The following poem by Nidhil V from Brampton, Canada was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020
a lonely camera looks on,
at five imperfect people and five imperfect smiles,
five imperfect sets of clothes and five imperfect stories,
that have been paused,
to steal this perfect moment, from time itself.
blinded by the flash, they huddle around the camera.
dots of blue and purple, curtain their vision,
and no one notices that there’s five people,
and only four sets of teeth.
dadi said they’re crooked, whispers my sister,
crooked is ugly.
Lieutenant General Vohra beams from ear to ear.
the wound below his eye is a battle scar,
which he dons with, pride and honour.
a badge, like the ones that grace his uniform.
Undergraduate Vohra’s
gold dupatta, glimmering, like her 4.0 GPA,
is wrapped around her wrists.
her cuts reek of dishonour.
they’re from a battle,
history books won’t talk about,
and she won’t either.
my dad’s heavy hands,
rest on my shoulders.
my dad’s heavy eyelids,
droop slightly, as he stares into the distance.
my dad’s heavy heart,
suffers from undiagnosed eternal grief.
my dad’s heavy shoulders,
haven’t felt hands rest on them,
since,
my dad’s heavy hands,
set fire to a wooden pyre.
i see myself,
happy, calm, still.
still.
the me in the picture, isn’t shaking his left leg,
or drawing circles with his right hand,
and no one can tell that my mind,
has already wandered onto foreign thoughts.
what would it feel like to devour a kebab,
made out of a t-rex’s flesh?
the photographer and my mom,
are talking shop.
highlights, exposure, gradients, contrast.
his smile says that he is impressed,
with the 45-year-old lady’s knowledge,
of Adobe Photoshop.
after years of receiving fairness creams
as birthday presents,
she found her magic wand,
in photo editing.
as we hang the family photograph,
up on the off-white wall,
someone calls it,
“a picture-perfect family.”
i smile. my little sister laughs.
this time, she can’t help but show her teeth.