An introduction- Sirisha Chauhan

An introduction

Write my name in soft bold letters.

The pruning of wood, in the soft cold weather.

A whiff of wind and a night's cerulean dream

Write me in the fortress of your memory.

Walk in the graveyard of footprints buried in sodden sleep.

In the fire of the heart,

Drape me.

Drape me  in the velvet skin of your holiness

The Ganges water boiling and the

Mountains' blood in sweat.

Oh, mother,

name me the symphony,

in the wailing of the cow's scream,

Louder,

Louder

then the hull of satanic voices.

Oh, mother,

foster me

in the veins of your hearth

As

The old sun isn't enough to brighten our eyes,

The god isn't enough to soften the wounds in our thighs.

The colours of Holi are still fragile

To hold the caricature of our bodies

In the glory of mornings

God forbid

The witches' gossamer

Sparkling in the shade like teardrops resting on her face,

In the burning pyre of

Our burning sandalwood.

Oh, mother,

Dream.

A dream like a long walk in history,

Dream dissection

Of our voices in the youth of future

For we have written this empire in the language of our blood.

So here I introduce,

My war cry in the naked arms of the world,

So here I introduce,

The cross-section

Of millennia-old words

So here I introduce

The magma of

Silence

I introduce

The women of this world.

-sirisha

THE UNINVITED - Anjana Shibish

THE UNINVITED 

To the night that wrapped my body

My blood still curses you.

To the eyes that smiled at me

I hope tears find you.

And then slowly, the light left the room.

Lust was born.

Inhuman.

Derick once said, "ROSES NEVER BLEED."

But mine never stopped.

My blood fed him.

My breath,

his pleasure,

My breath,

my curse.

He wasn't welcomed.

I never called.

Still, he found his way.

Applause in hell

My flesh,

my bones,

Everything drowned in his sweat,

Once he was my warmth,

And now it's burning.

Down the hill,

I slided,

all alone,

last loneliness before leaving.

Just one thought in mind.

Who gave them permission?

If not me,

Then who?

- anjanashibish

The Nights - Inderjit Kaur

Awash in the hazy sunlight,

I woke up-

from a dream so vivid,

I had to convince myself

that it was a nightmare-

visiting me often-

just to recollect itself...

just to console....

me...

Here it goes-

never ever slipping

away from my fingers:

A bundle of joy

shed tears on my lap,

when a glimpse of what

we saw

could make anyone

lifeless...

When being someone whom

everyone cherished,

he could see his dear daddy saying

the last goodbye...

Then, what was I supposed to do?

I choked back my tears

and hugged

him tight...

until we saw our mama,

bawling and running

towards her beloved man...

And then she lay on the floor,

fallen,

pushed away by our daddy;

I could see him

falling too...

but for the last time...

Then, what was I supposed to do?

Should I have left

that little angel alone,

with unabating fear

and overwhelming sorrow-

to save them both from a deadly

outcome...

of their fearsome actions?

Or should I have stopped

running after our supposed parents

who were bewildered to see each other fading away...

and leaving us behind...

Then, what were we supposed to do?

Theme With Variations | Lawrence Fray

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY LAWRENCE FRAY FROM GURUGRAM WON THE SECOND PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023.

How you look doesn’t matter at all.

Whether your saree’s draped just right

Or a light, chiffon shawl will pair

Correctly with your braided hair;

How the silk should pleat, or fall----

All that’s neither here nor there.

Do not fret, do not fear:

I am always waiting, dear.

It’s not as if you’d really notice me

But nothing you can do affects the matter;

If I should choose sweet, honeyed words that flatter

And begin again, perhaps then you’ll see

That how you look doesn’t really matter at all.

If you’re designer saree’s draped just right

Or a feather-light chiffon shawl is bright

Enough to offset your cascaded, braided hair;

How the lustrous silk should pleat, or fall---

When all’s told, that’s neither here nor there.

Why should you ever fear, why should you fret?

You’ll always be mine, my dear; I’ll never forget.

As years go by, you’ll think of me more often

And should you ever wish, I’ll sing your praises,

Extol your virtues and your beauty in phrases

Of wonder. Perhaps, in time, your heart may soften---

And realise that how you look doesn’t matter at all.

It’s nothing personal; in time, I come to everyone.

Please understand, the rich, the grand, or those now cast upon

The shoaling strand of poverty and pain----it’s all the same.

To tell the truth, I’ve lived too long and hate to call

On those who don’t deserve the peace I bring, who blame

Their brigandage and selfish, evil deeds on me.

I merely wait and count their days, silently.

We flit like ha’penny sparrows through Bede’s mead-hall: firelit, warmed,

While all about, Winter’s storms fiercely surge and rage.

Your entry in life’s ledger’s but a paltry line on a page

And then it’s over and you’re for the dark, perhaps to be transformed---

I’ve not been informed. Your voyage is one of self-discovery.

But this I know for sure: even a sparrow doesn’t fall unseen,

And every hair on your head is numbered. Best not to fear the night;

You could be happier than if you stayed. The trip with me, of course, is free,

And how you look won’t matter after all.

Whether you’re georgette saree’s draped just right

Or a gauzy, chiffon shawl diffracts the light

When you parade your braided, faded hair,

Or how your sensual silk should fold, or fall----

Leave this charade, come as you are---or dare.

And do not fret at all, neither sigh.

Take my hand; I’m waiting here, nearby.

About the Poet

Mr. Lawrence Fray is a teacher who has travelled extensively and now divides his time between Ranikhet and Gurugram. Born in England and raised in Ireland, Lawrence has taught in both countries before being School Principal in Africa, Abu Dhabi and in India. He has worked as an inspector of Cambridge Candidate Schools in South East Asia.

Now semi-retired, he finally has time to write poetry, compose music and conduct workshops for teacher training and curriculum development, and in Maths, Physics and English  for students.

He is thankful for his award in India’s Wingword Poetry Competition 2023 and hopes it proves that we are all creative and able to produce work of some merit in our later years. Lawrence mentors creative writing workshops for Two Roads Studio located in Connaught Place, New Delhi

Forbidden Cries- Simrat Kaur Bhalla

She was in love

She was in pain

He made her feel like

She was a shame,

She always tried

She always cried

But he never cared

what all she sacrificed,

She pretended to be fine

Confining her repine

But he never heard

her heart bursting with whine,

She was a harmony

Let me tell you an irony

He claimed ‘He loved her’

Even then she suffered in agony,

She gave her all

he killed her soul

She forgave him

It was a never ending loophole,

She expressed her hurt

But what happened next was worst

He just got mad

Said she over reacts

Broke her into pieces

But the disrespect never ceases,

She begged him to stop

Because it was a lot

But he just forgot

that her heart was soft,

He never tried to know her

And she was looking for someone who can show her

That love is as beautiful as people say

Who can listen to every bit , she wanted to say,

She was not valued

In order to avoid her feelings, he just said ‘okay’ and overlooked

Whilst the thought was still stuck in her head

She just started feeling dead,

He showed his scars

She treated them as stars

But he made her pretend she had none

This is how she used to burn.

But when she realised

How much she has borne

She opened her eyes

And started fixing the pages that were torn,

She stood for herself

Knowing what worth she has

She knew ,now it was enough

Recognised what she deserves,

She left that street

Where it was her defeat

He called her selfish

But she didn’t care as she relish

into the depth of self love

where she was above

each and every viscous site

She loved herself enough after that night.

"चुप्पी"- Shweta Ghorawat

हाँ चुप रहती हूं मगर मेरे अंदर मेरा शोर बोलता है

जो पूछना चाहता है कई सवाल और मांगना चाहता है कई जवाब

मेरी चुप्पी को मेरी कमजोरी ना समझ लेना

ये भूल गलती से भी मत कर लेना

अगर पढ़ना चाहो मुझे तो मेरी आँखे पड़ लेना

अगर समझ ना चाहो मुझे तो मेरी खामोशी समझ लेना

मैं लड़की हु बेपरदा

हाँ मैं भी गिरी हूं मैं भी टूटी हूं।

पर हू मैं किसी का हौसला तो किसी की उम्मीद

जो चाहती लोगो के होठों पे तो बस मुस्कान है

मैं वो मुसाफिर हू जो इंसानियत के बीज बोये चलता है

मैं वो कलम हु जो लाखो दिये रोशन किये करता है

मैं अपने किरदार से एक छाप छोड़े चलती हूँ

हाँ चुप रहती हूं मगर मेरे अंदर मेरा शोर बोलता है

The gardener's daughter- Shruti Joseph

The gardener’s little daughter,

As sweet as pie,

Wearing a collar shirt,

With a skirt and ragged tie.

Something was about her clothes,

Oversized and dirty with stains of mud,

Standing between smart and elegant crowd,

She was bright but considered dud.

Their careless attitude towards her thoughts,

But little did they know about the battles she fought,

Day and night they feel resented,

But deep inside, her young heart lamented,

With shiny shoes and glittery dresses,

Bought by mummies for their pretty princess,

Those girls gave their best to look beautiful,

But she chose to be bountiful.

She though does miss those caresses,

And tries to find love’s traces.

Her father’s death was a terrible sight,

It ended in the garden with just one bite,

The poison went through the vein,

Left behind tremendous pain,

She lost the face to whom she say good night.

Mummy too found her way up with him,

Leaving behind a peaceful scream,

But life must go on is what she thought,

Fulfilling their dreams is what she sought,

No one should know her secret,

That’s what she always believed,

Putting up a happy face,

She discreetly grieved.

Now she wears his shirt like armour,

Though each day her soul clamour,

She wears his tie to suit the occasions of big,

But they turned her into some hideous gig,

She laughed along with them,

Just so they will be pleased,

Alas! Any chance of hurting her,

They would seize.

But she is one cookie, tough to break,

Fighting a battle with everything at stake,

She now knows, things are not black and white,

Doing what needs to do is the most upright.

It would either be whiner or winner,

She chose the latter and became breadwinner,

Such is the sweet little gardener’s daughter,

Had gone through the fire just like pie,

Pain in the heart but hopes are high.

As the war gets older - Ishaan Joshi

its a new dawn of a new day

i see a sicklebill on its way

the little bird, noah, has come to my

window

but she's not humming, much like a crow

wishing to rip open the glass pane

i have an unsure sense that it is the dame

who's home built of twigs and hay

was here untill yesterday

thoughts in me shift quickly

with a strong thud of the daily

hitting the floor as intended

i fear again it would be candid

while sipping my third cup of tea

hurting, with an inch of glimmer i see

thousands wounded, hundreds dead

not far from paths i usually tread

it has happened today, it will happen again

that bird will strike against my window pane

but i know nothing else to say

the war just gets older; and gray

today will be no different from

the last year, and the years gone

but in hope of a better tomorrow

i long and long to forget my sorrow

another week has taken its couse

leaving little and older breeds in remorse

surely the mechanical predator lived upto its name

since dawns thereafter were never the same

faith in anti-god brimmed manifold

what fucking atrocious lies was i told

he is the saviour holding us in his mit

is this a different side to his wit?

GOD IS DEAD!

The Choice is Yours- Sadiq Raipuri

Before your gaze, a tempest's fierce display,

Upon the shore, a sailor stands at bay,

In waves, a cry resounds, like sword's sharp edge,

In hardship's grip, each soul feels lost, no hedge,

Gone are the days when on this shore friends meet,

And sing the pleasing songs to waves' slow beat,

They danced beyond the sky's familiar sphere,

As if to keep the soothing colours near,

That sailor saw before the shore undone,

Both kin and strangers weeping, wail a ton,

He'd seen limits of mercy, cruelty's start,

Pieces of peace when wrecked and torn apart,

Decreed the tempest: dance of ruthless sway,

No one survives who sees life's wisdom ray,

Resolved with tattered sails for vengeance, he,

Amidst the tempest's roar, that sailor be,

So time to act has now arrived in sight,

One side, a storm with purpose just to smite,

On other side, the sailor's peace in-kind,

Let's see which side your faith shall be aligned.

Women in Delhi Metro- Garima Joshi

Women travelling in delhi metro

are from all spheres of life

Of all shapes and sizes

Of different skin tones and hair types

Of a thousand melodies and in complete

sync with their conflict and harmony.

They’re mysteries that I see in this world.

A perfect balance of sensible and whimsical.

Women in delhi metro are sometimes

strange and oftentimes awesome stories

in my head.

They’re soft curves with hard expressions;

Spellbinding souls with spirited imaginations.

Women in delhi metro are equally

feminine and masculine

Some with their willowy suits and

sarees; Some with their ironed

skirts and shirts.

Women in delhi metro are quiet

murmurs and zesty laughs in

between the cacophony of swarming

lanes and rowdy trains.

Women in delhi metro are meant to be

passing winds but they feel like fresh breeze.

Mesmerising and utterly divine— like

descending comets disappearing in the

midst of the starry skies.

Women in delhi metro are enigmas; they

are in true sense the wonders of this world.

A Lost Love- Hamdha K

My eyes are devoid of tears

My throat dry as sand

Screaming your name

Hoping it'd bring you back.

I know it won't

No matter how much I beg

How much I cry.

You won't appear beside me

Won't hold me

Won't tell me it'll be okay,

Like you did whenever I felt like crying.

Now I cry myself to sleep

Bathe in my tears

And dress in my sweat,

Wishing to see your delicate face

To say that I'm here for you

To beg you to give life a chance.

But I know it's all

A dream long gone.

You are not here,

And never will be.

If I could see you one last time

I would ask - no, wail -

'Was I not enough

To make you stay?'

Hearts Pledge- Ashwani Sharma

Hey women !

Mother of all,

See around,

Do you need anyone?

Does anyone love you?

Have you ever felt loved?

Stop pretending.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your patience has been tested,

You know your limit,

It doesn’t mean you break yourself.

Your emotions drained,

Stop yourself.

It is your weapon.

Don’t forget !

You are Goddess-of-Power(Kali)

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your motherhood challenged,

You are not a machine,

Realise your choice !

You can procreate.

It doesn’t mean you have to kill your dignity.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your body is not a material.

No one can touch you without your consent.

Even if it is a consent,

No one can take you for granted.

Don’t mould according to others' minds !

Your voice is not a radio,

No one can pause it.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your walking judged,

On the ramps, On the roads,

In the night and during the day

Your thoughts being manipulated,

Your words are suppressed,

Words from other mouth can't define you,

You define yourself.

Don’t forget !

You are Goddess-of-Knowledge(Saraswati)

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your smile wiped out,

You can't gaze a stranger,

Stop being misunderstood yourself,

Your tears are ignored,

Because society presume you meant to cry,

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Your decision hijacked,

Your actions silenced,

Your reaction misunderstood,

Money doesn't drive you.

You drive the money,

Don’t forget !

You are Goddess-of-Money(Lakshmi).

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

It's time !

Wake up. Rise now.

Where are you lost?

What are you waiting for?

Why are you doing this?

Do you have a reason?

You are free !

Wake up. Rise now.

You are the birth.

You give the birth.

You give wings to all,

You owe nothing to this world.

You give dreams, you give hope

You are giver,

Everything immerses in you,

It’s the voice of your Son.

Who can’t see you like this anymore !

Listen to his urge,

Time is you !

Wake up. Rise now.

Stay: A Memoir of Disillusionment-Annie- Ananya Nayak

Stay: A Memoir of Disillusionment- Annie

A seething dragon of vapour

Rising from the vermillion shadow cast on the coffee cup

I move my hand through the wisps almost in a stupor

I feel no warmth.

I wonder if we’re all just-

A sea of souls under a sky of osmosis

Taking in

Feelings and thoughts and opinions and suppressing our

projected psychosis

A sky full of stars or empty lights on a faded screen ?

A song during monsoon on a broken chair on which you lean

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

You grasp the warm coffee cup, the skies harken,

It’s raining but it’s like your ears haven’t awoken,

It’s muted, it's faded it’s

Time itself.

Drawing out the edges on a grey canvas-

The cup is streaming but there’s no heat, a net without prey.

No red no ember no blue no yellow in the sky only the stratus

A paler, emptier grey.

If I just stay-

In the fabric of diminishing sunsets-

Perhaps I could imagine the warmth as well, feel the sunsets’ beat,

one cloud of red

but is it warm or a collective matrix of pixel assets

of seamless grey indexed in crescents

of lies and promises to effigies of-

effigies of

rotating sunsets in the future past

slideshows of clouds

of promises that are grey and collapsing boxes of dreams

Taxes and credits and ever lit shrouds

Seas of people and waves of apologies,

Extended deadlines and taxes and

Promises.

Promises to yourself promises to imaginary effigies,

promises to sunsets that are grey,

But perhaps you could reach them if you stay?

Perhaps you could steal a vein of heat that you caught,

at that old soup deli that never changed-

That lived in a time and not in a place

That lived in memories from the future

Perhaps if you reversed the pace.

The flicker of a candle not too far away,

of time encroaching and closing

Shrinking, a box made of dreams, caging

Holding your life in a cacophony of strings,

Protesting the clean grey skies

The boxes, the futures, the sunsets that are canvases and lies

The repeat and scroll over and over and over

And over and over as long as you lean.

Lean on the chair with grey in your eyes

Do you want to stop leaning?

You spy a fabric behind the skies

Holding together the curtain of clouds

Is it cold and steely and soulless behind the digital skies ?

In that it wraps and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless

decisions that all lead to debits and credits

Checks and balances

Promises and receipts

and promises to effigies

To effigies of the future to uncertainties

tame uncertainties that are burning with ember within

neatly coloured boxes of grey

boxes that line up within the screen.

and if you just stay.

stay.

stay.

stay.

stay at your rectangular desk of teak wood that is so neatly grained

with your fourth journal that is slightly stained

with promises to effigies of the past

Promises to tears that were never cast

It feels cool and steely and neat and comfortable and

grey

and if you just stay

if you just stay-

In the fabric of diminishing sunsets

one cloud of red

but is it warm or a collective matrix of pixel assets

of seamless grey indexed in crescents

of lies and promises to effigies of-

effigies of

rotating sunsets in the future past

slideshows of clouds

of promises that are grey and collapsing boxes of dreams

Taxes and credits and ever lit shrouds

Of loans and checks and delis of soups that lean

that lean in to the chair at the teakwood desk

that ran perfect circles of grains within the stains

Of your journal that stared at

the greyed edges of the sunset clouds in disdain

A sea of souls under a sky of osmosis

Taking in

Feelings and thoughts and opinions and suppressing our

Own psychosis.

Seas of people and waves of apologies,

Extended deadlines and taxes and

Promises.

Promises to yourself promises to imaginary effigies,

promises to sunsets that are grey,

But perhaps you could reach them if you stay?

Perhaps you could steal a vein of heat that you caught,

at that old soup deli that never changed-

That lived in a time and not in a place

That lived in memories from the future

Perhaps if you reversed the pace.

The flicker of a candle not too far away

of time encroaching and closing

Shrinking, a box made of dreams, caging

and if you just stay.

Holding your life in a cacophony of strings,

Protesting the clean grey skies

The boxes, the futures, the sunsets that are canvases and lies

The repeat and scroll over and over and over

And over and over as long as you lean

and if you just stay

stay.

stay.

stay.

In that it wraps and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless-

decisions that all lead to debits and credits

Checks and balances

Promises and receipts

and promises to effigies

To effigies of the future to uncertainties

tame uncertainties that are burning with ember within

neatly coloured boxes of grey

boxes that line up within the screen.

just stay

stay at your rectangular desk of teak wood that is so neatly grained

with your fourth journal that is slightly stained

with promises to effigies of the past

Promises to tears that were never cast

It feels cool and steely and neat and comfortable and

grey

and if you just stay

stay and watch the grey filled reality

of a soup deli in the rain of

Taxes and

Credits and boxes of dreams that promise you effigies

Promise you effigies that you can promise to

that stay in a time not in a place

away from a time when

you didn’t stop your slowing pace.

of-

blinding hexadecimals

Screeching pixels that promise you

Incremental extensions in cardinals

that tick away at your credits

And debits and taxes and

and

Flowers that are sketches of grey and not real and

Sunflowers in a coffee cup gone cold under

On top of my teakwood desk with tears falling

On journals that write about the clouds asunder

cloud below bellowing

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay Annie

stay within the leaning chair

and make your promises to effigies and credit your taxes to

Sliding clouds that roll to uncertain futures

That colour crimson scribbles around

skyscrapers and windowless fixtures

Fixtures that ~inthatit~ that wrap and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless

blinding hexadecimals

Screeching pixels that promise you

Incremental extensions in cardinals

Sliding clouds that roll to uncertain futures

That colour crimson and

Fixtures that ~inthatit~ that wrap and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless-

cloud below bellowing

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay stay stay

stay Ananya

slideshows of moving screens and I

What if i just leaned in

[And tore the slide show]

the sky perhaps it’s not real perhaps

the incremental effigies are clouds pre-recorded

future memories reeled in a ordered

balance sheet of choices

And if if i could just

not let the flicker i caught slip between the nuances

and maybe the cup, it can crack a bit and the journal can turn a page

and the desk is fibrous not just a entry stage-

and if i close my eyes I can see the red, true red not

an hexadecimal array of lies

.. .

.

.

Of balance sheets and credits and debits and boxes of dreams pre-recorded cages of effigies of delis that promise you sunsets not grey

That perfectly wrappppppp ararouroundround-

Stay.

Stay stay oh won’t you stay

Stay and look at the violet sunset

Albeit manufactured albeit a default asset

won’t you stay, Annie, won’t you stay, and clear your debits and credits?

the cup could be warm if i tell you i saw steam

That I saw the fog on the window that i screamed

When i touched the handle because it was too hot

It really was red believe me and-

To Annie:

Stay within the sand

I’ll erase your checks and balances.

I’ll erase your pre-recorded dreams

I’ll erase your disappointment at the red

hey look at the blue dusklight and how it gleams ?

could you take your broken chair

And once again lean ?

lean on your teakwood desk chair (edited)

take on the boxes of collapsing dreams and checks and balances and I’ll change the sunset for you

From red to violet to orange to blue

And I’ll add a deli at every subway and you’ll see at least one sunbird coming from the salty waters and

Every now and then I’ll give you a glimpse of a steel fixture that staggers

In this paradise of convoluted grey

i will promise you effigies that you can promise to

in a draped out sunset of blue and grey in

If you don't

Question why they are grey

I’ll manufacture a steam draft for you, Annie

from your cup if you so wish

if you so wish it to feel the ink in the line.

I’ll draw it for you

i will draw in the outlines and stitch the edges with glue

and wrap around the

Sliding clouds that roll to uncertain futures

That colour crimson and

Fixtures that ~inthatit~ that wrap and embeds my dreams around in a stitch of seamless-

If you could just take me at my word

I’ll make the saffron seem real

and Annie you could you could ignore the steel

what can I not give you in this effigy of promises

Of futures and pasts and credits and balances

Screeching pixels that promise you

stay and watch the grey filled reality

Sunflowers in a coffee cup gone cold under

decisions that all lead to debits and credits

Checks and balances

Promises and receipts

and promises to effigies

To effigies of the future to uncertainties

tame uncertain-

I’ll write you a world here within the grey lines, Ananya

first i could write you:

A sky full of stars or a empty lights on a faded screen ?

A song during monsoon on a broken chair on which you lean

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

and violet sunsets and wedding feasts

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

The sound of cicadas a cruise on the beach

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

A million little butterflies flying over a sea of orchids

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

a travel blog a parfait of kiwis and mangoes

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

A June wedding that you always wanted with the tulips all picked

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

maybe a song that made you cry umm i could see your lover standing by and

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

By the rose gardens and looking into your eyes

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the chair that is broken.

Except it’s not the desk that is broken.

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the sunset that is broken.

broken broken broken chairs and assets of unresolved glitches ?

and hexadecimal arrays and i can’t control the ASCII that seeps from my pen at my journal that sits on the teakwood desk

violet sunset clouds that gleam with their stitches

the stitches in plain disarray, staring

I always knew there were stitches in the skies

I always held the cup that could not give me

warmth but only steam drawings

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the cup that is broken.

Except it’s not the sunset that is broken.

अपराजिता- Meena Khan

अपराजिता

ये फौज है, हमारी जान है, हमारी शान है। जब खबर मिली वो नहीं रहे, हमारी तो दुनिया उजड़ गयी ,पाँव तले जमीन खिसक गई, जीवन व्यर्थ सा लगने लगा। खुद को सँभालना मुश्किल हो गया . अंतिम विदाई आँसुओ से नहीं, गर्व से देना, उनका ये कहना सच हो गया।

एक फैसला और आज हो गया, उनकी वर्दी को अपना जिस्म बना लूँगी, व्यर्थ न जाये ये बलिदान' उनकी जगह को अब मैं भरूँगी। छोड़ के श्रृंगार, अब वर्दी का श्रृंगार मैं करूँगी,

बहु से बेटी बन कर फौज में, मैं लडुगी । फैसला ये सुन सब दंग रह गये, कैसे करोगी ? तुम्हारे बस का नहीं है। तुमने तो होश खो दिये। फर्क नहीं पड़ा, तिरंगे में लिपटा शरीर जो आपका था, बस एक फोन घुमाया और ये ऐलान कर दिया- मैं सेवा में आना चाहती हूँ। वहाँ से सकारात्मक रुख पाकर, मनोबल बढ़ गया,

तैयारियां शुरु करने लगी मैं, जंग के लिये फौलाद बनने लगी मैं, कमज़ोर के लिये प्रेरणा बनने लगी मैं, वर्दी पहन उनके करीब रहने लगी हूँ मैं जमाने से लड़कर खुद खड़ी हूँ मैं, जो कहते थे तुमसे न हो पायेगा अब तो कहने लगे तुमसे ही हो पायेगा, शब्द बदलने लगी हूँ मैं । "लाचारी बेबसी से गर्व का जीवन जीने लगी मैं, अपने हीरो जैसा बनने लगी मैं, सेना का अहसास बच्चों को देनी लगी हूँ मैं। अपनी सौतन को खुद पहनने लगी हूँ मैं, शहीद विधवा से लेडी कैडेट बनने लगी हूँ मैं। कड़ी ट्रेनिंग से निखरने लगी हूँ मैं, आपके साथ होने का अहसास करने लगी हूँ मैं। एक फौजी की पत्नी हूँ मैं, हर परिस्थिति का सामना करने लगी हूँ मैं, देश के लिये बार-बार प्राण दे सकती हूँ मैं, प्रेम को अलग पहचान देती हूँ मैं।

ऐसा कदम उठाकर, हज़ारों बेबसों को बल देती हूँ मैं, शहादत को आपकी, एक और फौज देती हूँ मैं एक गौरवशाली इतिहास की साक्षी बनती हूँ मैं, मैं कुछ भी नहीं, ये सब आपकी देन है, प्रेम आज भी आपसे बहुत बहुत करती हूँ मैं, और अपनी अंतिम साँस तक करती रहूँगी मैं..

I Think I Know Why People Die- Tanisha L N

It's midnight, all lies, all venom, all pity rises to life again,

Somebody has crossed all boundaries of sanity;

Somebody's been labelled 'absurd' again,

Somebody's the fresh tragedy.

They chose to vanish without a trace, without a goodbye;

But I think, I know why people die.

Somewhere beyond the warmth, peace and safe doors of one's abode,

Lies a broken shell of a woman, flesh torn and soul dismangled;

Someone gasping for breath, wanting to explode,

Their life a Web of deceit, hope a distant dream, and their core a meaningless tangle.

No arms to run into, none their eyes can meet, nobody heard their cry,

Sometimes, even when just on the inside, I think I know why people die.

Somewhere hums somebody's inner child,

the beloved, aspiration embodied,

Self, lost in the chaos, beaming eyes, their voice now a crushed rattle.

Heaving shoulders now life-less moulders,

their innocence drugged,

A graveyard of numbing pain, lost hope

and broken dreams is what's left of their battle.

I know what, between life and violent guitar strings lie,

I think I know why people die.

Somewhere somebody's years of penance flows down their cheek,

Despair masked with delicious fragrance,

shadows dealt with, with angry utensils and a knife.

Eyes of ambition now with the offsprings' burdens reek,

Their identity? Somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, somebody's wife.

When beings shudder into fragile pieces and they raise a question "why?",

I think I know why people die.

Somewhere when the city lies asleep, breathes into his pillow a man,

His entire existence, a string of unsolicited advice;

All self replaced with blame, authority and in times of need, " Be a man!"

His chest, a creeping hollow, his body a mere device.

When power is validated and hidden remains his deep sigh,

I think we know why people die.

Between daydreams of victory and dangling onto cords of hope,

I think we've all been there, done that, many a times.

Between achievements we desperately cling to and vulnerability we deny,

I think we know why we did; All of us died.

Our Bhagwad Geeta- Manvi Chaudhary

Our Bhagwad Geeta

In the midst of darkness when we seem to become completely blind,

a glimpse of Krishna then gives a wink of sparkling light saying, My Child! why do you whine?

He is there for his devotees everytime,

Regardless of the fact whether they call him or not in their struggling times.

The medium which paves the way to his lotus feet divine,

is called as devotion which is just like a beautiful sunshine.

Knowledge which vividly speaks about how to start,

is called as Bhagwad Geeta which teaches the path we need to embark.

An instructional manual on art of living and dying,

it’s a perfect amalgamation of questions need to be answered in a line.

Imparting the pearls of right cognition of what to do and what not to do,

completely practical and depicts easy steps to go with the flow.

Arjuna gives an example of all possible difficult situations where we cant be fine,

and Krishna is the rescuer for all these situations that need to be reinclined.

With 18 chapters and 700 shlokas its not just a book, but a ticket to reach Goloka

the permanent abode of Krishna which harbours one of the most precious biota.

Supersafe and comfortable devotees are there in the hands of Krishna’s shine,

where they are away from sorrows of this material world’s wine.

It gives the glimpse of importance of surrendering to god which renders responsibility unto the hands of god,

and also depicts the science of soul with an understanding of joys and sorrows to be the same cup of bowl.

Main teaching it imparts is the knowledge of Karmayoga,

which simply means to work happily without expecting the results of actions we wear as a toga.

Teaching the importance of spiritual guide in our lives it encourages to follow our mentors life,

proclaiming the significance of devotion in one’s life it shows how it serves as a bridge to burn our karmas to make our life a delight.

Parading the right knowledge of modes of goodness, ignorance and passion it gives idea about mood swings and stubborn nature of individuals in complete session,

giving the root cause of anger to be profound attachments, it beautifully explains every aspect of life in a beautiful angle.

How to be healthy and how to be happy all knowledge lies in Bhagwad Geeta of your personal copy,

What is god and what are his forms all are explained on this divine platform.

Need of hour is to awaken our mind,

To extend our hands to these ancient scriptures of God’s regime.

Experiment and Experience are the keywords if anyone wants to dive into the spiritual world,

Trust me the most precious gem will then instantly be added to our lives like to a lion’s den.

Ode to Twenties!- Esha Mahendra

In dawn of a new decade,

no more a teen with small steps in adulthood.

Surviving the university grade,

and fantasizing the unlikelihood.

Lots of fellows with close knits,

yet live through by oneself.

Having fun even in titbits,

Ready to face life ourself.

Anxious for coming times.

yet so lively and easy-going.

Mostly off your hands aligns,

Thinking, paging and reviving.

Back and forth in action,

reach bottomline to the peak.

Looking for new interaction,

being in two minds for help to seek.

loving the new ongoing streak,

on contrary, wishing it to be still.

The quarter-life-crisis to speak,

mostly in midst of chill.

Over episodes of sad, tired and ill,

a cultured human sustains.

Achievements become ladder with thrill,

Making up mind in rains.

The adventures, the heartaches,

the failures, the success .

Miles to go whatsoever overtakes,

Gunshot of Decade here to bless.

Cosmic Reverie : Inside the Human- Yash Lodi Rajput

Lines on palm doesn't reflect the reality,

At this moment, I have a thought.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

You don't know who you are;

I don't know who I am.

This world is just an illusion,

What happens is just a game.

What is your aim in life?

Why are you searching for fame?

No one is satisfied here!

Everyone's situation is just the same.

Everyone is caught up in senses,

Everyone love sense a lot.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

What can be the definition of love?

Have you ever seen the fourteenth moon?

Did you ever had time to meet?

Or you always said l'd see you soon.

Have you ever welcomed the rising sun that captivates your mind?

Have you ever bid farewell to the sunset?

Did you met them after putting away the umbrella?

The rain drops comes from so far only to get you wet.

Human nature is to love, and this love exists in your heart,

It doesn't care whether you have anything or not.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

Everything on Earth, happens for an important reason,

So don't afraid and face it like a lion,

Whether it's a wonderful event or even an accident.

Never give up at all, no matter what the condition.

Whoever has a weaker position than you,

In front of them, always be kind.

Twice a day, Even a broken clock shows the correct time.

No one is wasted here, keep my advice in your mind.

There is no limit to human desires,

How will it fill? As it's not a pot.

The universe exists inside the human,

This blue planet is just a dot.

Learning not to dislike the city I live in- Aishwarya Ganapathy

What this poem is about?

As a child, born and bought up in Delhi, I struggled a lot to identify myself towards a particular culture. Whenever I moved to my parent's hometown down south to Tamil Nadu, I was not South Indian enough and of course, my slips in Hindi and my different and more vibrant cuisine, often led to offensive and weird questions in my own so called friend circle.

Anyway, as my favorite poet says "When you have a problem as a poet, you write, to understand if not solve"

This poem came to me as my acceptance towards who I am and where I belong as I struggled during COVID to fit-in in Chennai.

This poem is hence, titled, "Learning not to dislike the city I live in- an ode to Chennai"

Here it goes!

Poem:

This city isn't tangy except for the "Sambaar". Yes its sambaar and not sambur.

Anyway where was I?

This city isn't tangy except for the "Sambaar" and you cannot particularly find an exquisite street food.

Though not all the streets are the same. And, sure the weather and the rickshawaalas aren't mostly (please mind me) nice.

If you decide to live at my sister's place, there will always be a howl of a man that makes me want to shut my ears. Until I understand with grace that he is living on a food I will always despise eating.

There will always be too much noise and people & too many vulgar jargons to comprehend. And, Oh! The Whispers! and gasps!! at lady senorita with a crop top and even a mere jean.

Because what you don't understand is easier to be judged.

But the city..., also holds at each door

a woman

a man

a child

who bleed red when cut.

The only difference being the cardamom rich aroma at your house has been replaced by the unmatched fragrance of "filter coffee".

The city holds light and small bits of life in its proud and swollen heritage that takes kindness to the backseat sometimes.

This city is surely beautiful, exactly and differently, from Delhi, in all of its sunrises, sunsets and even moonsets.

I know we all are different and we are supposed to be. However, despite our unmatched geography, history and culture, I want you to remember that there is one thing common across all of Indian and us i.e.

Both light and darkness.

~Aishwarya

Of living and dying and hoping to be saved- Sumedha Rastogi

Of living and dying and hoping to be saved-

I don't wanna die

I actually don't.

On the contrary, I want to live

And I will live.

I'll live for the things I want to do and haven't done yet

I'll live to feel the sand under my feet and the sea crashing against me

I'll live to feel the snow between my fingers

I'll live to see the cherry blossoms blooming and the autumn leaves falling.

And I'll live for the books sitting atop my shelves and the stories I've not heard yet.

I'll live.....

I-I..want to live.

But sometimes, sometimes it doesn't feel that way.

Sometimes, I just wanna throw everything away

And at 3 in the morning, my thoughts don't exactly stay at bay.

They come and they come and threaten to never leave

Till it all starts to blend together, the good and the bad, my success and my failures

Till the house that I live in doesn't feel like my home.

And I try to cry out for help but it feels like I'm at the bottom of the sea

Where the pressure is more than 1000 times the normal

And I can't speak because it's crushing me but I hold on,

I hold on to the last threads of sanity and wait

Till either the sea inside me crushes me whole or the sun outside rises and gives me hope.