SUNFLOWERS- KALYAN GEORGE

As the sunlight streaked through the curtains

The last rays of the day illuminating the wall;

I sat still, staring at the sheet of white

Reminiscing of times gone by.

Of moments that defined lives,

Of memories etched deep,

Of people who shaped destinies.

I closed my eyes.

Mama would say:

‘God’s greatest gift, my child

Was giving colour to His creation

Haven’t you seen?

The strokes that He has made on His Earth

So, bold, so beautiful.’

Mama was a dreamer you see.

Captivated by thought,

Sometimes, living in a fantasy.

I wondered if she ever realised

The colour God gave her and me

Gave us the burden of slavery.

Papa would say:

‘Boy, the freedom train is coming

One day, we will leave behind these chains

And we will run with the wind

Through the meadows, through the trees

Across hills, mountains, and valleys’

Papa was a believer, you see.

His faith was strong

In the midst of trials.

No matter how high the waves were

He would hold fast to hope

And sail the seven seas.

The dreamer and the believer

Toiled the hours away

To keep the Master’s kingdom

In conditions so pristine.

Slaves, the Master would call them.

Mama would stare at the big white wall

Whenever she could steal a few minutes

She would ask: ‘What do you see?’

All I saw was a spotless space.

But she said that was her canvas

She sat for minutes and hours

Days and months

For a tapestry of heaven,

Was asked of her; a spinner of chronicles.

For the Master, it was decoration

A cloth to robe his wall with.

For Mama, it was her resistance

A drapery of courage, a beacon of light; amidst the storm.

I asked her:

“How can we see from heaven from here?’

As her hands flowed

In seamless rhythm

She told me the story of each thread

How each one had a tale to tell.

The dark red,

The colour of the fine wine the Master drank;

Also, of the blood that flowed from the marks of whips

The vibrant green,

The colour of the grass of the front lawn

Also, of the wad of greenbacks that eluded our hands

The piercing blue,

The shade of the deep ocean bed

Also, the endless sky under which

One day, maybe, we could live free.

The threads, intertwined

Danced with each other,

As they climbed up and down the tapestry

Moulding themselves into a spellbinding narrative.

Days became months, months became years

We lived suppressed, downtrodden;

But, our comfort lay in the hanging in the entrance:

Mama’s heaven.

A stream which flowed

Right down the middle

Clear skies, without a cloud in sight

Flowers of a multitude colours

Red, pink, yellow and white.

Snow capped mountains

And a bird, with wings stretched

Horizon bound, in full flight.

And then one day,

A trip to town

Blessed by Mama’s kiss on my forehead

Turned out to be the last time.

Papa and me came back to the main house

To see it in flames

Burnt to the ground

Papa ran, while ordering me to stay.

Moments later, a lifeless figure in his arms

Along with a small piece of familiar cloth

Singed with raggy borders; on it

A picture of two smoky yellow flowers.

His face, calm.

His eyes, overwhelmed with despair.

His voice, firm.

‘Come, son.

We have to run away.’

So we ran,

Along the tracks of the freedom train.

And somewhere along the way,

A grave was dug,

The body was laid to rest.

I placed the charred fabric

The remnant of a past masterpiece

Over the ground where she lay.

And I knew

Mama was picking sunflowers with God

In a place far, far away.

Late Winter Rose | Palak Mishra

The first rose of late winter...

Blossoming under the sky..

Her stem facing downwards...

Looks like..she is shy...

"Who are you little flower...

What happened?... asked I"

"A bud...a baby rose..

but I'm a girl"...her reply..

"That's an honor little bud...

But you seem upset...Why?"

'Girl an honor??'Laughed amazingly...

And stopped!!...'oh! you are a guy...'

With a nervous face;I grasped...

She wanted a bye...

"I shouldn't talk to a stranger...

That's all...I can't justify.."

"Little Rose...you are a blessing...

Why don't you wish to fly...??"

"You listen to your heart...

It's your life... enjoy..."

'I am prisoned...I know...

Please don't gratify...'

'Yes I need a hope...

But no stupid lie..'

At swift...a wind thudded...

And my hands raised high...

'oh man!! you are one of those...

The several passers by..'

'Preaching me right ....

And asking me why?

I can save myself...

And what If I die...'

'Nothing will change...

The way farer...the pie...

You wanted to change my thaughts...

And what about thy?'

Qalb- Sameera Mansuri

Curl your tongue behind the gums,

exhale a letter under the breath

open your lips just a little wider

to let the feeling escape.

Qalb. (n. - heart, dil for a familiar tongue).

Noun is a feeling too,

floating in the background of names I utter

under the carpet

cleaning the fear and

the dust over the lips.

How do I pronounce a foreign language

with sticks in my hand?

Pain between the lines of my palm

leaves a sharp cry

as tears roll on the paper.

To speak a word you do not feel

you take a pain in a native language

and walk through corridors.

Empty footsteps,

heavy doorknobs.

You clean the tongue

and exhale.

How do I write a foreign language?

A curling alphabet over the paper,

spread its arms

open like the sun

dissect the 'zabaan'

while I stay numb in my dyslexic moment.

Write. Read.

but never understand.

The world behind a language

doesn't get along with the translation

it gets lost in sighs

by writers who read everything

and contemplate a little

belittling the original owner.

Qalb.

A noun.

A feeling that becomes history.

A language that twists my faith

while I lay down my letters

over this skin

with a flexible finger covering my lips.

Q-a-l-b,

I break the words before they can break me.

The heart can never satiate the thirst of a soul.

for cries of the heartbeat

evaporates in the translation.

The Bite | Gladwin George

Hunched onto the window,

the mosquito stood still -

Was it admiring the coarse

fabric of its carcass lying on the bed?

Or the advent of the gloomy

dusk which is more in tune

with its morbid intent?

The long awaited milieu is set;

it starts its perilous journey

towards the victim -

hovering around for a while

over the succulent mass,

finally it lands on a fertile plain

devoid of hairy skin, and

Deftly raising its proboscis ,

strikes hard into the fleshy

abyss of the hapless sleeper !

It slakes its lips with gore,

the sacrifice is done –

Every night the ritual gets repeated;

the hunter donning the friar`s hood

purging the sins of the prey(cleansing him thus)

while the bleeder gets sated at will!

Lake Fiona- Dia Bagul

If you really loved me,

Would you stab me over and over

In the same place that I hid from everyone but you?

Is it too naive of me to ask for love,

Like you once did, but your father would resist too.

You know it's fucked up when distance is the only pill

For the mental abuse.

Now you sit at the bank, sipping whiskey,

While the churning water from Lake Fiona haunts you.

The moon is your only ally

In your darkest hours.

You walk through the woods and call it solitude,

But you haven't yet fought the ghosts,

They resemble something you've longed for all along.

Now you walk alone in resentment because no one is reaching out for you,

But when I did,

You sucked the life out of me, just like he would.

It's a misery, something you don't choose.

Now these memories, like waves, come crashing over me.

I'm lost in silent screams.

Memories of you are like kerosene.

I'm on fire, fire that you lit years ago.

But why do I still reach out for you in the end?

I hate it.

Hate to say this, but why did you leave me?

I've swum these waters and almost drowned twice.

I've bled so much blood.

I've loved you with scars in my hands.

Scars from your bullet tongue,

And from when your silhouette shut the door as I left.

Hate to say this, but why did you leave me?

I hate mirrors because I see your face.

There's satin darkness and years of dread

That I spent looking for love in all the wrong places.

It's a misery, it follows you.

I still miss home; I wander in these woods.

But I've come to know

There's no map to a place called home,

Because it's something you have or you don't.

But I still linger, linger, linger all the time,

Like the whiskey in your hands.

Ghostly trees and your torn picture from the family portrait,

I still have it in my drawer; it's a secret.

I decorate it with tears.

Hate to admit it.

It's a misery; it haunts you.

You've bled dry too,

And I'm just another shade of rue like you.

I needed you,

Sleepless nights, stolen bliss, hiding corners,

You're my hiraeth, but the eerie one.

I imagined us on the telephone,

Your voice echoes,

As I grip myself.

It says, "I'm sorry,"

And I say I'm sorry too.

I gather the strength to let go,

And I say to you,

"Dad, I've missed you.

Dad, I needed you."

Now I'm on the porch, ruminating.

Lonesome moon,

Do you care too?

It's a misery, something you don't choose.

It's a misery, it follows you.

It's a misery, something you don't choose.

It's a misery, it haunts you.

The streaming waters from Lake Fiona haunt you.

They haunt you.

They haunt you.

They haunt you.

And they haunt me too.

TALAASH- Sheikh Faraz Qureshi

TALAASH

Tapte sehra me Ghar banakar Chao talaash ki ,

Hamne apne katil me mohabbat talaash ki ;

Saya sa Mera bankar tufaan sa chala Gaya,

Hamne charag-e-aas se fir uski talaash ki ;

Ruswa-e-zamana hokar tanha de ho gaye ,

Hamne fir iss Kalam me duniya ki talaash ki;

Pyaase ki jaam-e-ishq pilakar ehsas-e-gum Kara Diya ,

Hamne zamane me fir uss pyaase ki talaash ki;

Mohabbat ne jab sila Diya to anjaam kuch Yun hua ,

K hamne apne jism me fir rooh ki talaash ki ;

Anjaam-e-ishq se jab zamana rubaru hua ,

Hamne kya kafir ne bhi fir khuda ki talaash ki;

Madawa iss dard ka kisi k pass nhi,

Hamne fir thak haar kar maut ki talaash ki ;

Zamane ne jab ye paya mohabbat kuch to hai,

Hamne khushiyo me baith kar fir gum ki talaash ki;

Duniya baaki na raha jab koi wafadar,

Hamne khawabo me fir hamsafar ki talaash ki.....

The Last Bus at Night- Deepak Ahuja

My solitude, my eyes, and my feet, 

walk down a slippery path alone.

The remnants of hidden memories,

are pouring, like feelings unknown.

The wanderer, in me, is quiet,

but the seeker is always alive.

I wait endlessly, at the crossroads,

looking for the last bus at night.

Here it arrives, screeching loudly,

empty seats, resonate with my inside.

So many seats here could be filled.

Why not one soul, can this heart find?

I'm astonished by my patience.

Why do I wait for the last bus at night?

Am I subtle, or am I brittle? Do I exist?

Yearning for peace, in search of a fight.

The driver of the bus is very tired,

living a boring story of his own.

I can see in his eyes that emptiness,

he can control buses, but not unknown.

Life is foolish, the least I can say.

Why do good souls get the last bus?

Maybe their wait is long, fateful,

with love, pain and lost trust.

The day was long and tiresome.

I need to go home, like a bird.

The lonely roads are haunting,

but the last bus can't, quench this thirst.

I saw a soul like me, at the stop,

when I went close, it had my face.

How scary, how wonderful, why?

Such is this world, new heart, same face.

Alas, I persisted, with my naivety,

I thought this bus would now stop.

Well, life has different expectations,

what seems clean, has an old spot.

Those lights, shining from a distance,

and I remember my first love,

No connection, no link to the heart,

but a hope, lonely hope of a touch.

As the last bus approaches slowly,

the pounding is unexplainable.

I will reach home, in a real sense,

that my secret abode is available.

Why do we wait for the last bus?

Why do we wait for something better?

Are we lazy, or opportunist souls?

Can't this periphery, find some center.

Driver don't honk, the night is dead,

I felt the bus is my companion.

As I entered the bus, it embraced,

maybe this bus ride will be really fun.

Life goes on, and on, and on, and on.

So why wait for the last bus at night?

Why not take a taxi, Ola or Uber?

Maybe on the last bus, tears can hide.

An obscure bus, so unknown, so alone,

traveling through deserted routes.

This bus runs on fuel and hope,

with a feeling that, lovingly sprouts.

Somehow, life is also like this bus,

going through some charted roads.

Paths are known, but travelers are not,

interwined with fate and destiny's ropes.

The driver does rash driving, at times,

leaves few passengers stranded sometimes.

But on his last route, he is considerate,

because he knows the pain of lonely times.

Slowly, the last bus reaches the final stop,

and the driver is sleepy, hungry, but alive.

But he has no thirst, it's already quenched,

as his lone passion in life, is just to drive.

An Ode To You | Akshay Kumar

Your name slipped over my tongue,

As if a forbidden fish on my lost shore.

I gulped your disyllabic name back to sea,

For you deserve an oceanic life so free,

And all I have is an acidic appetite,

That bounds you in my abdomen.

My throat has never been heavier,

As if the aroma you left has find a way inside.

I wonder what those dreams are made of?

For a comfortable smile you wore every night.

I too must be wearing a smile unknown,

For even graves would bloom at your return.

And you would find my words coated in saline,

But never my eyes.

रेडियो - Sumit Dubey

रेडियो, ये मेरा पहला प्यार है,

और मैं इसके बेहद करीब जाना चाहता हूँ।

कुछ गुनगुना

कुछ गुदगुदाना

कुछ भुनभुनाना चाहता हूँ

आवाज़ से आगाज़ करना चाहता हूँ

दबी कुछ ख्वाइशों की फ़रमाइश करना चाहता हूँ

स्वर जो निकले उससे, बदलाव चाहता हूँ

आवाम में एक नयी जान और रोशनी लाना चाहता हूँ

जो रक्त के हैं रिश्ते, वे रिक्त हो गए हैं,

जिंदगी की आपा-धापी में, जबरदस्त खो गए हैं

उन्हे जोड़ना चाहता हूं,

कुछ सुनाकर, कुछ बताकर

तुमको तुमसे मिलाना चाहता हूं,

मैं रेडियो के करीब आना चाहता हूँ

लिख कर पड़ कर भाव व्यक्त हो जाता है,

कुछ समझ में आता है, और कुछ सर के ऊपर से निकल जाता है।

लेकिन सुनकर, समझाकर, समझकर मन - मुग्ध हो जाता है,

सुकून मिलता कि

उनके लफ्ज़ो को तशरीफ़ लेते सुना

उनकी आवाज़ को सुना,

उनके अलफ़ाज़ को सुना

उनके अंदर के इंसान को सुना

उनके अंदाज़ए बयां को सुना - उनको सुना

और

सुनने से मन को बहुत शान्ति मिलती

मैं मैं के करीब आना चाहता हूं,

इस दरमियान जो फासले है उन्हे खत्म करना चाहता हूं

मैं रेडियो के करीब जाना चाहता हूं,

अपने प्यार को पाना चाहता हूं।

Beyond Words | Trisha Palshetkar

You can’t blend in when you're born to stand out

Oh dear world, don't stay the same throughout.

Don't see me unlike, I'm just like you

For my ears can hear and my eyes see too.

I may not speak my mind the way that you do

But I have a way that'll lure you too!

Days go by, girded by fear

Who I truly am somehow isn't real.

Caught up in the voices in my head

For what I believe, I'm in despair.

My story is different.

Shouldn't my ending be fair?

TWO UNIQUE MIGRATIONS- Anju Gupta

TWO UNIQUE MIGRATIONS

The two unique migrations in my life

Criss-crossing each other at the same time

The migration of my dear ones to different destinations

These two dearies very close to my heart and mind.

My daughter’s diaspora to a new destination

Ready to fly high: starting new phase of her life

to a far-off domicile, all alone in foreign lands.

But am sure, she will soon have her feet grounded well

in unknown environs, with two little diamonds by her side

she will soar high and high in life and make me proud

My heart bestows her with loads of good wishes and

countless blessings for her new beginnings and new living.

My mother, at the same time, ready for her final sojourn

Leaving even a greater void in my life

With no one left to turn for guidance

With no one left for asking me to visit her

With no one left to be worried about my meals,

my pressures and my struggles of life.

As I stare at her, engulfed in pipes, cylinders of oxygen

I think- Is she the same ?

The pillar of strength for all, is struggling

to find an ounce of power for self

to sustain the harsh realities of old age.

Both these women, very special to me

are placed in my heart till eternity.

The younger one, I thought to have raised the best

is teaching me new lessons of existence everyday

with her sheer grit & determination.

And the older one still training me

to face the cold hard facts of life

With patience and perseverance

And to take life as it comes.

As I stand on the dilemma of life

I have learnt to let the life take its own course

And flow with the flow

And bow before the one Supreme power

which dictates the terms of our life.

Learning to take life as it comes- Yes, taking life as it comes

By - Anju Gupta : A mother & a daughter

Wanderer- Aastha Gupta

My heart often wanders at places you would least expect it to be-

at the edge of 𝘈𝘮𝘮𝘢's sky blue chiffon pallu

hanging like a dreamcatcher that would never let go off the dreams woven inside it

in the nooks and corners of every street, every lane

wandering like a refugee who believes 𝘓𝘢𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦 and 𝘈𝘮𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘢𝘳, both fall on the same side of the border

inside museums, 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘴 and 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘴

observing each artefact, each sculpture

like an artist would admire it's muse

on the banks of 𝘗𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘨 where pious waters of the 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢 and 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘢 meet

floating, raring towards one another like two jilted lovers

my heart is everywhere-

dancing between 𝘎𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣'𝘴 verses

swooning over 𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘻'𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘻𝘮s

dreaming about 𝘈𝘮𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢'𝘴 poetry

behind closed doors

beneath wings too huge

above the sky too high

for I am a wanderer-

𝐅-𝐎-𝐑-𝐄-𝐕-𝐄-𝐑

What Were the Choices Left to Him Now?- Indrani Chowdhury

Amidst the doldrums,

The vengeful hurricane attempted to gulp him down.

And he, the tramp, whom she had tethered to a pole,

Desperately attempted to escape it all.

The tramp then freed himself,

And ran towards the quicksand.

And while he endeavored to remain afloat there,

Resisting its vicious quagmire,

She emerged from nowhere and

Began to devour his feet and hands.

What were the choices left to him now?

A walk through the blood laced rains?

Or a dive into the megalomaniac sea of pains?

Or another scandalous free-fall,

Into the dark labyrinths of her heart, where it all began?

With much skill, he outwitted the witch of the sands,

And ran towards the blood laced rains.

But he soon saw that she stood there drenched,

Attempting to quench her thirst with his blood.

Her nails, now more like claws,

Came with a lightning speed to tore his heart.

Taking his chances, he now plunged into the sea of pains,

And lo! His tears flowed down incessantly like blood laced rains.

As he kept drowning on his own tears, 

It pained and pained,

In his body, in his heart, in his memories of her, which he could not discard.

She now walked menacingly through his memories with an axe,

To muffle forever his calls of distress.

What were the choices left to him now?

An impromptu, existential crisis induced denial?

Or continuing this insipid, heart-rending game?

Or another scandalous free-fall, 

Into the dark labyrinths of her heart, where it all began?

Note: Here a dejected lover's dream sequence has been presented as a poem. I have taken inspiration from abstract and absurd poetry and have tried to incorporate some of their characteristic features in it.

मां का डर | Anju Kumari

विचलित हो जाती है नारी,

कई रात न सो पाती है।

जैसे जैसे उनकी बेटियां

कुछ बङी हो जाती है।

जरा, सम्भल कर चलना बेटी

इतना ही कह पाती है।

पर मन के अंदर है कितना डर

कहाँ उसे बतलाती है?

स्कूल, काॅलेज, हाॅस्टल भेजकर

कहाँ चैन ले पाती है?

जरा सा देर हो जाने पर

कई बार फोन लगाती है।

रेप, फरेब, दरिन्दगी की बाते सुन कर

हर बार कांप सी जाती है!

कभी चीखती, कभी सिसकती

कभी मौन रह जाती है।

विचलित हो जाती है नारी

कई रात न सो पाती है....

When the Inner Eye Went Blind | Khodhai Ray

The inner eye, blind but bold chauffeur,

Drove the jammed timepath slower.

So the fleeting actuality did suffer

For it met not the elusive epiphany sooner.

Thrust into the innocent pool, time pebble

Ripples past, present, future to wobble.

They part and meet as thought bubble

Rumbled up spool of memory for a trouble.

A tiny droplet of time: so did it seem

Till it bloomed and loomed into recurred

dream;

Bitterness did haunt yet sweetness did beam

As that pregnant moment unveiled its seam.

That fine fibre in time tapestry: a curtain

raiser

Of regretful future? Or joyous past's

curtain closure

Was that instant a three dimensioned

measure

That stuck together past, present and

future?

Since the delayed meeting with epiphany,

the seed

Of qualms and tears sown for the spared

deed

And missed need. The heart doth bleed to

feed

The pangs of greed and resurrect that

time with heed.

The Universe, however grand and potent,

Revives not the dead.

The womb, however sacred and patient,

Retrieves not the delivered.

A Conversation With My Darkness- Siddharth Saxena

Dear darkness,

Today I’ve come to talk,

This conversation seems most awaited.

Come now, let’s take a walk.

I was told that sadness attracts you,

That you seek the weak and broken.

But I have faced all my sorrows with courage,

So why am I the one you’ve chosen?

I’ve noticed you collect my defeats,

And make a note of all the grief.

You hoard them up like treasures,

Waiting for a moment of disbelief.

You’re like a familiar shadow,

I have known you for long.

I have seen you in my nightmares,

In grief, I've heard you call.

Your welcoming smile,

This false comfort you provide.

I might confuse you for a friend,

On a day less bright.

You’re there when I fall,

Your weight keeps me down.

You tell me to rest easy,

Make peace with the ground.

Perhaps I should believe you,

That this sadness has no end.

That I should not look to tomorrow,

That I have done all I can.

You laugh and flaunt your treasures,

As you reel me in,

Into this night of comfort,

Where all my sorrows have been.

But I have not fallen yet,

This fate can be avoided.

Someone’s come to pull me back,

The abyss seems disappointed.

I know it annoys you,

This light that’s come to my side.

She seeks those in need and doubt,

Helps them up; becomes their guide.

I hear the echo of my victories,

And all the joy that I have known.

She reminds me of the dreams I’ve seen,

And the seeds of ambitions I have sown.

She tells me if I fall,

She will help me up.

There is a warmth in her presence,

Like that of a friend I could trust.

You want to know her name?

Well, ‘love’ suits her best.

She smiles kindly as I get ready to march,

Onward to face new tests.

I do not wish to rid of you,

Only that you understand,

Your treasures are lessons to me,

This past sadness is not quicksand.

So remind me of how I’ve failed,

And remind me of the void.

She’ll help me get better,

She’ll help me stay kind.

Nobles of the Woodland | Gaurika Mathur

Voices condemning, fingers pointing

This cruel world made of strangers.

Blame me for crushing the skulls of those who hunt me,

Penalize me by seeking my clan for their dirty revenge.

But, I want to know why us,

As we are the Nobels of the Woodland,

Who have sworn to protect the subjects of God's land.

But just for a moment don’t they realise their erroneous mistake,

Killing the inhabitants of God's land,

just for a bowl of soup or hanging our heads on their wall,

Showing off their courage and pride.

The human race is a curse to this holy place,

It is the ultimate destroyer,

so cursed that they assassinate whatever comes their way.

But one day our maker will help us by destroying their lives,

Shredding them into flesh and bone,

then we can say that justice is served for the lives of millions,

And then the souls of the dead will rest in peace.

But until it's done we the Nobel's of the Woodland,

Will continue to defend his subjects,

Till our last breath, we will fight for them and with them.

The house that kept me company- Pragya Dhiman

Mother died when I had milk stains on my teeth.

Since then, I have pulled faces from the walls, the carpets,

the curtains of my house to keep me company.

I have scrawled the way they look, for I cannot draw,

in faded notebook pages – smeared handwriting and ink.

It’s the only place I can call home.

Now, I have a family of twenty-odd creatures and faces:

men, women, hybrid women-men, sexless, genderless,

morphed beings who read as having “the outline

of an adoring blue Mastiff, a bleeding face appalled, a wrinkled

woman on the bathroom wall, a man some days hunting, an oxen

and an animal, women-beings with distorted features and figures” but

never someone I know.

I guess I shan’t find my mother anymore.

So alone, I draw and draw and draw

from the walls, the carpets and the curtains of my decrepit house

gray, tinted blue in the winters, never warm in summers

tracing my fingers over every surface, every corner

and that’s when I hear the house’s first sigh.

“We should get that leak looked at...”

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

“the sound shall drive me mad” –

words uttered by father

when he heard the house first cry.

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

Pressure builds slowly, it comes creeping in with a silent force

and my family started bleeding tears, the ink smeared in my notebook pages

from the youngest member (a tea-coloured man who scared me at first,

truthfully, he still does)

to the eldest (a gray greyhound with a shepherd’s nose);

they all sang of my woes

by disappearing thinly, the house enclosed them,

(it gave them to me and now it took them back, like a jealous God)

erasing any trace of their original forms,

ruining the second-hand copies I had drawn

by leaking and crying from all of the walls, the carpets

soaked, the curtains all gone, the house was a bare skeleton,

it called for me and we had to move all the furniture out ourselves.

“We should get that leak looked at...”

taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

“the sound shall drive me mad”.

taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

We lived on the second storey, with a single bedroom for all

a bathroom with water which tasted like salt

and sounds of

my mother keeping us out

of trouble.

I did not want to drown.

I think I heard her wail tonight, but it must be the house.

“I say, we should get taptaptap that leak taptaptap looked at…

taptaptap the sound taptaptap shall drive taptaptap me taptaptap

mad.”

Then at night I heard gushing sounds, of water rushing through the house,

while, I alone, prayed for my mother and her soul (I no longer wished to be alone);

I heard the floors creak, the walls moaned, the curtains closed

as the figure of my mother washed itself whole

on the window.

I think I saw her smile.

“Wetaptaptapshouldtaptaptapgettaptaptapthattaptaptapleaktaptaptaplookedtaptaptapat…

taptaptapthetaptaptapsoundtaptaptapshalltaptaptapdrivetaptaptapmetaptaptap

mad.”

My mother was home.

The house kept me company until she was gone, the faces I pulled

from the carpets, the curtains, the walls, were all that I needed

to have enough strength to run.

“We...”

GUSH

All the taps were running and

the house wept;

the house was weeping

as all the taps burst

forth with streaming tears,

unstoppable

flooding both storeys,

wailing at my story.

The rushing water was

unstoppable

and I

with my dry eyes

sat placid in the house, soaked to the bone

with the tears of my home,

the only place which kept me company

when I was alone.

I never saw my mother anymore.

Whose Voice Was It? | Shreya Joshi

Seated by the window

In desolation and solitude,

I heard a voice.

It was different from other voices

Whose voice was it ?

It was hurt and angry

Said, “Where were you all this time ?

You have no time for me.

Busy in a crowd are you

And don’t hear me. “

Whose voice was it ?

There came no reply.

Spoke the voice again,

“Always are you in a crowd,

Crowd tells you this is happiness, so that is happiness for you.

Crowd tells you this is darkness, so that’s darkness for you. “

Oh ! This is exactly what I do !

Whose voice was it ?

It exclaimed, “Remember that time when you were delusioned ?

Again you asked the crowd,

On not getting an answer,

You didn’t know what to do.

I was ready to clear your confusion yet you didn’t hear me ! “

Now I wished to hear it.

Whose voice was it ?

Affectionately it said,

“Dear friend, finally you hear me,

Away from the crowd you are with me.

Oh dear friend, I’ve missed you.

Listen to me, hold my hand, I will never leave you.

I am your shadow, always with you. “

I said, “Got tired of the crowd,

Wish to listen to you.

So affectionate are you.

Now I have time for you. “

The voice now seemed familiar,

Whose voice was it ?

“Dear friend I am not an uncommon gift which only you have,

Everyone can hear me but they don’t.

They are deaf to hear me, but hear other voices.

You were among the deaf,

But today your ears can hear. “

I was now curious and wished to listen, “Oh my friend ! I can hear you. You

know me so well !

Can you define me ? “

The voice was near me,

Whose voice was it ?

“You can’t define yourself.

You are infinite.

You are infinitesimal of infinity.

I am there to help you! “, it finished.

“You will help me for what ? “, I asked.

“To explore yourself. To know your infinity. Being in a crowd is inevitable,

Desolate yourself and always listen to me.

Doing so you will experience your infinity. “, it said.

I wished to explore myself.

Whose voice was it ?

There was a silence,

Yet I could hear it.

It seemed an invisible mirror.

An exact replica of me.

It was me, infinity.

The voice, it was me.

Anchor of Life | Merihun Langstang

He holds my life like an anchor,

Even when I'm feeling insecure.

The storm is raging within me,

Jesus came and set me free.

The mind is filled with negativity,

Yet He looks on me with mercy.

For He knows me by my name,

And unconditionally He came.

I am drowning in my own sins,

But He has a plan ever since.

To save a wretched like me,

An anchor He shall ever be.

I get carried away by the wind,

There's nothing I haven't seen.

And all the earthly pleasures,

Thinking these are my treasures.

However He had a plan for me,

All the good things I cannot see.

I am blinded by my transgression,

To see His grace and redemption.

By His grace I shall rise again,

My eyes are now being opened.

My anchor that will hold me still,

And to His eternal love to sail.