The Passionate Heart

By Disha

Image Source: Tumblr

The frosty roads

The closed doors

All led me to the pristine slopes.

I pulled apart every rope

I knocked at every wall,

I passed through every hall.

I was a puppet and you had my strings,

No more says my instincts,

Everyone believed that I was wrong,

How can you change what’s been around for ages, they asked.

I am sorry I said,

I am afraid I can’t.

You are rotten apples and empty cells,

You and I are poles apart,

It’s time for me to stand,

Leaving behind you

I will build my own town

Because traveling is my life you see!

These rocks are my friends,

The seashore is my home.

The marvelous sky above is my fuel,

Fears are my ground.

You people will never know

What it takes for a girl to burn and earn.

I don’t want to follow anyone,

I want to be myself and the only one.

Never Going Away

                                                           

By Bhavya

Image Source: Tumblr

 

I nearly lost someone I loved.

And I wanted her back. I wanted some magic to happen and bring her back to me.

But she’d never come. Ever.

But magic would happen.

She won’t go away. She isn’t going away.

I want to hold her hand and her to hold mine,

The way we did when she was sitting on the bed with me beside her.

Both of us were helpless and unable to speak.

One because of illness. The other was too afraid of choking up.

Oh, I love her so much. And she loves me back.

She didn’t want to go. I didn’t want her to go. No one wanted her to go.

Then Cancer, why did you do this to her?

Why did you do this to us?

I miss her.

She is the Sun, and a bird. Happy and free.

Like a child, innocent in her being.

Cancer, why did you do this to her?

Cancer, why did you do this to us?

Everyone adores her – her family, friends, colleagues, and society.

Cancer, why did you do this to her?

Cancer, why did you do this to us?

Dear Cancer, do you know

How she cracks silly jokes to make us laugh,

How wide she smiles in a room filled with the laughter of the people she loves?

And you snatched her smile and our laughter from us.

Cancer, why don’t you answer?

We asked the doctors, they don’t know.

Cancer, why did you do this to her?

Cancer, why did you do this to us?

Tell me, why?

I shriek at the walls.

Tell me! Tell me, why?

“Cancer is nowhere to be found. It’ll die with her.”

But, did it?

No. No, it’s not the end.

Real life tales also have happy endings.

She once spoke to me, albeit with a lot of difficulties.

Her eyes shed a thousand words. Her lips spoke five. Five magical words.

“It isn’t in my blood.”

“It isn’t in my blood” took possession of me.

Those five words weighed more than hundreds of words by hundreds of people.

She’s never going away. Her words are never going away.

And that is where I begin.

And now I am determined to make her words and this world realize

That cancer can’t kill people. Cancer makes them stronger.

Love, I know for sure you’re much better off right now.

With no pain in your brain anymore.

Wherever she is at present, she must be busy impressing the world there.

And I here, am doing the same…making life better again.

Diffidence

                                                                   

By Neelesha Dhawan 

Image Source: Tumblr

 

As the steam from your cup
Mingles with the fog
And your sighs create
A sheet of dismay on your glasses
I know
This is the end
As your lips quiver
With the hotness
The hesitancy in your touch
Is tangible across the stall
With a slight dampness
Your gaze travels
Lingers a minute
Before dissolving again in the cup
And as your sighs create
A sheet of emptiness on your glasses
I know
You have lost your articulation
Yet again
And as the steam from your cup
Mingles with the fog
I know yet again
That you’ve lost your audacity
Yet again
And tonight
A mug of liquor
Will do the job
Of what a cup at a stall
Could not

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Happens When Worlds Collide?

By Bhavya

Image Source: Tumblr

When planets collide against one another, they form dents at the point of collision. Holes in their lives that are too large to be rebuilt.

When an asteroid collided with the earth, it left a hole in the planet. One so large that it couldn’t be filled with the nebulae or space. But in losing a part of itself, the earth found a faithful companion. It controlled the pulling and pushing of tides, it created hurricanes that would shatter forests. But it also gave us light. It gave us something to write poems and songs on. We didn’t call it destruction. We called it love.

When tectonic plates collide, the destruction is so massive that it creates earthquakes. But in the end, it builds. It creates mountains and hills, inching higher and higher every moment that they grow closer.

When worlds collide, it is destructive. We lose friends, we lie to our parents and we wreck our sleep cycle. But in the end, even if they drift apart or leave us broken, it builds something. A new experience. If they stay forever, we find a new companion. Our intertwined hands are the mountains we’ve built. Our bodies, a mesh of shattered stardust.

Sometimes we’re too blinded by the sun to see the moon illuminating our darkest nights.
Even if the consequences are absolutely terrible, it leaves something in the end.
Maybe it’s worth finding out what it may be.

A Letter To fifteen-year-old Me

By Disha

Image Source: Tumblr
Hey Ms. Dreamer,
I know it has been quite a while since people understood you. You find yourself lonely and unwanted. I wish I could be there with you, to help you understand that in the future when you will be nurturing yourself, these things will seem stupid and pointless.
People are unable to understand you because they can’t think at your level. You are childish and unaware of cunningness. Don’t change this part of you, don’t think it is your weakness. You may be alone for a period of time, but the person you are going to become will be new and bold.
I know you have issues with your parents, let them be. When you grow up, you will realize that you are not the only one. That may console you but that doesn’t mean you will stop fighting. You have to understand that sometimes, it is better to stay quiet for the beautiful things that are approaching.
The loneliness you are facing today will help you deal maturely with the sadness in coming years. I just want you to give time, some time and everything will go well. Soon, you will discover your hidden talents – things that will be unique among others around you.
I know you don’t like to study, and yet you manage to score in the eighties. People think you study a lot but in reality, your mind is always outside the window. It’s okay because unlike you, others find it hard to understand the voice of silent nature.
There are a lot of suggestions I could give you, but the best is that you should learn to stop seeking acceptance from others. Because the truth is, they will never understand you. It’s important for you to first accept yourself rather than others accepting you. When you understand this fact, you will also realize that you are far better than them. And that they don’t treat you as an equal because they are too insecure to let you realize how talented and excellent you are.
You might wonder of what use this letter is. I am writing this because even though my heart and soul know I have gone past the time, but just in case it ever calls me back again, I needed this to exist.
Dear Ms. Dreamer, believe me when I say I believe in you. Go on, be yourself fiercely and wholly.
– Your future self.

Of Hauz Khas With Friends

By P. Snigdha

Illustration By Arshiya Chahal

I cannot tell you how happy, how at peace I felt today. My mind was at ease. My thoughts seemed to be lulled into a gentle sleep. It feels like I smiled, talked and laughed after ages. I am truly happy. And the best part is that nothing extraordinary happened. I didn’t meet some idol or unlock the last level of Candy Crush (as if that’ll ever happen).

I just met up with old friends. I cannot stop smiling as I write!

We had been making plans for weeks now, and they’d end up getting cancelled due to one reason or the other. But last night, one of them texted me saying, “We are going out tomorrow. That’s it.” I punched in an overexcited face and a thumbs up as my reply.

We met at the metro station. We ran towards each other’s arms, laughing. I don’t know why I am making this sound like a lover’s reunion. It so is not. Anyway, the problem was that the three of us hadn’t decided on where to go yet. After bickering for almost ten minutes, we decided on Hauz Khas. I’d never been there before, so I was kind of apprehensive about it. But I knew that if I said something of it, we’d resume the back and forth again.

So off we went to Hauz Khas. After a few minutes of walking, we arrived at the lake. I was, and remain, absolutely mesmerized by that beautiful lake. It was as if the ripples were coated with glistening gold. The sun was warm, not too harsh on our hands or face, the only skin peeking out of heavy winter coats. The wind was in my hair – making the unruly curly mess fly everywhere. We sat by the lake for a couple of hours. Talking, laughing, talking some more. School memories were revisited, crushes recalled and generic (but well-meaning) life advice passed around.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed these two. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to get out, spend more time under the sun and less, wallowing in self-pity.

Sigh. It’s always the littlest of things. They are the ones that make you, break you, and keep you going.

IF GOD WAS GUCCI

By Hemanshi Arora

Illustration By Arshiya Chahal

I whiffed him before I saw him.
I heard him before I whiffed him, as he came down the grand ornate staircase.
A citrus gust of air and the rattle of high heels welcomed the man himself.
Here stood my creator in all his glory: 5 foot 9 inches tall, scrawny, with the most ridiculously dyed purple bob of hair.

“Ayy! What’s Gucci!?” He greeted me in the shrillest voice, throwing some weird gang signs.

I rushed to greet him with my extended hand.
“No can do, just got a manicure!” He shrugged in the most unapologetic tone ever as he removed his sunglasses to give me a very conspicuous once over.
Hit by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, I stuttered to introduce myself as the one journalist among millions on the planet chosen to interview him, for an exclusive edition of the Times Magazine.

“Pleasure.” His smile revealed pearl white teeth and two gold-plated canines.
“Shall we begin your precious ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’? I’m kinda busy you know, gotta run the world.” He laughed a throaty laugh, apparently happy with his little joke.
I gulped.

Now, what would you ask God if you met him? Hypothetically, the questions would be: when will I get rich? When will I be married? How many kids will I have? Will Trump really build a wall? Will there be any elections after 2019 in India? When will the Third World War happen?
And the list just goes on. But this is hypothetically speaking.
What do I actually ask him? Where do I even begin? Milton did not prepare me for this!
He is so much like us! No halo, no robes or capes, not even a hint of a serene disposition. This God, our God, was Gucci. Dressed in a polka dotted green shirt with red suspenders and blood red trousers, he had an almost too expressive a visage as he stood to wait in front of me with those glittering eyes. I cleared my throat.

“Why did you create this world?”

Crap! I really should have referred to my notes. But let’s be honest, even the most thought out notes couldn’t possibly have prepared me for this.

“Ah, you see, I was bored and in desperate need of a good show.” He purred, content with his answer and perhaps by extension, with his motive behind creating Earth and everything on it, including the entirety of my species.
He calmly sipped on his Americano. And then, the last strand of sanity I had flew right out of the window.

What can that possibly mean? How can he be this blunt?
“Not very smart. Are you? I created the Gucci garden, which you…people, call the Garden of Eden, which is a stage. This glorious ramp was for my perfect models. On this ramp of life, they would model themselves to different personas every day, thus giving me something to watch while I eat foie gras and sip on a glass of Château Margaux.”
He concluded with a smirk and fixed his gaze on me, waiting for a reaction. His smirk grew into a bout of laughter as he noticed my wide gaping eyes, processing all of what he just said.

“Yes, love! Life is fashion. Period.”

Completely confused by the analogy, I blurted out the next pressing question.

“What is the purpose of life, then?”

“The purpose is to slay the game, of course! Pulling off whatever attire you chose for yourself. That’s about it.”

“Do we get to choose the attire?”

“Yes, a different you each day! Makes the show more interesting.” He replied as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What will be the end of the world?” I enquired, more curious than ever.

His eyes darkened and he scoffed. “One Gucci after a thousand Walmarts? The world is already nearing its end, honey!”

“Huh?” What language was that again?

“When humanity settles for less than what it deserves, when quantity beats quality, when quirky and creative is deemed weird, when you want to blend in rather than stand out…that is when humanity meets its end.”

How do you even take in something like that?
Isn’t life all about imitation, admiring others’ clothes and then attempting to dig out from our poorly stocked wardrobes to model ourselves as similar to them as possible?
Hasn’t it always been about fitting in?

But then again, it was so simple! It did make sense. We must make it through, no matter what, right? So it was all about doing your thing and taking it to the end.

I snapped out of my thoughts just as he downed the rest of his Americano.
“Just feel like Gucci and one day you’ll be it.”

And as if a switch flipped inside him, he said, “Duty calls! Gotta go now. The world doesn’t run itself, you know. This multi-billionaire industry is China waiting to crack.”

“Thank God for Bitcoin! God who? Ooh! That’d be me!”

And in a flurry of another chuckle and a dramatic wave of his freshly manicured hands, he turned his back on me and strutted into the green and red.

City Of Water

By P. Snigdha

With City of Water, Anindita Sengupta takes us on a journey spanning a lifetime of experiences – from heartbreak to despair, subtle existentialism to fervent cries for help.

Anindita Sengupta writes with a skilled pen, she articulates her deepest of thoughts with an apparent ease, resonating with the reader’s own experiences.

The collection is divided into six parts – Thirst, A Sense of Rain, Flash Flood, Drown, Still Water, and Swim.

As the names suggest, with each part we ascend into a different plane of the poet’s emotions, each a parallel universe of her understanding of reality, coming together to form the idea, the thought, of what she presents herself as – to the reader, as a human.

Her raw, unflinching descriptions of growing up in a household that held naïve ideas of modesty, speak to every one of us who has lived through the same. She writes, in Becoming a Woman:

Cover your head;
This thin translucence
Will protect you.

Pull a smile
Across the thin
Lines of your face.

The gloom in her silent acceptance of disappointment, seems to glow with a steady pulse, as if to guide you home.
Recounting a lost love in I Remember Siachen, she writes:

You wanted freedom, you said,
From both war and love.

I cried on the way back, vowed
I’d never love a soldier gain,
A man for whom death was the only tragedy
Worth mourning.

Page after page, poem after poem, I was awed by the simplicity with which her poetry tackles the most complex of emotions that come with being a person who chooses to remain unafraid, unrelenting in the face of love.

Her metaphors and similes hit you of out of nowhere – delivering the full blow of the emotions, as intended.

Thus, you feel the ‘noon heat prickle like cheap wood’ on your skin and in your eyes.
When the snails make their way up the walls, you can picture them in your head as clear as day – their crusts, their feet, et al.
After reading The Migrant’s Wife, you probably won’t be able to shake off the distinct feeling that says, “I feel like I met her just this morning!”

As the preface by Keki Daruwala aptly puts it, “Anindita Sengupta never lets a poem run away with her. Like all good poets, she is original both in her way with words and her personal angle of vision.”

Her tone in her poetry is vividly varied. On one page, she seeks “the strength to forget,” later she is overtly curious and pokes questions at none other than Medusa herself, and yet in some others, she is observant; drinking in the details that lie before her.

Anindita Sengupta‘s poetry has been published in several journals including Eclectica, Nth Position, Yellow Medicine Review, Origami Condom, Pratilipi, Cha: An Asian Journal, Kritya,and Muse India. It has also appeared in the anthologies Mosaic (Unisun, 2008), Not A Muse(Haven Books, 2009), and Poetry with Prakriti (Prakriti Foundation, 2010). She is also a freelance writer and journalist and has contributed articles to The Guardian (UK), The Hindu, Outlook Traveler and Bangalore Mirror.

Anindita Sengupta’s word choice of words, the placing and pattern of phrases, the intricately woven similes – each and every word that she pours on paper, comes splashing at your face. The reader is drenched in the downpour of her ramblings, ruminations, recollections, and so, so much more.

 

To Sir, With Love

By Manusmriti

‘To Sir, With Love’ is an autobiographical account of Edward Ricardo Braithwaite – a dedicated teacher who turns hate into love, teenage rebelliousness into self-respect, contempt into consideration for others – the story of a man’s integrity winning against all odds.

This Anisfield-Wolf Book Award winner, set in the East end of London, depicts the society and culture prevalent in the UK, post World War II.

It portrays the relationship between a black teacher and his students and how the teacher shames his pupils, wrestles with them, enlightens them and eventually mutual love is formed.

Braithwaite states in ‘To Sir With Love’, that like many other Caribbean men, he joined the British Armed Forces out of a sense of duty and during the war years he was ready to die for his country.

Upon being demobilized at the end of the war, Braithwaite fully expects to be absorbed in the upper level of his chosen profession of engineering as he has studied in New York and will soon earn a masters degree in Physics from Cambridge University.

However, interview after interview, he is refused an appointment because of his colour. With a blow, he soon realizes that the camaraderie of the service does not transfer to civilian life. His joblessness for eighteen months led him into disillusionment which had given place to a deepening, poisoning hatred; slowly but surely he was hating those people who so casually, so unfeelingly denied him the right to earn a living. He was considered too well educated, too good for the lowly jobs, and too black for anything better. It seemed to him, that they resented the fact that he looked tidy.

The main theme of racial prejudice explicitly or implicitly has been woven into the story. There is humanistic effort on the part of the teacher to deal with a bunch of unruly students and creates a breathing space for himself. He goes on to become the most respected teacher.

The story also highlights the role of a teacher in making students realize their potential. All students can’t be expected of high academic results but steps can be taken to ensure that their abilities are exploited to the full.

The writing style of the book is persuasive, simple, clear and convincing, keeping the reader engaged.

The book gives the readers an insight into the struggles of black people and makes one think about humanity.

Hoping against hope, Braithwaite offers simple solutions regarding how we should not be discouraged from bringing about change and betterment in the same societies that insist on killing the hopeful light inside of us.

 

 

maybe he is my moon

By Shafali

I’ve been suffering from,
an exclusive type
of writer’s block
when it comes to
writing about him.
Because he becomes
stranger and stranger
every time I sit down
to pour him on paper.
I know him but
maybe, just maybe
I don’t understand him.
I want to highlight his beauty
with subtle similes.
Describe how he’s intimidating,
exaggerating the effects
of his existence on me.
And praise him
with overrated metaphors.
But my words are
In a state of rebel,
not wanting to leave
the back of my mind.
Why? I’d never know.
I’ve given up on
finding the answer.
I won’t stress it
Because I’ve always had
unanswerable questions
hovering in my mind.
Like why didn’t Neil Armstrong
write a poem about the moon?
My friend thinks Armstrong
Didn’t understand poetry.
But I feel like,
he suffered from
an exclusive type of
writer’s block too.
Maybe, just maybe,
He knew poetry;
He just never
understood the moon.