health

Green, witch and death

Old Soul- Shweta Arora

These souls are thousands of years old

Feel things differently,

Live life slow,

At night, see stars glow

Being trapped in this soulless world

They hold a heart of gold

Among the new people of a new era

Only few are left

That like deep conversations

From sun to the sand

Being beautiful from inside

Their love can't be measured

From a naked eye

Their old soul and mind

Prefer silence to the wayside shrines

To express gratitude

For the divine grace in their lives

As everyone is so fake around

They lack connection to one another

That hold depth to life

They seek out old-world spot

Far from the madding crowd

They tend to stay alone

As don't fit in with people's timeline

In the ebb and flow

Of day-to-day life

They don't limit themselves

To the values of old school

Nor do they care about the image,

About the talks

People says one after the another

But love to remain grounded

By trying to make sense of the stars inside

To twin with another old soul of their times!

Pangs of Death- Shwetha Harsha

Alone and lonely, I tread my path solemnly swearing that I would live a life of happiness

Brazen I stand, after all the blows in life, bold yet cowardly my demeanor is

Company I have I think , two is a company they say yet thoughts do not merge

Dark and Dainty my days , it was sunny with you, my love, Now it is nightly

Effervescent it should have been with you, without you, I am in incomplete , life indolent

Fallen and failed I respect , I concur to views on life, on success, on happiness

Grateful I stand, I stand corrected, my world is expanded

Heavy and haggard, my heart is, can't carry my heart's mass

Indolent I feel with no fuzziness , with no energy , no sunshine

Jaded , I go forward with Time, time is the ultimate I now know

Kicked and knocked , I fall repeatedly to learn lessons

Lucky are those, who do not understand death, who live like there’s tomorrow

Miraculous is their approach, maverick , carelessly dangling opinions on time

Necklace of pain beads, nerves of steel , nuggets of memories, threads sewn into needles

Obvious moments of tenderness lost , only solace is nostalgia

Pain of death lurking , cries of help , cries of helplessness

Quarantine thoughts of quizzical nature, of not quantum are the hope , the efforts

Risk, reflection, frail body with strong conviction is what I remember

Sassy , sacred , smart , sharp , sweet; adjectives feel small in front of you

Tumultuous was your health , life, yet you went stedfast , forward, reminding me often that

Unrelated circumstances are best left unattended

Vague descriptions are to be filled with established patterns, faces with colors , with life , with fervor

Wages come and go , memories are here to stay, form them like a potter who gives shape

Xeric canvas , must be filled with colors of the rainbow, dash of different hues with saturation , red , green and blue and the new

Yacht, we are sailing in , between yawns and yaps

Zilch is this precious life in the grand scheme of the Universe but we need to travel with zest and zeal

The demeanor of death makes time slow yet swift action is taken , taking away all the pizzazz

Pain shoots up in a second, seconds seem like infinite agony

Peace far in this desert, Not a moment to relax

Can we wait a second, a minute , a lifetime, ask Him to start anew

This life is a theatre where we are actors, but all this is an improv

On the go , inventing moments as we live , Mixed portmanteau of instants , to at least bid adieu

As the dark night grows in expanse, the knight gets up to orbit

The onset of Time , strutting and trusting to be out of the chaos

Eager to cheer life , yet too famished to even utter

Words of encouragement to self , you retreat in mind , but not in spirit , mixing with Nature's cinq

Your courage to fight , your soft nature , I will tell these tales till I live and then pass on up

Knowing I led a life you wanted to live , your aficionado

Black obscurity still remains , death remains a quiz , we mourn , groan

Fools we are , axioms we believe to be true , which ends in gloom

Death is an inevitable current or a cruel devil

Frankly , I am all blank

It's all about ruling self , swa-raj

against constant loss of hope or sheer Ennui

Of life itself , and the pain and anguish

One day , I will leave behind , a legacy just like you did , people cling to the bling

They still do , we two know that stings of lessons, of motif

Taught us that grief is the abode

That we go to constantly with death looking at us , baked yet fresh we should go proud

We should sing a lyric or two , dance to the tune of magic

Of sheer patterns , of hearts that throb

For us , that's all there is between birth and death - a dogma?

The Girl in the Picture - Vidula Power

The music starts to play again,

this time for the crowd to step onto the floor.

I step aside, to make way for the ones

who don't carry four pens, two pencils, three types of rulers and pro-circles to a mock test.

The ones who don't quicken their pace while walking by a mirror,

the ones who don't wear a full coverage track pant for a sprint...

Soon I find myself glaring at a slide-show;

the memories of the passing out class of the year, all lined up.

I use zero to count the number of pictures I was in.

Well, that wasn't a surprise.

I pace around an emotional void, at the sight of sobbing teenagers.

None cry for me and I cry for none.

I guess a person with no evidence of their existence could use a breath of fresh air.

I stride outwards with the mania of feeling things;

my hair flows with the breeze in fits and starts,

only until Google Photos decides to take me seriously.

I land upon a picture of a little girl in an oversized faded blue uniform.

The girl who carried four pens, two pencils, three types of rulers and pro-circles to a mock test.

The girl who tried, and tried again to fit in,

but they stared at her.

Perhaps the same way natural numbers stare at zero.

I reduce to tears,

for the girl I lost somewhere between the loud giggles targeted right at her and lack of claps after her arrival.

I try to bring her back, if only for a little while,

even though a pale emulation of the true conscience.

We laugh, and cry and feast upon a series of flashbacks as the winds start to play along.

I feel her in my veins, filling up the emptiness with a sense of belonging.

I make my way through the bumpy road we willingly chose; not daring to give up on the dreams we fantasized together in our neck of the woods.

My hair flows with the breeze in fits and starts.

Oh mighty winds, while you are travelling the hemispheres, accompanying the clouds,

assisting the leaves and clapping the rocks till they become tender,

grant me a tiny little favour.

If you ever encounter the girl in the picture,

all grown up,

staring into emptiness with strong cups of coffee and dim lights,

flow through her hair in fits and starts, and tell her that I believe in her.

Moment Of Pride - Amit Anand

A buzzing carnival...a magnificent painting,

As I negotiated with this woman looking naïve,

She smiled at me...Sir with this amount,

How will I feed a family of five?

As I listened to her side of the story...the apathy within me died,

And this was a moment of pride.

I came across someone in a cafe,

A guy who bullied me in school,

He talked to me and rendered an apology,

Said back then I was a fool,

As I forgave him...the vengeance within me died,

And this was a moment of pride.

Met a long lost friend after years,

We hadn’t seen each other in a while,

I was mad at him for not staying in touch,

Then he talked about his life turning hostile,

As I expressed my empathy...the rage within me died,

And this was a moment of pride.

I would like to tell you something,

Said my grandpa on his deathbed,

You will leave everything behind here,

So don’t let the riches...get into your head,

As I came to this realization...the greed within me died,

And this was a moment of pride.

A colleague opened up to me,

Said she was born that way,

I told her how amazing she was,

And the world would know this someday,

As I embraced her...the prejudice within me died,

And this was a moment of pride,

And my perspectives opened wide,

The ego within me died,

And this was a moment of pride.

The Sweet Poison -Anushka Devgan

Sitting in a corner gazing out of my window,

My eyes got astonished by the colourful rainbow.

It enthralled me as if it played the crescendo,

By the time as night arrived and gone the rainbow.

This phenomenon captivated my brain,

I thought about the leisure that goes away in vain,

Being a student who is in late teen,

I think about the SWEET POISON that people consume in,

Lesser known is the fact about its win,

It's not you who consume; the drug consumes you in.

Let me tell you a story; a story close to my heart,

Not just close to the heart but my life's utmost part.

A brilliant son, a budding doctor fell in the trap,getting nothing out of it instead his life called it a wrap.

It makes you fly and visualize the futile dreams,

Lately you'd realize the inner hollow screams.

It makes you ignore a mother waiting,

A crying family you start hating.

You enter a world seeming very mellow,

But trust me it is the worst and hollow.

Believe me it's possible to come out,

Possibly need to do before the time gets out.

Just a hope is everything you need,

Saving your own life is an utmost noble deed.

So think as the ball is still in your court,

You're a helm drive wisely your boat.

Navigating womanhood through montages in the city- Prajna Lama

Navigating womanhood through montages in the city

One stands precariously at the edge of girlhood;

when everything seems potent and larger than life one minute,

and juvenile

and frivolous the next.

Grief is the same gloomy-weathered friend,

loss feels sandbag heavy in any form it shape-shifts into.

Your mother is growing older,

and there is nothing you can do about it.

You refuse to relegate your womanhood to one being akin to your mother’s;

but you are your mother,

you are everything like your mother.

You see in yourself the same jaded levelheadedness she has,

you see in yourself the same skill for navigating

the precipice between falling apart and falling together.

You see in her the wisdom you only wish you had listened to.

Growing up is the sinking realisation that

you spent so long hating your body,

only to realise it is also your mother’s body,

and the bodies of the mothers who came before her.

Growing older is realising how stupid it was

to presume you never wanted to be like your mother-

the truth is that you could never be like her.

And now, the fever stays

while travelling in empty coaches

on the train ride through the city,

the same city where you were kissed like a prayer

in one of its thousand minarets,

an adolescent secret hedged

between the pages of your old

seventeen-year-old notebook,

pervasive and easily perceptible,

like the smell of your mother’s old

ivory jewelry, and the phosphorescent burn

of the hills in the dead of the nights.

You start to have a knack for picking up

the time of day by noticing how the rays of sunlight look

on the face of the woman who sits adjacent to you.

They serve as a mirror,

you are your only constant companion.

You go everywhere in the city-

brimming with people and without them.

You give a name to every feeling you have;

you learn to store them like pennies in the

empty glass jars in

your house. Your temporary home.

You have started to realise home is two places at once;

and your body is not adept enough to reconcile between

the desire to stay

and the desire to flee constantly.

The city is lonely, all of it.

You start to see the synchronised movements of

everyone around you.

And all of these bodies make the same noise,

say the same thing,

talk about the loneliness fundamental to us all,

wretched species, bane of the earth,

selfish to the bone.

But there is a certain stillness that occurs amid motion,

a kind of lingering silence that you find sometimes

on the way to where you are going,

sitting outside on the balcony,

in the corner of the party where you stay for the rest of the night.

And you start to long for it,

to yearn for it.

To look for it.