I remained in doubt, i painted flowers; I denied love and let them overpower; I was also one of you living my 20s with a box of nutella in my hand enough large to console my numb heart. Chocolates always do their work. I was not living i was surviving, everyday i would add three pinch of self-doubt , a handful of competition and would consume all of it while the clock in my hallway would run tick-tock and i would be by then another pessimistic student who works for anti-suicide organizations. The time when i celebrated my not so sweet sixteen i realized my universe was escaping just like my mom and dad who were escaping from the love that they kept on building for two decades through excuses and expectations. Today i am living my 30s and i believe that maybe my poem was not that beautiful not the one that can be romanticized with Van Gogh's paintings, maybe i didn't get a chance to go to Shreya Goshal's concerts,maybe i didn't get the chance to paint my childhood walls with ny desired colours, maybe didn't get the chance to celebrate it the way many others do. But i am alive, i had a good sleep, i stopped surving and started living, I cherished every sacrifice i made, i didn't let another grumpy eyes to stare my cleavage, i didn't cry when i was left alone, i didn't run the race, i lived the race of my life and i am living. And i want everyone of you to feel the same, your life should be more like the summer afternoon sky glowing till it reaches the beautiful shades of sunset. ~Aastha //Tujhme na kami koi hai, Bas tera ye din bura hai// . #rise#pod#wod @writersnetwork@miraquill@barasiya__@phosphenes_@calm_chaos
I was waiting for my bus in the Aurbindo Sarani street when I met with her across the street. She was like the blooming sun of east sky, her desires were like the little dust particles that resided in her hair and would fall off everytime she flipped them while brooming the streets. She wore Chapa (cotton)saree to hide her bruises. i met with young protestors their eyes were dry and shrunken ,their hands were trembling under the heat of scorching sunlight, they crossed the roads with hoarding, which says "Go home patriarchy, You are drunk." I was waiting for my bus when i saw this woman who lives in the apartment near the bus stop, she lived in the 2nd floor and i could see her life through the tinted yellow windows of her living room. She walked into the balcony with raw lumps of last night's crime, she cried red tears. My bus arrived; I struggled to enter the bus it was crowded so i had to stand. We started the journey, i met with a man who was sitting next to the place where i was standing he smiled at me and his wrinkles shared his everlasting fear for mankind. His smile lied. The bus was moving with huge speed we all were swaying with the motion, all i could feel was a bushy hand touching my pants i looked back and met a man who smirked me. His smirk defined his fetish. My stop arrived and as i was leaving the bus i met this woman she called me and told me not to wear tight jeans it looks weird. And i felt like a victim. . #meeting#wod#pod @writersnetwork@miraquill@barasiya__@calm_chaos@fromwitchpen
The sky is meeting the sea and forming the glitter horizon but my brown eyes don't shine anymore. The dusk was coming then but i am standing alone in the abandoned shore with my feets sinking deep in. The sea shells were all scattered they were covered with rust of agony and pain. The sky was covered with different shades of blue but i was dying, dying to know what happened in that bleak afternoon, why the autumn snatched you away from me, where was the suffering love? I was holding all the letters you wrote to me ,the kajal lining my eyes were now drunken , i lit the cigarette and screamed your name to the stars who now holds you in their arm. I am jealous! You were a liar, you lied about your existence, lied about every poetry you wrote to me, you always meant; Until death tear us apart, Until death tear us apart. And here i am standing alone letting my mind break into hazy illusions with burning cigarettes. Maybe you loved me but you loved your body more, your sexuality more, the society more. You were coward to share it with me because you believed people, you believed them not me, maybe i didn't love you enough. With sigh, "maybe in some other life i will meet you again and this time we will love,love." i said to myself. . #love#pod#wod @writersnetwork@miraquill@barasiya__@calm_chaos Sorry for writing after ages.
In a parallel universe I will again pour coffee on your favorite cup, We will sit in the balcony and will draw faces on clouds. I will say you how much i am obsessed with turtles and you will allow me to have one.
In a parallel universe You will again make me Luchir AlooDom as my sunday breakfast and that will fill our cottage with the fragrance of the soft dough and extraordinary spices.
In a parallel universe Lazy afternoon will once again be dreamy when the old radio will play our favourite songs and you will hum along with it telling your favourite story on how you would fool Grandpa to give Ma Shiuli flowers in the mornings of Mahalaya.
In a parallel universe Ray's films and your Lottery tickets will heat up the flame of politics between us.
In a parallel universe On a random Tuesday you will bring home rasgulla and sexy chiffon sarees with delicate shinning borders for me and sister so that we could dress up ourselves and feel no less than Aishwarya Rai.
In a parallel universe Homeworks will again be more fun as you will tell Ma to be less stressful with our school projects and make us some pakoda so that we could enjoy it while listening to your love for Bengali literature.
In a parallel universe You will hold me close and the high tide of cold waves in my heart will calm down. You will place my head on your lap and will hum songs of affectionate love. I will again feel like walking across the celestial lanes. You will kiss on my forehead and i will realize that is how universe feels like.
In a parallel universe I will be again called Lokkhi Meye and i will again meet you Bapi.
~aastha || To every daughter. . //Covid has snatched away our loved ones and it is very hard to explain this strange war and its situations which is getting worse day by day, i hope things get better and we will once again live on anvils of peace // . #multiverse#pod#wod @writersnetwork@mirakee@barasiya__@pink_phosphenes@moitreyee . Luchi aloo dom is a famous bengali delicacy. Shiuli is the name of flower also know as Night Flowering Jasmine. Mahalaya is a special bengali event it marks the beginning of Devi Pakhya in a way the beginning of Durga Puja. Bapi is a bengali term addressed to fathers just like "papa, baba." Lokkhi Meye is referred by Bengali parents to their daughter in a loving way. It means Lakshmi girl as the daughters in a household are considered as an avatar of goddess Lakshmi.
Now as everyone has wished you so i will take some of you time to say few words on your 17th birthday. Hm hm, I know you since the time you wore those big rectangular framed glasses you used to run around in the corridors as if someone has let you free. I remember to know you from the day my best friend started dating you, you both were sweet middle school couples. I never thought to be friends with you, you were just a random girl who used to be the only one to reply to my stories in whatsapp. We both were weird but in the most classy way eeh! I remember when for the first time i opened instagram you both were only ones to know and i used to disturb you two so muchh. I remember how we used to laugh after realizing how dumb we are over calls. Texts from you were not that often but receiving call from you everyday was mandatory.Uncle's mushroom fried rice with a glass of secrets are days i miss. Clicking pictures, painting walls, crying over circumstances, making new friends and getting jealous, makeup and brushes ouh ouh i am getting so much into it. I won't be able to say how much those days means to me, i can't put into words actually. Maybe we were on a break and i don't wanna talk about it, but there was not a single day i didn't recall you,i hated myself for hating you. You hated me, I screamed at you, we fought, we cried and we loved.
Listen @barasiya__ a clear reminder, i love you the way Monica loves Rachel, i care for you the way Joey cares for Chandler, i fought and love you the way Ross does with Rachel, i will stick by your side the way Phoebe sticks for Joey. I will be there for you the way they all were there for themselves. Happiest birthday love, idk how to express my love for you i would have bought you a bulky, pretty surprise but curse this corona. So i waited and wrote you this virtual letter as a surprise (gosh! I am such dumb nvm less than you) be responsible, be loving the way you are, grow more, study less paint more, YOU deserve the sky, the moon, the sun. I love you ❤
Everyday at 6:30 p.m. i see children running and playing their favorite games I listen ghazal by the girl who lives across the street when the sky shades the smiling colours of amethyst purple. With each sunrise i meet the summer romance and with every sunset my memories multiplies. Somedays i covered the streets like caramel and on somedays i lay pressed within the diary of a dreamer. On rainy august afternoons dark cold void drops of rainfall have drop from my leaves on the forehead of lover's heart whose wrinkles behind those glasses screamed the thousands of wishes he dreamt and desired with her. My leaves were aware of the distance ,the distance of divorce which will now scratch someone's childhood walls, it will bleed, bleed the colours which my leaves are stained with, red? On the month October, maybe a not so freezing day i see happy faces smelling of honey drizzling fragnances, tucking their braids with their favourite love stories and writing letters to the sky. They covered themselves with Kashmiri shawl complimenting the bruises on each other faces. Their smile were as bright as like the orange colored sugar maple leaves covering me.
The zephyr of cold December was filled with the smell of cookies baked by grandma, she crafts stories and sells the cookies to all the children. She used to wear red bindi and would hide her desires in her anchal. It was early frost when her husband died she cried and her bindi was smudged and the brilliant red colour was fading together from her life and my leaves. My colour changes throughout the twelve months just like the love and fears of different persons and i am growing and breathing with each one of you. You will find me among the various maple trees growing in the Auburn Avenue. . #autobiography#wod#pod @writersnetwork@mirakee@barasiya__@calm_chaos@pink_phosphenes . Thank you editors choice ❤
I don't know from where to start, There were days when we cried and didn't paint, we lied alone in our tanned rooms and i missed your shoulder. I scribbled notes for you and saved them as drafts.I thought that I won't miss you often but i was wrong. I always wanted you ,always wanted you to listen to my songs my writings and tell me they make sense. I always wanted to discuss about the colours mehendi the day before sosti. I always wanted to click more weird photos with you and fill up your gallery. I always wanted to discuss about life while we drink mango juice (awkward, we are).I always wanted, i always did. Now, again i came back to my home, my safe place,my midnight prayer. I know we had many reasons to hate each other but we have more reasons to love each other. You have stars within you and eveytime you breathe the sky gets bigger.You are my hope on days when my mind and heart aches, and you listen to every bit of it and helps me draw my escape route through your eyes.
Constellations lines her dress Her body feels like the lilac sky She keeps me warm, she keeps "us" warm. She is a gypsy soul, who hums songs in the afternoon while writing letters to the sky. She is the broken poetry on somedays but she knows how to reassemble the pieces. She is the lady who talks about socialism and capitalism while painting her walls. She is the heroine of her own story. . Four days to go love❤@barasiya__
If poetry was a person, Her fluttering hair would be the perfect metaphor for the swirling galaxy. Her braids would be entangled with Venus and Neptune as she dignifies power and rage.
If poetry was a person, In that golden hour her eyes would glow the irony of life, just like the haldi covered face of young bride.
If poetry was a person, Her skin would be like the beautiful pink and blue shade of 4a.m. sky, her pretty strech marks would be like the swirls of Van Gogh's starry night. It would be the fetish for another middle aged bushy man.
If poetry was a person, Her lips would be like the shade of summer sun with the tint of old buildings in the city, honey would drizzle as her lips would part, she was never afraid to talk about her nightmares and inferior days as she never wanted others to decorate their pain.
If poetry was a person, Her mind would be vibrant like the colours of different gender,her thoughts would be wrapped with ink of rights and movements.
If poetry was a person, Her curves would be the broken syllable which less people would understand, she would flaunt her insecurities to the world like the imagery of Wordsworth.
If poetry was a person, Her emotions would be like the oxidized embroidery jewelry which she keeps close to her heart when she writes letters to the dying star.
If poetry was person, She would always look complete with the stain of pure blood that holds origin of life she bears her ache and hold it in her palm. She fights with the hormones and their anxiety, she bleeds, she bleeds on every month.
If poetry was person, She would be the vintage soul whose anklets hold the weight of her painted desires, she is the lady you wouldn't get in the Jane Austen's novel, she is who collects hope fron dying rain and will dream of rainbows.
If poetry was a person, She would be imperfect one with comma and melodrama.
In 2016 we launched Mirakee, a creative outlet for writers and readers with in-app designing tools to upload visually appealing images. But building new features is about learning as much as it’s about making. It’s also about tough choices. The recent change of name was part of our endeavour to improve and move forward. Miraquill is an appropriate choice to portray our objectives and aspirations. It also expresses our zeal to constantly evolve as a dynamic community for writers and readers.
Over the past few months we have increased focus on our concerns to achieve a safe platform in compliance with the new IT Laws in India. Moving further in that direction, Miraquill is now going to only support images from Unsplash library. This image library provides you with an option to choose from 1 million+ high-quality images. Update your app to access this collection of images in the library. Please note that all images uploaded on the platform will be archived. What that means for you is that these images will be available on your profiles for 60 days. After that the textual content of your posts will remain intact and the images will be replaced with a background color. You can edit your posts with Unsplash images or change the background color of your post. You can also save your posts with images in your gallery if you wish to retain the images.
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We are sorry family , we know you don't like these changes but we have to comply with the rules and take the necessary measures. Ultimately this increased focus on making Miraquill a safe haven for writers will help us create even better experiences for you in times to come. Hold our hands and let us embark on this journey together.
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Once again, I looked profoundly at the sky for I could see my dreams and ambitions escorted by hope. Once again, I feel the urge to broaden my horizons Once again, I knew those tears would stop from shedding. Once again, I knew those harmonious persistent efforts, not all in vain. Once again, I knew I could rise in the midst of a relentless crowd of youngsters with the very same jumbled life.
He looked through the window for all he could see was a labyrinth of fallen leaves and hopes . His empty mind and futile efforts put him to cruces where he could either initiate a new dawn or cease the dusk he was living in. He was lost in the agony of intricate feelings as he realised it was nothing but a mere fallacy He laughed at how imbecile he had acted and his naive mind! Her eyes reminded him of warm sunsets and beautifully woven fantasies. Her smile was all that he ever urged to be the reason. The wavy golden locks she flaunted and her confident skin peeping through her dresses How could he let himself overlook such a beauty?
Thanks a ton @writersnetwork for the love and repost You legit make my days better Editors choice! Yaay ❤️ Thanks to @miraquill for the love
"We claim on our fragile grounds as it still shifts all around, hoping our kingdoms will outlast the sounds of decay where skin is the attire ,I choose to protect my soul from fading endlessly" - Shruti