A Case on Combating Inhumanity- Paridhi Kalotara Aggarwal

My ancestors disposed the dead

But I make my pen perform the last rites.

My ancestors made marvelous baskets

But I weave worthless words,

Half-eaten by termites.

My ancestors were denied the pen and given pyre

I come from fire, but I am nothing like my ancestry

Because they made music

But I write pain and call it poetry.

This is not written word.

It is a beaten world,

Beaten body, beaten mind, beaten heart,

Where spitting and pissing on fellow humans

Is the divine art that oppressors mastered,

To keep the lesser born fettered

By the fact that 'shit' is what they are,

Which makes me wonder what if, there was no caste?

And instead of shit, a human could be called a star.

What if there was room for Ambedkar, Phule and Periyar?

I excavate my entire existence to write a personal poem

To serve authenticity to readers reeling under reality.

But my pain refuses to identify as pain

After watching innocent men

Being gunned down in a train,

Because of the faith they followed

In a secular country.

If this life is poetry then repetition is its ugliest device,

This repetition isn't nice.

It was repetition not déjà-vu

When a teacher made small children

Slap their own classmate

Because his faith was the same

As the men murdered in the train.

My misery has now lost its brain,

It thinks it is mirth

As I was never slapped because of my birth.

This makes me wonder, what if, there was no religion?

And atleast children were allowed to remain human.

What if I confessed that I know exactly,

The futility of writing poetry

Where I keep talking of the wrongs

I cannot right

I made poems out of my mother's plight

But could not put it to an end

Women in my country are cut to bits,

Brutalized and raped every second.

Knowing that others suffer worst

How do I voice my own suffering?

The abuse, the violence, the eve-teasing.

And as I begin to think,

What if, there was no gender hierarchy?

It strikes me that that the Supreme Court said

It is not eve-teasing but 'Street Sexual Harassment'.

And I can't emphasize enough

The importance of language in oppression’s acknowledgement,

How the words we use are the vehicles of empowerment.

Hail the Supreme Court's handbook on combating gender stereotypes,

Why not learn from it the art of making wrongs right,

Why not for once be outright,

Why not try stopping this entire insanity,

Why not have a 'Handbook on Combating Inhumanity'.

Twentieth Marriage-Anniversary- Pradeep Jindal

Twentieth Marriage-Anniversary

Come, awhile sit with me, now

Or during the day whenever you are free

On this auspicious day of our marriage anniversary;

Come, let us peep into ourselves

With the mind’s eye, dear lady

And speak not; muse over; the years gone twenty;

Let us ponder over that happened good between us

And also over the bad,

About the future too, so the years to come aren’t sad;

God created males and females

In animals, in vegetation and in the human entity,

In His creation, pairs only, He created in plenty;

Let us be aware of His grace and our existence,

Why amongst all, He did us in a pair cast?

Merciful heaven has given us a chance,

Paired us in this birth to come clean on our past;

Let us be honest in thought and watch our actions

And honor His will and His pious soul-selections;

Presents make the present, shall soon be the past,

Not much longer in life these endure and last;

Forgive; forget; let us dive deep into inner peace

And give each other presents that forever last.

***

Traces of Humanity- Natraj Kranthi

My mother left food,

For the stray dog.

Not the left-out food,

For the stray dog.

Thanking fate,

Wagging tail,

Emptied plate,

Without fail.

The dog in turn

And in return,

Safeguarded her,

Escorted her.

From the bus stop,

To the house.

And to the bus stop,

From the house.

For small little food,

The dog always stood.

In times of need,

Like a true friend indeed.

The dog was human,

More than the human.

Pure than purity, Symbolizing humanity.

Never the dog failed,

To come out in favour. Never the dog failed,

To bark at troubling neighbour.

Agitated neighbours, Complained about the dog.

The authorities arrived, And captured the dog.

Dragged the dog,

Into the open van.

Barking stray dog,

Resisted and ran.

My mother rushed

Hearing dog’s pain, Helpless dog looked,

At my mother in vain.

The van with the dog,

Left the street gate.

My mother cried,

Looking at the plate.

Now this story,

Turned history.

Now that dog is no more And my mother is no more.

Remained memories of sanity.

Invaluable lessons of purity.

Lifetime treasures of sanctity,

And traces of humanity.

आदत है | Anjaan Ehsaas

तू बिजली अपनी चमक दिखा ना दिखा,

मुझ बादल को बार-बार टकराने की आदत है।

तू नज़रो से अपनी कब तक मारता जायगा,

मुझ मौत को बार-बार जिन्दा होने की आदत है।

तू मंज़िल राह की रानी कितनी भी दुर दिख,

मुझ मुसाफिर को उमर भर चलने की आदत है।

तू मेरी जिन्दगी को औराक़-ए-परेशां जैसे भिखेर दे,

मुझ कातिब को सिमेट के लिखने की आदत है।

तू परिन्दा किस सरहद की मजाल बांध दे,

मुझ शजर को वफा निभाने की आदत है।

तू लाख कोशिशें करती रह अन्धेरा करती रह,

मुझ चिराग को रोशनी देने की आदत है।

तू इन्कार करती रह बातें बनाती रह,

मुझ भूलकड को याद दिलाने की आदत है।

Mere sapne- Pooja Verma

पंछी हूं पर पंख नहीं

पिंजरे में हूं पर क़ैद नहीं

आजाद हूं अपनी सोच से

आसमां की तरह जिसका अंत नहीं

पर मेरे सपनों पर हैं

बंदिशों की जंजीरें

फिर भी मैंने अपने सपने को

हैं मजबूती से पकड़ा

मां कहती हैं कि मुश्किलें भी तो

हैं जीवन का एक हिस्सा

पर ये भी सच हैं कि

अपनों ने ही तो हमको

हैं आगे बढ़ने से रोका

करते हैं प्यार, चिंता भी पर

पंछी को उड़ने से रोका हैं

फिर भी हूं मैं कोशिश में

क्यूंकि हर पल हैं एक नया मौका

मेरे सपने भी होंगे सच

कुछ वक्त बेशक लग जाए

इन जंजीरों को तोड़

मुझे अपनी कहानी है लिखनी

आसमां छूना मेरा मकसद नहीं

ज़मीं पर पांव के निशा ही हैं काफी

खुद की पहचान है बनानी

अपने सपनों का सफ़र बस हैं बा़की।

AN ETERNAL RIGHT OF GETTING IT WRONG | Muskan Saroha

The wind scale of a still land scape,

An utter rush of flitting in the air.

A daze occupation of inactivity and a sleepy tree all over in time.

I don’t know if calls of it exist,

I don’t know if destination waits a bit,

I don’t know if flit of the breeze makes it to the end but only if I could know it.

And only if I could hold it.

The divine of travel did not make it right,

The terror of fright we could not realize,

There’s a still in already still-

we never came to be known and just how fast our fingers turn wrong.

Never in time we know truths.

It’s never a wonder to hold the silence- it’s just so fantastic that we know it exists.

Getting ourselves wrong and happenings of wrong both exist in a simmer of frightful end,

If we could jump the ways we would know the plight of uncured ‘tends’.

A day tomorrow- no one’s sure and today passes in the repent of yesterday’s loss.

Was this a life God intended?

Or just we created a solace of unfinished in a dark thought.

No way round do we reach the answer,

No way round do we approach the silence.

It is not we, I realize but already a lord sits above.

But still not getting if it really brings the end?

For the moments forget memory but memory do remembers the

moments.

If this brings end I hope everyone lay unfinished before the eternal right approaches our wrong,

This way we could share the last one word,

This way we would embrace our silences better.

For what brings end is not so in itself and what do end is not surely a wry of unfinished but a way to the finished

that would soon end.

Stagnant- Zoya Azhar

I wake up.

In an unusual move, I peep through the curtains to catch a glimpse of the starlit sky. The moon must've risen a certain way tonight.

I pull a book called If I Were a Runaway from under my pillow and leave the house with nothing but vigorous feet and an aimless mind.

The roads look like runways; except, they're dark. They certainly look better suited for crash lands than take-offs. I linger in front of the playground for a while. When I realise that I'm not used to enjoying the sight of children pulling their knees to their chin and burying their heads in them so as to compensate for a forgotten mask, I leave. The glass doors of huge state-owned buildings and corporate headquarters fascinate me; they seem to be the only clean thing about them. But now, as I stand in front of one, I don't see angels behind me in my reflection. I mean, my foggy glasses certainly did create the atmosphere for an apparition but whatever.

I continue to walk, making sure to step on every living creature that I look down upon, both literally and figuratively. The fact that I end up in front of a head-shrinker's clinic seems so unrelated to this chronicle that it could as well be a part of a different narrative. But now that I'm here I decide to fetch some drug samples to cure my mind of this aimlessness. I enter, and looking right through me, he says, "Are you sure that it is your wandering mind that brings you here, and not your stagnant heart?"

Sundays at the Marketplace, with My Father- Sragdharamalini Das

Your long legs that whisk you away

With each step imperious leagues

Would set any little girl adrift, but I

Was busy keeping pious pace.

A scuttling girl shadowing her father’s stroll

We approach the marketplace

A weeklong of work, but now you’re here with me

Hemmed in by the throng and din.

My canary umbrella is another snag

Dangling more like sack than shed

In my frail fingers it frolics from side to side

A funny little thing under glaring rays.

When your eyes turn back, and they always do,

I am falling behind, they seem to state.

So I strike the ground and I spite my feet

A wager of your approval against self-hate.

I maneuver through the towering swarm

Of buyers, just to sight

The back of your grey shirt, it’s my Sunday game

When I win, you’re by my side.

Holding on to your rugged pants then I hope

For you to look down, see I’m here

Lowering your gaze you check the firmness of fruits

While my eyes repeat, look I’m here.

The objects on display are charming all

Stacks of crayons, green and red

Fishes sheathed in silver perfect for a princess crown

At my father’s behest, they swing on seesaw scales.

I follow him then to the lanes where they sell goat meat

Standing by the bloody sludge, I wait

He discerns the good ones from the bad

To me, they all seem dead.

At last with bags bursting at the seams

He walks straight back, I wobble beside

At last he retires to the sofa

And he sees me, I close my eyes.

The House of my Childhood - Bipasha Saikia

Four evergreen Ashok trees with their dense foliage,

Guarded the brick red walls of the house of my childhood.

Along the same wall in the purple vine of the bougainvillea,

Chirped and chattered, a host of sparrows, in their nests,

Making merry in early spring mornings - as much as they could.

Rose bushes - red, white and pink, dainty shuilis and a mango tree;

Three big coconut trees and a towering areca palm;

And maybe there was a guava tree or was it a tree of neem?

Yes, there was a deep well too where the maid washed clothes every morn;

And they all lay in the backyard garden of this abode – once pleasant and warm.

The doors have gathered rust and so has the little iron swing,

Where my sister and I went flying, up the skies so deep in blue;

Shrieks of glee in our young voices, what had we to worry?

Cobwebs adorn the crevices and the pale-yellow walls have crumbled,

And vacant windows stare, the house of my childhood is in ruins, could it really be true?

I hear the murmurs and the laughter, in the playgrounds, in the rooms;

They waft in the air carrying memories in their wake.

I also hear a faint bark, perhaps of the dog that lived with us for fourteen years,

Where did we bury him? Was it next to the sugarcane tree?

Teary eyes and a heavy chest– what is this dull ache?

I recall the wrath of the ashok trees and the sturdy coconuts in the backyard,

When wild winds and raging storms of the monsoon befell them,

They swayed around, back and forth but always held ground.

Alas! One spring afternoon the areca nut gave in, and with it, the woodpecker vanished too;

One with a feathery crown that drummed its beak in the trunk of the mighty tree, lost in the mayhem.

I hear songs too – Oh! Thinkin’ about all our younger years

Of singer Bryan Adams – in that husky raspy voice of his,

Those were the best days of my life

My sister and I, sitting atop the roof of our house,

The smell of rain in the air, our souls unfettered – we felt bliss.

The aroma of mother’s local fish curry with hot rice,

Hurried us to the dinner table post nine,

As we all sat together – father, mother sister, grandmother and I,

With the radio station playing soulful melodies,

Lulling us into hours of blissful sleep thereafter.

And during unending hours of power cuts - we bathed in the moonlight outside;

How resplendent the night looked – the glow of the moon in the grounds;

Our wrists ached while we flicked the bamboo hand fans,

Smiles in our faces – as its gentle breeze caressed our skin and played with our hair,

Cast in darkness for hours – families would roar in glee as houses light up again.

The house of my childhood stands tall still, hollow and cold,

It lies somewhere in the dense jungle of concrete, lost and forgotten,

Bereft of inhabitants – of sounds of laughter and happy memories,

Like a guitar with a broken string or the tearful adieu of a beloved.

I often see the house in my dream and wake up –with inexplicable grief and fear.

Kutty Teaches Mummy: Age of Discovery - Trevor Pinto

Mommy, mommy, look at this!

screamed my little toddler,

look at this baby dancing like me

all reported in a constant breathless commentary.

Christian mother of a single child

who is three, terrified I get, rushed in

chanting Appale po sathane,

to get some holy water and the rosary.

An increase in my delay to check

fuelled the cheering intensity.

My kutty, chasing something in the living room

increased my jitters, made me doubt

the annual blessing rituals and the parish priest.

I started my prayers to give me strength

to face the evil, but my prayers

were drowned by her giggles, Oh Gosh!

I wondered if there was another soul,

or is my child confused with the karpam poochi.

Oh, wait! She did mention another baby.

Confused and paranoid, still chanting.

Now I enter, all worried and sweaty,

to see my child pointing randomly,

switching her gaze constantly

from the wall to everywhere between.

hypnotised, too stunned to speak,

she blurts out, pointing out at her shadows.

Look, Mommy, the dancing baby.

My kutty almost got me. Gosh! Now, I am relieved.

I am happy that my baby recognises,

she receives a cookie as a treat.

Thanks to this rush, which I needed,

I learned a few prayers which I had skipped

I am also embarrassed about how I responded

though I work and I have a Ph.D.,

Cheers to the age of discovery.

Now I connect with the dark ages,

Renaissance and the history

This is how you figured out a lot of stuff, isn’t it,

most of it was pure discovery, the rest

labelled as inventions per necessities.

Ada pavingla! I had to be three, to see

the world gets beautiful when ignorance is bliss.

It is okay not to know everything,

thanks to her for showing me how to live.

Life is a journey, and learning is a part of it

The memories created in the process are worth.

As for my little kutty, now I join her in the game

to show a fish and a bird flying.

I need to brush up on SUPW classes more than prayers.

I can finally breathe.

Glossary

Appale po sathane – In Tamil, roughly translates to ward of evil here used as Go devil go.

Kutty – Tamil word for little one

Ada pavingla – Tamil slang which has a contextual meaning mostly used as an exclamation – you sinners

Karpam poochi Tamil for cockroach

SUPW - Socially Useful Productive Work

छुट्टियां- Jyoti Singh

बीती छुट्टियां,

मैंने अपने घर पर बितायीं

हर बार,

जाता हूं,

सबके लिए कुछ - न - कुछ लेकर

कपड़े, खिलौने, मिठाई

और एक उम्मीद,

दोबारा फिर से घर लौटकर आने की

हर बार,

लगता है,

जैसे कितना कुछ बदल गया है

या फिर,

जैसे कुछ भी नहीं बदला

मेरे पुराने घर में,

कुछ नई कुर्सियां आ गई हैं

और कुछ नए बर्तन भी

मगर अब भी,

एक कुर्सी है,

जिस पर बैठ कर

कुछ वापस से ज़िंदा हो जाता है

एक थाली है,

जो घिस - घिस कर,

कुछ पुरानी हो चली है

पर अब भी खाने का स्वाद,

उसमें खाकर ही आता है

हर बार,

वापस जाते हुए

बहुत कुछ साथ ले जाता हूं

टिफिन भर कर सब्ज़ी,

अख़बार में लिपटी हुई पूरियां,

कुछ ताज़ी - बासी यादें

और छोड़ जाता हूं

अपना कुछ हिस्सा,

यहीं पर,

फिर से वापस ले जाने के लिए,

अगली छुट्टियों में ।।

Silenced Echoes- Lakshika Middha

I ask the world my fault

the place I am born at?

or the family I am born in?

From the lap of defenceless parents

who have just seen hardship phases

head to toe tangled in the slashes

the colour of their eyes dull and faded.

Unaware about the turn of the destiny,

I was given a life with wings to fly and soar the sky,

In the world where a girl is the goddess

worshiped, respected and is dignified.

But they,

wrenched the new-born for self conceit

to raise their level of money by trafficking

For their pleasure and their entertainment,

From one place to the other,

From one master to the other,

Whipped and Cuffed, Caged and Scud

Those schadenfreudes',

derived every pleasure from my body

the most they could.

Beyond my senses my every breath was tortured

and my died soul was left abandoned.

Though shielded by my parents in womb for nine

but as the journey of thousands miles began

they chopped my wings and the existence lost its way.

Now the life is still outside my window

the sky that was blue has turned out black

the warmth by the sunshine has become a rare event,

the raw wounds on my body are now painless

and my soul has forsweared to resuscitate.

The face that once glowed had now lost its charm

that road once travelled has just harmed.

Now I am my master’s property

I am just a property.

The graven Universe

did nothing except paper poster on walls

years after years many lives get halt

I call them my neighbours,

As now this is my home.

A story of the cocoon and Labyrinth - Shruthi Sharma

Amidst the silky webs, undergoing the toughest trials,

Where bouts intermingle, in life’s extra knit grip.

A beast beholds me tightly, not letting me go,

From dawn till dusk, my soul it consumes.

Every morning I arise to the monotony of repetition.

Repetition of routine, holding me so tight and close.

Close enough to destroy my yearning whispers,

To rise enough and undergo metamorphosis.

I am still in the cocoon, a space, a sanctuary,

A sanctuary of bitter truths traversing a silent storm .

A storm big enough to catapult a mystical being,

A being, such as me, pulling away from transforming.

I look inside, and I see a power,

A power of within holding me upright.

Upright enough to break free from the cocoon,

Seeking solace in the dreams, I strive to get free.

A resolute spirit, a tired body and an evasive mind,

Mind full of possibilities and inspiration.

As I navigate the toughest labyrinth of existence,

I still fight to strive each day.

I dream of a day with wings emerging,

Expanding to unfurl the greatest spirits,

Soring on the canvas of the evergreen sky

Sky with hues of dark blue, purple and pink

Soaring to catapult away from the labyrinth.

Metamorphosis, an ancient symphony of transformation

Amidst darkness, storm and a knit world,

A radiant bloom with testament of resilience

Waiting to flourish and dance in the skies.

For within all of me, is a dormant fire,

A volcano which can change the world in a split.

Bouncing into the world with a chance of rebirth,

Through metamorphosis, I find my truth.

Winds of change, winds of fire as I traverse,

Traverse through the threads of the cocoon.

Mastering the space of the labyrinth,

Through metamorphosis, I found myself yet again!

For today is a little too precious,

Precious to keep my wings upright.

Soar enough to traverse the complex labyrinth,

Yet return to the cocoon to tell a story !

Breathe and Be- Savita Narayan

Whirling in a wild dance, I stumble out of

My mind, my body,

And as I do

I see wings, flapping trapping wind

I see streams

The sun skiing, snorkelling on tides

Stone spilling stillness and sunshine

Whispering sweet nothing to the sky

Clouds roaring with laughter, breathing spring

Into the bird who stomps in style

Time falls as I fly

I die before I die

All of life- a car journey

Fleeting, dreaming

here then there

Sometimes Mountain peak calling

Then Foothill weed kissing

Stop

Still

Freeze

Come here

Come within

Still as the tree

Dazzling as the sun

Burst like the cloud full of poems

Stretch both feet- breathe

And with that beam

That lights the world

Declare, I am already here

There’s no where I have to go

No where I have to be

But here, here alone

Breathe and be

Symposium on a dinner table- Mounisha Tripathi

Six chairs, three on each side

The head sits at the farthest right

Away from the danger,

the cardboard of protestors, ‘Arms’ of the protectors.

It will not be black,But mahogony.

Not futhur explained.

The lovers sit on tables facing each other,

Or the adjacent ones,

Or were they not lovers at all?

Just bodies who have seen the other’s cellulite

Discovering a certain desire of hunger.

The children you ask?

Which children?

The glass panels of the school are still broken.

Same colours have same meanings, they say

Father’s anger will be the ketchup

The lover’s blue the water

Their inevitable end, the meat in the middle.

Gorged and stared at by everyone,

ravished into flames.

Returning to the table each night,

as ghastly as visiting the scenes of a fatal execution : of love, happiness and immortality.

No romanticising the table they say

But what about the countless coffee stains?

From the nights that remain unnamed,

Chambers of the heart that mingled and seperated

again and again and again.

It's marmalade!

No its whipped cream.

The table is solitude,

Unasked freedom that is dreamt upon on wretched nights.

It is the place you paint your nails a bright red colour

Remembering the wounds,

The endless war.

Dear Maa | Padmini Peteri

Dear Maa

You called me heartless

as I didn’t shed a tear

yes, I couldn’t

because I didn’t want to accept the reality.

I sat by him whom everyone

called a body, and felt

the cremation burning in my mind,

of my own heart, of my own soul.

I watched his motionless chest and

hoped it’ll turn

into a pulsating one soon,

I tried to observe everything

before the pain grappled me

Grappled my skin and soul but

I couldn’t feel my emotions all I could hear were

your words that haunt me forever:

Are you a rock? Don’t you love him? Cry!

I love him much more than you can imagine Maa,

he was and will always be

my little brother, my best friend

I know I should have cried but

I was so broken to let a tear pass down,

I was scared, if I cried

his death would turn into a reality!

My eyes felt like they were born out of drought,

dry no matter what,

when people touched me,

screamed at me, stared at me,

reality whispered to me

it threw me into a never-ending tunnel,

I felt empty,

drawn towards lifelessness,

I knew the reality but

I couldn’t cry maa, a part of me left my soul,

the loss of a loved one and the burden of your judgement!

I filled my stomach with food but only felt emptiness

a pit, a void within me, that shadowed my heart,

I felt a captive of pain, of being judged,

A tsunami within, chaos filled my days.

I no longer prayed or hoped,

pain shadowed me day and night,

my heart lingered around the one I lost

and the judgment that you passed on me Maa,

the loss of my brother will never heal me

nor your sorry will take away the chaos I experience,

but your sorry may help me not feel this pathetic Maa!

Lotus- Shambhavi Dewedi

A zillion times, repetitively, exasperation feels not exaggerated of a term when 'Lotus blooms in mud' is articulated. Yes, indeed, most certainly it does! But, the mud has grown an oesophagus to swallow the lotus that grows on its surface because it is rooted in shame. The mud inside my rusty garden of a soul is said to be dirt or worse, nothing is spoken. Denial, apathy, ignorance, a mastery of not seeing stars on a starry night, blindness of heart not of eyes.There are no words, just decoration of plastic flowers over a land of quicksand to cover up as if there were a crime scene, the mud engulfs as many as you put on top of it but the process is unending. Perhaps, it yearns for some loathing, some hatred, some disgust, some disowning but there's none and nothing hurts like not being acknowledged, for it is the biggest slur. The presence is not present if not seen and what's not present isn't worthy of anything.

Purani Almari - Rupam Malakar

Ek purani almari dekhi thi maine,

Kisi kone mein,

Dher saari kitaben honi chahiye thi waha,

Par kuch bin ahamiyat ki cheezen thi,

Jiski zarurat hogi kisi ko,

Mujhe nahi thi,

Socho agar kitaben hoti waha,

Unme se ek kitab tumhari likhi hui,

Jise main har roz padhta,

Shabdo ko sunta tumhari awaaz mein,

Din nikal jaata yun hi,

Tumhe yaad karte karte,

Jaise ab tak nikli hain,

Subah hote hi aankh kholta hoon,

Toh tum dikhti ho,

Aaj bhi,

Din bhar zehn mein mere rehti ho,

Thak jaata hoon toh yaadon mein meri basti ho,

Ro lu toh ashkon se beh jaati ho,

So jaata hoon toh sapno mein chali aati ho,

Mujhe satane ko,

Mujhe hasaane ko,

Mujhe pukaarne ko,

Haan main aa raha hoon,

Tum rahogi na,

Mere saath,

Kisi baat ka darr nahi ab,

Bus fanaa ho jaana hain,

Aag mein jhulas jaana hain,

Is purani almari mein aag lag jaane do,

Magar tumhari kitab jalegi nahi,

Kyunki woh tumhari likhawat hogi,

Ek dhaarmik granth jaisi,

Waisa hi kuch,

Saccha sa,

Warna is kavita ko likhne ka kya phaayda,

Aur tumhari likhi hui kitab ko padhne ka kya phaayda,

Use badal kar nahi,

Dimaag se nahi,

Dil se likkho,

Phir dekhna tum,

Aag mein pani girne par bhi,

Woh kabhi bujhega nahi,

Humesha jalte rahega,

Ek mashaal ki tarah,

Seene mein,

Tumhare bhi,

Aur mere bhi.

Papa | Muskan Anmol Khullar

Time, they say, heals all the pain.

But they never said how to deal with that pain. Isn’t that insane ?

Poles apart, there lived a piece of my heart,

Who taught me the way to life and how to respect mumma, sister and my wife.

In the blink of an eye, he just became the brightest star,

that he just seemed so far.

Glancing at my phone’s screen,

Wishing to see ‘papa’ ringing on it, is now just a dream.

He used to say, ‘weak are those who cry’,

To hide my tears and smile is the only thing I try.

It’s been months I’ve seen his ever shining smile and glowing face,

That literally helped me get through life’s race.

You are the perfect example of a gentleman,

But nothing changes the fact, that I was and always be your biggest fan.

Nasha Mera Khuda- Deepika MANJU SINGH

Ek insaan Khuda se gila karta hua....(Drug Addict)

Gamo me itna dooba hun,

Pareshaniyon me itna ghira hun,

Nashe ko apna khuda banakar,

Dusre azaabo ko bula baitha hun.

Haq nahi hai, teri rahmato se mili zindagi ko tabah karne ka,

Par ab wapsi ke raste band hai,

To bebas hokar maut ke kafan ko odh kar leta hun.

Kahaan tha tu pehle,

Jo kabhi dikhayi nahi diya,

Khuda ho kar bhi,

Apni nazre churata raha.

Akela chod rakha tha zaleemo ke beech,

Kya tujhe kabhi mera khayal naa tha?

Ab mat kehna, kyun kiya apne sath aisa,

Tu to kabhi mere par meherbaan hi naa tha.

Khuda ka jawab:

Gam aur pareshaniyan di thi maine, maanta hoon,

Par kaash tu inko jhel pata,

Fida ho jata tujh par mein,

Agar tu azaabo ko khatam kar pata.

Haq shayad tha tujhe apni zindagi se khelne ka,

Phir bhi ek baar, waapsi ke raste par mera naam lekar to aata,

Namumkin bhi mumkin ho jata, mujh par yakeen rakh kar to aata.

Nazre kaise chura sakta tha tujhse, karta aisa to khuda na reh jata.

Tera khayal na rakhkar, Khud ko kabhi maaf na kar pata.

Kabhi nahi sawal karunga, Ki kyun kiya tune aisa,

Par puchunga sirf itna,

Ki apno ko kyun duniya me akela chod aaya,

Apni sari jimmedariyan kaise bhula aaya.