A Misericord's Elysium - Mariam Shiji

The past of mundane slumber,

I soak myself in a pitiful clot.

Shattered by the thorns of guilt,

Sinking to a chaotic stop.

I place a mark on the society

That drives me into the darkness.

I cover my auris externa

From the void cries of charlatans –

that make my being monotonous.

Standing at the pinnacle of choice in my mind palace –

I decided to take a leap,

Off I jump into freedom I wanted –

Down the hill , falling asleep.

If I want to be my lover,

Oh you,

please do me a favour.

Break that dark lapis cover –

By shattering my black mirror.

Should I love the hatred for myself –

And move forward,

Or hate the pretence love –

And move onward.

I don't know.

I will never know.

I do not want to know.

As for now I will forget,

The things that I regret–

And turn my faulty ashes into echoes.

To survive with my assets,

Find the meaning of life ahead–

Moving through the path that unfolds.

So don't rush , calm down

And give yourself a chance.

For the world has a lot to offer

With one single glance.

"Love yourself.

Your existence is valid."

Hope is a violent daydream - Tejaswini Balaji

The sunlight curse,

I dream and it says I'm not enough.

The daylight hours tickle my feet,

I tell the skies i will still dream.

At every step it reminds me that hope is a violent daydream,

So I pack up the violent daydream in my ribs.

I look up at the sunlight and it says well done,

But my violent day dreams break my bones

And my body becomes a cage for hope.

They say how does it feel to take so much time to let hope go?

They don't know hope like i do, they don't know dreams like i do.

I hope they never know.

A Woman- Maanasa Venkatesh

"Why worry about the twelfth standard boards or competitive exams?

You are only a woman",

Another woman

My teacher

Asked me

" Become a teacher." she said

As if it were that simple,

Undervaluing her role and my ambitions in one sentence.

Only a woman

"Leave the professions to the men",

Another woman

My hairdresser told me.

"Where will the men go for jobs

If women become doctors and engineers?

Why don't you take up some simple vocation like my salon staff instead?"

Only a woman

So it must be alright for strangers to discuss my bleeding private parts?

Every month this news has to make its way to the headlines of our apartment's grapevine.

For them to see which menstrual traditions I shun and which I keep alive.

Only a woman, but also,

"I am sure you're a typical desi girl, who doesn't drink or smoke",

Another woman

An acquaintance smirked,

As if this made me a lesser person somehow.

Only a woman

But also a fool for choosing to be a homemaker,

I was told

because that's not a choice but a compulsion.

A modern woman works.

After all I

"stole some other person's college seat ".

Only a woman

So I must conform entirely to a role

Desi or rebel.

I must not pick and choose my battles

When I can be spoon-fed.

It has to be this way

And I can only move between so many stereotypes.

As a woman,

As new rules replace the old

Once again and yet again.

Like yesterday this young girl,

So much younger than I,

Speaking in English to her friends on how to retrieve a ball

From a window more efficiently.

When I offered a friendly suggestion in English

Chose to respond, ”Aunty Bacche hain” in Hindi.

Now I cannot even choose my language!

Because of the way I dress and live,

It is chosen for me.

But tell me,

Why must I conform?

Let me be!

These well-wishers do not love me!

They want me to vanish piece by piece

And become a medium

To reinforce their standards of female morality.

I want to shout out

To all those other women

I am not only a woman

Though you cannot see.

My choices and my actions and my faults are also part of my identity!

I'm not you, I'll never be you,

I'm me.

I'm me.

I'm me.

The Hand that Rocks the Cradle- Saema Zaidi

I tried to look inside my pocket mirror

But the newly developed cracks interfered

Dividing me into pieces

And I saw parts of me holding secrets

Most of them were taken by scars

The rest had dust and scarcely had stars

I delved deeper into the mirror

As all the pieces played their part

I was once a little girl, with dreams in my eyes

You heard the laughs, but mama heard the cries

But the world soon introduced

The fears of being a women

So mama said, "Don't you cry

I'll make the odds even"

But in the twinkling of an eye, twenties wrapped me around

And then you told me

Find a new home, forget this town

I then wondered where my real home lies

What did I do so wrong to say goodbyes

And if they'll ask me, "where's your home?"

I'll say it's the heart of all the women I've known

But I always don't need a mirror

Sometimes it was the eyes of others

In those eyes I saw how she pulled through all the pain

The nights she stayed awake in vain

As if it was her duty to make the puzzles stay in place

And in the absence of father, be the father in case

She was too young to raise you, she was rising herself

But she put her rise to demise, and never asked for help

Without a doubt she always chose them

Although her dreams screamed, "If not now then when?"

But she chose you every time

Put her agony aside and heard all your complaints and whines

But you still judged her, limited her happiness

So she silently sat across from her loneliness

You took away her freedom, you robbed away her peace

You locked her in a cage, and threw away the keys

But you understood this all too late

As six feet deep she laid

And then I asked my mama, "Do you have any fears?"

She tried to avoid it, but broke into tears

"I'm a human after all

I had a fear biggest of them all

It is to die and leave you behind

Who will take care of my girl

Who will listen to your mind

You grew up even before you healed

In times of battle, you became their shield

But before you go little lady

Please tell this all to my baby

Tell my daughter to not make sacrifices

And stay strong

Tell her to become a women

Before she becomes a mom"

THE GIRL, WITH THE MOON!- Varshitha V L

The yellow flowers flair her,

leaving her face more brighter,

the Sun leaves it to her,

or the breeze a new fragrance the scented flowers -but a wry smile.

The gullible butterfly in her blooms forgetting to pollinate, but desolate with only her!

Just to cherish and smile to

the beauty again and,

Rustling of leaves and the balcony walls,

keep preserving her beauty,

than their origin and other

voices -a not her's

all over it's she again!

Just to cherish and smile to

the beauty again

Eggs in the nest and the birds,

the trees ,

The little stars along the deep meaning,

the Universe with dusts,comets drifting,

the lonely white pale boy just magnificent, A dame to her, and only two;

to tides tight,

a hand to the alone,

And the light to blooms,for years after creation: without external

It's the snow ball and only us with them and them !

Just to cherish and smile to

the beauty again

DOOM AND DEATH - Pushpa Saroj

There is something beautiful in the corner

Of my balcony,

A small weed growing between the cracks

Of the invincible concrete floor,

Watching it since it started with withering

Of cement,

The rain striked again and again 

The wind ripped apart the bonds which

Were once fortified, 

Little specks of dust settling in, making it 

Home for the upcoming contingencies;

A new life is about to born,

Enduring the difficile nature yet sustained by 

It as to test its skills of survival, 

A whirlwind of "survival of the fittest" enlightened my ignorant sense,

It poured all night, windstorm uprooted the sheds,

Blazed sun coerced the earth to crack more,

Amidst all chaos, it's sprouting, 

I saw it sprouting; two small leaves peeping out

Swaying along with breeze of spring

Like an infant is yawning after a deep slumber,

It stood tall as it could be ,facing a human

With its proud face of defeating the havoc alone

Yet to be uprooted by a lowly human,

Sigh! Humans couldn't learn from it!

Growing upward, enduring hardships, winning wars

And battles to brag on

Yet to be defeated by doom; of being a mortal,

The higher one goes, the harder one falls!

Living triumphant throughout once

Yet to lose against death, Ofcourse.

Deathbed and deeds- Snigdha Boruah

Lying on my deathbed

peering into my surrounding.

What I see my reflection

reflection of my work,

reflection of my words.

He is the person I helped when passing by,she is the person I just gave a kind word to.

So a small step by someone means a lot to someone else;

I will die after a few days, all that will remain are my deeds!

One must assure to live,

to live even after he is gone.

Because in the end all we do for the sake of living.

And we know,

"Giving always makes us feel like living"

The moment my death arrive,

I realised I am not gonna die,

I will remain alive.

Lenore - Sangharsh Sirsikar

" Lenore "

He who stands in the tall Grass ,

Amongst the prairies of the wild ...

He , who is tamed , still

By the forest-fires ;

Descending from the ghastly woodlands ,

We hear Him ...

He who never shows his august-self ,

But gloom strange , when Auster departs the marshes ...

He who feeds on moonlight - the old say ;

Conceals Himself ,

In a fallen Abbey ,

Far south the Sawyer's fields - the one norther the moors ;

Maundering beneath the grasslands ,

We hear Him ...

Shhhh....

" His-north is forbidden ...

Ohh , but if there you go , where you never go ,

Whence none but fantom steps parade and eerie lamps blaze .

Where , through the moonless-path and the sombre sky ,

Sleeps a father that never die .

For some will heed the church-bells toll ,

And some will see His dim contours unfold ,

For if you go , and so you know , to the place where none shall ever go ... "

At eves - us play ,

We hide - some seek ,

Run at our mother's calls .

Pray and dine .

Though then , sense we , ferine-eyes wallowing through that mist .

The one-gray-gaze ,

That never descends down the swamp ,

Never abandons the abbey ,

But when at supper , we hear Him ,

Summoning His hounds ,

We hear Him ,

Call our names - in voices that stay ...

The mires , they seem to move forward each passing season - a strange dust settles ...

He , who heirs it ,

Has witnessed these pastures grow two-hundred years ...

He who roams our fields in dark ,

He whose lores cradles our fields in rain ...

We sense Him ,

For He has been here a long-long time - our elders say ...

Shhhh....

" His-north is forbidden ...

Ohh , but if there you go , where you never go ,

Whence none but fantom steps parade and eerie lamps blaze .

Where , through the moonless-path and the sombre sky ,

Sleeps our Father that never die .

For some will heed the church-bells toll ,

And some will see His dim contours unfold ,

For if you go , and so you know , to the place where none shall ever go ... "

Morrow , we gather for our Sunday's prayers inside the marshes ,

Offer we , breads and ballads in olden words ...

Then our fathers hymn ,

Chant His names ,

Omer their first-borns - So silent a ministry .

.

.

Then our prayers halt to an indifferent voice ,

Hear we now , the quaint whispers that rule His great abode .

The world turns gray ...

.

.

" If you go where you never go ... "

.

.

Two-hundred years of sleep awakens ,

The ungodly machine cometh afore ....

.

.

" If you go where you never go ... "

.

.

To that indifferent voice we close our eyes - if you go where all go ....

And then ,

.

.

We see Him ...

.

.

The One who stands behind the tall Grass .....

( Footnote : The title - " Lenore "comes from Edgar Allan Poe's poem - The raven )

Afternoon Sun - Soumyarupa Das

We were lying on your charpai

under the late autumn sky,

splayed out on the surface

of your terrace

like sacrifices to be made,

above the dying leaves

crunching beneath your dangling feet,

wind kissed, your face

a shade deeper than red,

you were dressed in a cheese-stained cardigan

beside me, the ever-distressed teacher's pet

in her TS sweats,

waiting for the afternoon sun

to make its appearance.

And you turned to me,

your eyes bereft of sleep,

breaking me free

of my afternoon reverie

to take me

back

to the good old days,

spent

chasing after you

in crowded hallways,

back when I still dreamed of

becoming a slam poet,

skipping classes to write sonnets,

reminding me of all the unfulfilled promises made

from the far end

of my parents' landline.

And as you continued to speak,

playing with your cardigan,

threadbare,

I stared at the veins twitching underneath

your cheeks and the afternoon sun

that finally made its appearance,

emerging out of the clouds, closer to the horizon now.

But you went on and on, unconcerned,

about how life never did us any wrong,

your voice, thick as smoke

but your words, clear

like rosewater,

colouring the wind with your dreams and imagined scenes,

sharing your plans

to paint the town pink

in your pyjamas,

leaving behind a mark

on this Earth

like lipstick stains

on coffee mugs.

And I listened, at first

without interruption,

in quiet contemplation

but then with increasing exasperation

and open derision

for it seemed like 'tis was the season

of all rhyme, no reason,

second guessing all my life's decisions,

nestled under an afternoon sun

that gave no warmth

But you took my diatribes in stride

and as my weary sighs filled the autumn sky,

I finally removed my rose coloured glasses, cracked from side-to-side

to realize for the first time

that the sky wasn't blue but a shade of grey

and so, the epiphanies I long kept at bay,

resurfaced, one by one,

following each other

like lambs to slaughter,

pressing down on me

like invisible weights

only to dissipate, evaporate

and disappear with the afternoon sun!

And So, we lay

and watched the day decay

and then fade away,

two fickle figures

in the evening calm,

waiting for a time that would never come

nor could ever return,

nostalgia-tinted pasts and glorified futures,

as the afternoon sun went lower

and sank below the horizon.

The Dangling Wind- Ashneet Kaur

You and I,

Submerged in the depths of Emotion.

A bed where nothing rests.

The world murmurs around us.

Bubbles, instead of words float out,

Rising from the bottom of their lungs,

Aching and struggling,

Trembling and hopeless,

Wishing to say something.

But how can they?

The dense aqua air that surrounds us all,

Makes our words too heavy,

Makes our emotions too thoughtful,

And in essence,

Nothing is said;

Nothing is heard.

And we lay there,

Eyes shut tight,

Our hands held even tighter;

On the murky mattress of misled musings,

You and I lay;

Defeated in our spirits,

We endlessly wring out the last speck of warmth

From the duvet of our dreams that died young,

Covered in lattices of thorny reality,

And prickly practicalities.

Staring at the starry surface of the sea,

Which engulfs everything,

And births all,

You and I lay,

And in essence,

Nothing is said;

Nothing is heard.

Life takes many forms.

None is venerable,

Nor worth condemning.

For the terrors of this eternal sea,

Are ours.

Inseparable from us,

As the gust of breath is,

From everything mortal.

Snatch those horrors away,

And Death rules;

An eternal darkness then spreads;

A darkness so blinding,

That it leaves no room for Light to stretch its wings.

So,

If suffocating and gasping,

And grabbing onto sharp-edged,

Drowning rocks,

Covered in the slippery moss of human hopes,

Is Life,

Then Fate leaves us no choice,

But to drown.

To let the triumphant ocean of Life,

Fill our lungs completely,

Till there is no more Life left to conquer.

Mother do you know?- Aaheli Choudhury

Mother do you know?

I never cry in front

Of anyone.

I break off the skin

on my finger

I press my lips to it

smothering the bleed.

Mother do you know?

I never know how to

look you in the eye.

I eye my untied laces

they obey me, mother-

saving me the expense

of expression.

Mother do you know?

the day you last combed my hair

I saw fear in your eyes

well, I’ve been plenty of fun mother

it’s marked everywhere on my body

Mother do you know?

I can lie ever so still on my bed

hand on my chest

trying to ascertain

whether I'll die in my sleep.

I turn on my sides

I listen to my heartbeat

against my folded hands

I pray, it never stops.

I pray, I never know-

what other sounds haunt the night.

Mother do you know?

you are my shining light.

Us women

we are children for a short while

but mother, mother did you know

I haven't been sleeping for a while

did you see the hands on me

you must have, right?

clawing my neck

pressing my breasts

slipping down my dress.

you must have seen, mother.

So why didn't you say anything?

Why weren’t your arms around me?

Why won’t you touch me anymore?

Mother, do you know?

Dream - Nehal Jain

I had a dream.

A dream in which

you were mine to keep.

A dream in which

We climbed to the rooftop

And talked for hours

While my hands were tangled in yours.

A dream in which

I slept on your chest

On a movie night

We used to have every weekend.

A dream in which

We got drunk

And danced in the refrigerator light.

A dream in which

You got us caught by the cops

While trying to kiss me

Under the street light.

A dream in which

We used to go stargazing

And instead of them

I found you

Staring at me, always.

A dream in which

We drove to the ice cream parlour

At 3 in the morning,

And ate the whole tub of ice cream

While sitting on the car’s bonnet.

A dream in which

You slept on my lap

After coming

tired from work.

A dream in which

You woke me up, every morning

With a forehead kiss

And some tight hugs.

A dream in which

You took me to the bed

When I used to sleep

On the couch

While waiting for you

To return home late in the night.

A dream in which

We had our little infinity.

A dream that

I never wanted to end.

A dream that

Had everything I wish for.

A dream that

You don’t care about.

A dream that

Only I dream of.

The InK- Shubhi Bhardwaj

Poem - The Ink

The ink flows without a dread,

Like a flower blooms in spring,

It rebels and do the unrealized;

It imagines and flies high,

but never stops in a midway,

It speaks the unsaid,

And pictures the morbid and uncanny,

It paints the world difficult to grasp yet enthralling,

Like a flute, it sings the songs of freedom and life,

And its words dance on rhythmic tone, as if some wind unrolls.

It fights for its right,

And unlock the doors beyond our sight,

It never shies away to say the truth,

To side with the justice for the roots,

It unlocks the door of hope,

It sighs the labels with a marked desire,

It creates the better world for all

Where it welcomes all without a biased eye.

It becomes an eye of god,

It fantasizes the world of beauty and hope,

Where everyone is free to articulate,

And dance like as it is a season of rebirth,

And here it redeems all.

It even articulates the complex soul,

It puts a question mark, asks the questions that never been asked,

It explores all the greys,

And shut all the blacks and whites with a ready sight.

It is never tired as it has to tread the long road with an ink to flow;

It never sleeps because it has to write,

the ink always flows, never ceases to die.

Falling for the storm over and over again...- Sunaina Pradhan

The dark clouds hovering over the skies,

Along with the winds, my mind flies,

My mind brings a short movie to me...

Of all my memories as if the camera was nothing but a bee,

Wandering from flower to flower,

Each one with a story of its own,

And suddenly the clouds let out slight shower,

As if my tears to me were shown.

It was day but still night,

There was thunder and instances of light;

The trees swayed with the winds,

That were now turning violent,

And so did I but I was silent,

The leaves fluttered,

And I uttered,

"It feels good,

Reminds me of me"

And then the winds started their rage,

As if for long, they were kept in a cage;

I could relate with the winds,

Rain telling the story behind my tears,

All those memories of days and years,

Suddenly halted and the winds were quiet now,

I went inside the four walls,

With my dried tears,

Like an ordinary person as I left my extraordinary side with the winds.!

I fell for the storm again,

With a storm within my head,

And I know I'll keep falling for it over and over again,

I keep falling for the storm over and over again.

ಕಲೆಯ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಭಿತ್ತಿಗಳಿಲ್ಲ!- Vedashree BN

ಹಳ್ಳಿಯೊಂದಿತ್ತಂತೆ.

ದಾರಿಯ ಎಡ ಬಲ ಕೈಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಹಸಿರಿನ ಮದರಂಗಿ.

ಗುಡ್ಡ ಬೆಟ್ಟಗಳ ಅಂಗಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆಚ್ಚಗೆ ಮಲಗಿದ್ದ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ,

ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಮನೆ.

ಮನೆಯ ಸುಣ್ಣದ ಘಮ ನಿತ್ಯ ನೂತನ.

ಮನೆಯ ಅಂಗಳ ಜಗದಗಲ ವಿಶಾಲ.

ಮನೆಯ ತುಳಸಿಯೇ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯ ಆಲದ ಮರವಾಗಿತ್ತು.

ಸುತ್ತಲೂ ವನ.

ವನದ ಒಳಗೆ ಹರಿವ ಝರಿ,

ಮನೆಯ ಒಡಲನ್ನು ತಂಪಾಗಿಡುತ್ತಿತ್ತು.

ಮನೆಯೊಡೆಯರು ಯಾರು?

ಉಳಿಯಲು ಬಂದವರೆಲ್ಲರೂ.

ಅಡುಗೆಯ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲವರು,

ಜಗುಲಿಯ ಹರಟೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲವರು,

ಹಿತ್ತಲಿನ ಹಸಿರಲ್ಲಿ ಇನ್ನೂ ಹಲವರು,

ಚಾವಣಿಯ ಚುಕ್ಕಿಯಾಟಕ್ಕೆ ಬೆರಳೆಣಿಕೆಯವರು.

ಮನೆ ಗಟ್ಟಿ.

ಭದ್ರ ಭಂಗುರ.

ಅಚ್ಚರಿ!

ಕೆಳಗೆ ಕಂಡರೂ, ತಿರುಗಿ ತಿರುಗಿದರೂ,

ಹಿಂಗಾಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಬಂದರೂ, ಮುಂಗಾಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಎಡವಿದರೂ,

ಈ ಮನೆಗೆ ಗೋಡೆಗಳೇ ಇಲ್ಲ!

ಬೇಲಿಗಳ ಮೈಲಿಗೆಯಿಲ್ಲ.

ಬದನೆಯ ಕಾಪಿಡುವ ಸೀರೆ ಪರದೆಗಳಿಲ್ಲ!

ಹೋದಷ್ಟೂ ಮನೆ.

ಸೇದಿದಷ್ಟು ಹಾಲೀಯುವ ಬಾವಿ.

ನಡೆದಷ್ಟೂ ದಾರಿ.

ಮುಟ್ಟಿದಷ್ಟೂ ಅಂಬರದ ಅಟ್ಟ.

ಅಚ್ಚರಿ!

ಮನೆಯ ಕಟ್ಟಿದವಳು ಕಲೆಯಂತೆ!.

Fish in ponds meet often.

Fins in oceans seldom brush against each other,

for,

the waves keep them apart.

The water loosens her hair wider and long.

The curls of the sea let go of shapes.

Being vast lets you wander.

The two legs sway away to move.

The lips part ways for the words to grow out.

The redhouse pumps out its red kins to the whole country, away from its hometown.

Just to keep the land alive.

Being away, keeping apart, stretching vast, blooming distant.

The sense of space can push out a sigh,

and can also lead to wander's long lost brother, lost.

Space is for the exploring early men,

not so much for the civilized.

Everyone fears space.

Millions of air gallons to breathe.

Wings with a heap of feathers,

So many ways to swim,

Too deep of earth to spread.

Everyone fears space.

Even,

the astrobud leaving home on a spaceship, the night before parting,

looks at sky, looks back home, teary - hearted.

Sun shines, puts on a suit, leaves home.

Reaches the white court with craters.

No one to play.

Looks back home, only now, from space.

Space can be lonely.

With the universe in front,

the space can still feel lonely.

But in the cosmos of art!

There!

It's all a daily celebration of their cousin space!

They invite space and her family

Art let's mystery take up a hundred rooms in its suite,

brings in all the air, feathers, roots and the webbed feet right into the living room.

That's how art lives.

With space and freedom as roommates.

Everyone's floating on art!

Paints flow, while bricks break.

Notes dance, while notes are counted.

Frames move, while stocks collapse.

Art holds while grace grooms it.

Bing bang happened and everything spread outwards.

the pieces play hide and seek, even now.

Someone hushed!

Creation's on play!

The green room, full of civilizations and wars and eras and relations, were ready for their turn to bathe in spotlight.

.

.Everyone's free in art!

A dot grew.

For space, for stars.

Trees grow out,

We pour out through love.

Out. Free to step,out.

Everyone's safe here.

Doors are locked.

Roofs are sealed.

We're good to go to skies.

Our own. In us.

Galleries open for everyone,

concerts echo in cities,

Poems on library shelves.

Space is at your door,

Will you let in?

Or will you break down the doors, for,

everyone's free in art!

all the space is peeping through, blinking at you.

Will you?

विश्वास - एक अक्स!! - Achla Mishra

किसी शिला को आधार बनाकर,

धर्म का उस पर चन्दन लगाकर,

उसे यूं ही शिरोधार्य नहीं करना|

श्वेत से उस प्रकाश में भी,

सात रंगों का संगम है|

शाश्वत सी उन नदियों का भी,

निश्चित एक उद्गम है|

जो लगे उचित सर्वदा,

दृष्टि को दे आनंद अथाह,

उस पर यूं ही आंख मूंदकर सहज विश्वास नहीं करना|

समंदर की उन लहरों में भी,

उसके आवेश की वाणी है|

विशाल, अनंत उस आकाश की भी,

अद्भुत अनेक कहानी है|

जीवन रूपी यह मरुस्थल बुनकर,

अभिलाषा की प्यास से छनकर,

महत्वाकांक्षा को यूं ही अपना सारथी स्वीकार नहीं करना|

असंभव में संभव निहित है,

असफलता में सफलता विदित है|

जब पग डगमगाने लगे तो महज़,

इस भूतल को ही दोषी करार नहीं करना|

आधुनिकता के कांधे पर बैठकर,

परंपराओं की बेड़ियों में जकड़ गर,

दोनों को एक साथ ही श्रापित नहीं करना|

हो विश्वास यदि मन में,

कोलाहल न होगा चिंतन में|

करना तू खुद पर विश्वास,

कर जाएगा यह भवसागर पार|

यदि प्रश्न चिन्ह लगे तुम पर,

आत्मसम्मान से ऊपर उठकर,

अपने अस्तित्व में उसे कभी अंगीकार नहीं करना|

Was it my fault, Mom? - Jiya Arora

I was nourished in a womb,

heard that this world is cynical, and the people were demons.

Alas! women were always told to be in their tomb.

My mother told me she would give me a body to which I'd be soon known. Little did I know, those demons considered my body as their own.

One day, I heard noise all aloud,

they were none other than the selfish people, screaming at my mother for raising a girl child among this crowd.

Rape threats were constantly thrown at her.

I wish I could soak her tears, and fears. With no identity of her own, she was a man's daughter, and a husband's wife.

With numb hands, she caressed me, but could not promise to grant me a life.

Was it my fault, mom?

I were to be identified as a woman.

It was my fault to have a vagina,

it was my fault to have a cleavage.

Yes, it was all my fault because no one blamed those demons for having a thinking so sewage!

Unfortunately, I started to grow inside.

How devastating it was to wake up to a drenched pillow soaked in her maternal tears.

I told her I could live inside this beautiful cage of unconditional love, and care.

But I was a girl with dreams, and to raise me in this world wasn't fair.

Maybe I had no right to live..

Slowly, I was losing my breathe

I smelled blood, and sins

Oh, and within a blink

I was vanished

Yes, I was a girl child, and I was killed in the same womb where I was nourished.

The Land and its Mandi- Mary Samuel

Beyond the high-rises,

Beyond the boundaries

of stoic civilisation,

Away from the maddening

rat race,

Away from all the din of modernity,

lay a small patch of muddy land

with no trees- an open patch.

It lay still for all

but one day in the week;

and then for that one day,

this land comes alive

christens itself as the “mandi”,

and adorns itself with

hawkers and fruit sellers,

vegetable sellers and flower sellers.

And like the deluge, they come

the city people.

They walk through the pathways

between the heaped vegetable

Stop, stoop and pick up

the wares, to examine and

then bargain,

with their purses tightly clutched.

“Smell these fresh flowers”, the flower sellers scream.

“Will remind you of paradise”, one of them adds.

“Buy a few for your loved one”, another adds.

Each flower basket resplendent with myriad colours

of orange, white, red, and pink

“Fresh greens:”, the vegetable seller claims,

“Will make you strong”, one of them adds.

“Buy for your kids”, another adds.

“Three for One, One for Three”, they all shout,

inviting, luring and appealing.

Beads of sweat rolled down their foreheads,

Drops of fresh water being sprinkled on

their treasure, their torn vests declaring another story.

There are few women, with babies and kids

playing nearby; they scream too

and sometimes wait in silence, unable to compete.

“How much for this? How much for that?”

“Reduce a bit, let’s bargain”, says the buyer

“Oh didi, oh bhaiyya, we are poor and have to get by

Can’t go so low, so let’s agree to this”, says the seller.

They look at each other, the buyer and the seller,

and then nod their heads,

both happy, to have struck a good deal-

the same drama unfolding at every makeshift shop.

The land hears and listens

to the sounds, the cries, the buzz.

It smiles to itself, amused at the buyers and sellers.

It takes long breaths, enough to sustain

Itself for another week.

It takes in all the sights, all the scenes

for this is its lifeline- a reason to go on,

a reason to look towards hope,

for who knows when it will be killed

for the huge concrete buildings and the modernity?

Seeking Life -Bushra Khan

I embarked upon life's journey,

Accompanied by joyous souls.

Laughter and merriment filled each day,

With no worries to weigh me down.

Gradually, the glimmers waned,

Colors faded into shades of gray.

Uncertainty burdened my weary mind,

Anxiety and confusion held their sway.

In search of solace, I turned to my mother,

Known for her serene and gentle nature.

I poured out my troubles, seeking her aid,

To escape this entangled dismay.

She tenderly caressed my parched hair,

With oil untouched for quite some time.

Within the dim room, silence settled in all corners,

As she shared wisdom, so sublime.

"Look beyond the window," she softly spoke,

Where a little girl danced with a rose.

Her eyes sparkling with sheer delight,

Radiating goodness wherever she goes.

"What else do you see?" my mother asked,

"Does she fear the thorns, or brave their sting?

Will she cast the rose aside in discomfort,

Or handle it gently, learning the joy it can bring?"

Her gaze met mine, and she whispered,

"Though pricked you've been, don't let love fade.

Embrace the beauty despite the pain."

Her words, wrapped in enchanting wisdom,

Were a balm for my longing soul.

In her presence, I felt humbled and blessed,

For she was my beacon, making me whole.

375- Nidhil Vohra

That December, Delhi stood in disbelief. The Indian flag fluttered reluctantly at the top of the Lal Qila which stood an embarrassed red. All the minarets and all the monuments handed in their two weeks’ notice. There was no honour left to protect, no pride left to fight for. Delhi was mourning. Her people gathered in a conglomeration of hurt, hoping to overpower the smog that sheltered the city from the eyes of all those fortunate enough to not live within her maverick borders. A loud cry came from within a loud cry. Everyone knew.

Shouting and screaming

in streets that were used

to not much else. Lights

Do you see

the people begging

for change today

amongst

the people begging

for change today? Camera

From Safdargunj

to Hazrat Nizamuddin, this time

those who weren’t

privileged enough to forget,

chose to remember. Action

Everyone knew. The milkman who worked at the dairy in Khan Market had mentioned it to his wife over dinner, who narrated it to her sister over the phone the next day. Her sister was quick to bring it up when she dropped her dirty laundry off at the washerwoman’s. The washerwoman, during her rounds that day, spoke about it with everyone and that is how the engineer’s wife found out. Her children overheard their parents discussing it when the engineer returned from his job at the cable factory. During recess, the class teacher was shocked to find her sixth graders chatting about something so despicable, so vile. The class teacher rushed to the principal’s office leaving the class monitor in-charge. The school didn’t hand out newspapers that day. A loud hush-hush.

Swift, sound, and sans mercy

justice arrives in

the unexpected

the unanticipated

the unprecedented victory

of good over evil.

One justice is

enough justice

for the year.

There remains

little else to do now.

Now we must sleep, again.

A loud hush-hush. The celebrations soon disappeared and all that remained was silence. The silence revived the decay. The mufflers were shed, and the monkey caps were replaced by a sea of Gandhi topis . The December gave way to a similar January (albeit in a different state) which transitioned into a February of equal depravity (albeit in a different year) and then March, April, November. Not a month was spared. Delhi stood in disbelief. Trying to look outside while it peered within.

The smog thickened.