It is in the rumours, Peace, harmony and equilibrium are perhaps three abandoned daughters, life seem to forget deliberately, from time to time.
For long, I have watched peace shrivel and curl in the flames of acceptance. Also, witnessed harmony lingering alongside, in disdain and hostility, for a day so perfect, To rise for an attempt to enforce its existence. Equilibrium too played its role right, to snare opportunities of settlement. But, they were all but careful enough not to start grumbling about life.
However, soul is their beloved mother with fierceness, iron will and a lionheart making her an invincible partner. She never rants or rages but rather plays to win on life.
Everyone knew peace, harmony and equilibrium were, are and will forever be in the bloodline, yet life seems yet to be ready to embrace them. Till then, I will just wait with you and smile for the inevitable. Rather Beam to be precise.
**Depression** "It has been rumoured in the community that you are depressed and soon to be divorced." Mother screamed in a worried tone. " Even if this is true, God forbid not, I am most certain yours was nothing but a love match the last time I checked " she continued without a trace of motherly caress.
I bit my lips nervously, which has now gone quite dry complementing my pale face and hollowed eye socket as if all the rain in this world failed miserably to drench my preached heart.
“Sometimes . . .” I said in a halting voice, “Mother, sometimes explanations are tough and there are reasons for our fears that we can’t quite formulate in mere words. It's embedded deep in our bones and we are wired to fit in the weather-worn gaps of society. This slices my heart in two every single day and the hand that wields the pain is none but mine. Mother, I feel like a frontline soldier, battling hard, wound stitched with faltered hope and frayed edge, and fated to die. Something I know to be true, but would sound foolish to anyone else, including you” I stared at her intuitively hoping she finds my fears, something very specific that haunted me every minute of every day and I know she knew that.
Soon I could see her emotions slowly getting immersed in the motherly hue. I was soothed as if she knew with every fibre of her being what I was speaking about. Her eyes caught a flash of pain in the brief second before she embraced me in her arms.
In her bosom, I felt home tenderly she caressed my hair and cupped my face in her gentle hands and said "We all die in the end, love. It is important how we live during the years when we are breathing. Fears will stay as long as you have a brain that can think and imagine."
Beauty had already been adequately discussed, drilled, dissected and this scribbler does not know what else to add or how to expand this topic, without being redundant. As you, my dear reader, already know, this two syllabic word has quite a handful of reputation by itself, in the breaths of rakes and rouges or the pages of social media of some barking feminists.
But after a scrupulous and tedious reflection, this author feels the need to add a few syllabi of her judgment too on this subject.
You must have been imprinted with the fact from childhood that beauty lies in the eyes of a beholder. But, I say, The patriarchal eyes of this society or yet another passer-by can give a mere definition of the word which is of aesthetic prominence only and has nothing noteworthy to bestow on its inner meaning.
Beauty, my dear, is not what those two eyes perceive nor a mindless concept of arousing that trudge the uncouth beholder to the lanes of fantasy being oblivious from reality.
Beauty is rather simple, modest. Beauty is large, small, petite, perfect, imperfect, bruised and whatnot, but never to be confined in the page or a line of the dictionary. One would rather find it similar to a mirror. You smile and it smiles back. You love it and it loves back .Sort of a blessing with a benediction and devotion all in one.
Is there a necessity to add a definition to it? Perhaps, not.
Yet, this poet is utmost sure that beauty sometimes too, just like you and me, feels a twinge of guilt or perhaps a touch of regret for being not so beautiful.
But as I always say to my readers, let not the greys of winter dictate the warmth of your Spring.
~ Khola Hawa . . . The credits of this mesmerising ball pen art go to none other than @biswaal Sir.
God and Me -------------------- I often see "HIM" residing alone in the biggest sculpture across the downside of our lane, pristine white, lofty Dome with an enormous Splendour. Stray Souls, meek maiden, ambiguous hearts, grievous faults, soaring ambitions, wanderlust blood were HIS only visitors searching for succour in the darkness.
From far his world seems to be beyond my wonder, a refreshing tint to the mundane life, the utopia of bewitchment in the desert of daily sufferings. ... and mine, a hackneyed reality immersed in capitulating feeling of helplessness.
But still, I wonder why, both of us are alone today as if riding an eternal flow of Life poised on a double-edged sword, toppling and sliding in persistent concern of unvalued
Our smile, an exquisite fine veneer masking the reality and the glossy facade a perfect contrast to the otherwise blurred Darkness residing inside.
But sometimes I pity "YOU" for in moments of tear and self loathe when clouds of obscure insignificance drown my spirit in dejection, there is the slightest chance, I may visit you to garner support but GOD, in despair who would you turn to?
You bloom like a flower each day,incessantly in the empty canvas of my mind as the brushes of nostalgia Taint you with strokes of black and white. But, I have stopped using colours these days;
Warm summer winds as they strike the canvas smell rusty ,little smoky too like it did that fateful day , as my eyes flash Your ghostly grin gasping and struggling for the last ounce of breath ;
I feel too much these days suffocation and abandonment puncture my lungs and hope is somewhere engraved in the arid landscapes of torment and wails. I cannot use crimson any longer as the haunting memories of red still spill your blood Against the pristine white wall and each day I die along with you ;
Yet, You haven't changed...
You Bloom like a flower Each day, even without rain And I cannot help But cherish your parched soul Collecting them as a Souvenir. ꧁ℴ_꧂
In an event less afternoon As you hear the buzzes and clicks Of the washing machine The TV blares and you come across A Whisper's Wings add You shoot your mother A questioning glance As she scurries on her dainty two feet To change the channel Softly hitting the remote As she struts and fumbles At 8 or so You would watch RAMAYANA with your grandma Where Nalakubera curses Ravana You ask what happened with Rambha Grandma replies o ekhon ekta নষ্ট মেয়ে / Damaged goods /She is now a damaged good/ You wonder how can a woman be a good But you don't force that question Upon the prying silence Unlike Ravan did You don't want to be an antagonist Of the comfort zones Of a silence The women have carried As long as they have carried their honour Their family tree's honour In their meek flowers What is a flower in comparison to a tree You wanted to ask But then you were no Ravana You wouldn't force But at the age of 10 or so When you read In a children's story book About a man carrying two pots On his shoulder The first one, round smooth and polished The second, irregular and broken One being damaged and other not And how the water seeps out of the damaged pots And nourished the roadside flowers You wonder that aren't damaged goods and women Are alike that broken pot You were 12 When you come across Bollywood scenes Closing doors Shadows beneath the clothes And hands intertwining You want to ask Ma why no one talks to that aunty Who lives next door You are 14 and on a lift When your mom stops you From striking a conversation With that aunty who no one talks to You ask her with your gazes Only to find silence Alas! You are 16 now You now know You know now Even now the TV blares And the washing machine chatters But this time when Whisper's add arrives Or the shadowy figures in queen sized beds Behind curtains And abruptly your Ma Tells you about that lady That lady on the elevator Of how she was a As a নষ্ট মেয়ে / Damaged good Grandma narrates In their times during the batwara /Partition of India/ When anthems of bloodbath were sung And countries of slaughtered bodies Arrived on trains in both sides And women who were নষ্ট মেয়ে Forcefully Were thrown into the fire Like vermilion gulal in a holy fire An uncomfortable silence settles After all the dust in the abandoned fields turn red The TV cackles and the washing machine nods In pure resignment You are 16 now The skies imitate the hostile reds That flow in rivers underneath your skin As you trudge along these fields Your leaking water bottle Feeds the roadside flowers While you and your silence mourn a little.
P.S- I wrote because I wanted to. Idk how this turned out. I have mixed feelings. P.P.S- I read all comments but won't be able to respond to every. That doesn't make you any less important or bad. I have always told everyone to focus on their top priorities and not just writing. It's time I take my own advice seriously Also it's Na Po Wri Mo. So I'll write as often as possible. Find all the poems of April in #gtnapowrimo21
Hindu mythology references:-
As per Valmiki Ramayana, when Ravana visited Swarga loka, he saw the celebrated Apsara Rambha there and was immediately gripped by lust. Unable to check his emotions, he held Rambha. Shocked by his behavior, Rambha reminded him that he is equivalent to his father-in-law as she was tied up with Nalkuber, son of Ravana’s elder brother Kuber. But blindfolded by desire, Ravana ignored all her plea and seduced her by forcing himself on her. When Nalkuber came to know about this he cursed Ravana. The curse was : “If you seduce a women without her consent hereafter, your head will be blown in 100 pieces.”
Several years ago, right here on this phenomenal forum, I had the good fortune of meeting a rather wonderful individual named Joey, of the @poetrydelivery account. Joey had turned up on one of my posts on that fortuitous day, and right away I became aware of what a warm and friendly, humorous and kindhearted individual he was/is. In fact, I often tell my querido amigo (dear friend), that él tiene el corazón más grande alrededor (he has the biggest heart around). I'm not kidding when I say that either, he truly does; and he also puts his whole heart into everything he does, including his writing. Joey pens a wonderful variety of short pieces and quotes; some of which are humorous, many are insightful, some are romantic, but all of them contain the essence of his good heart. He is also a wonderful supporter of so many of us throughout the forum, and he always has a kind and encouraging word to offer when commenting. If this world was inhabited by more people like my querido amigo, this crazy rock we're all spinning around on would be a far better place, I can tell you that for sure! At any rate, I suppose I should get to the point before I digress any further. So, here it is... Mi amigo Joey has gone through a tremendous amount of physical trials and tribulations in recent years, and he's had to undergo many corrective surgeries. On this very day, he is once again being admitted to the hospital where he'll patiently await his turn for another corrective surgery. In all, he may be in the hospital for up to a month. With all of that said, I would like to request your prayers and encouraging words for a very dear individual who spends his time selflessly encouraging so many of us. So please feel free to leave your comments for him on this post and don't forget to tag his account (once again it's @poetrydelivery), because it will help boost him and carry him through his time in the hospital. I thank you wholeheartedly in advance, as it means a lot to me too, that you would lend your prayers and support on Joey's behalf. ♥️♥️♥️
Amigo, tienes esta cosa, ok? Eres un poderoso guerrero y siempre triunfas!! Esto ni siquiera es una cosa, en comparación con usted!! Te tenemos en esto, y también Dios! Todo estará bien. Cuídate amigo, y mantenme informado. Tanto amor para ti.
This poem is no crash course Nor does it come with a starter package Or a reader’s manual / guide Much like the Whatsapp forwarded jokes Of a man searches in google ‘How to control your wife’ And google has zero search results This poem is as dry as your sense of humour And the repetitive need of controlling All the woman around you This poem is dry As dry as the summer nights Where the ac fails to work And you have lived enough To see the nights treachery And died enough to mourn for the dawn This poem is the discomfort As you switch positions And end up curled in the foetal position Imitating a mother’s womb This poem is the fundamental human instinct Of demanding familiar physical touch Yet as the Sun arises And the leaves sway with the wind It only reminds you of women swaying hips The type you would secretly ogle As you come across lingerie posters And underwear adds When you think no one is watching But we women always know Call it a woman’s instinct For last summer a girl of 14 Had her first menstruation and the Whole village celebrated her ripening / fertility The next day as she sits on the local bus To school, the journey feels a little longer A little more unnerving And suddenly the bus ticket collector’s gaze Feels a little more disturbing As her stomach churns unpleasantly As she notices a man thrice her age Staring at her and then at his manhood She pulls her skirt further down And the man grins That pure predatory grimace Her heart shudders and mouth shutters She’s felt fear Fear of being a woman For the first time After all ripened mangoes must fall of the tree Suddenly he stares at his handkerchief And the name of his wife Woven with strings borrowed from the Sun’s ray And he looks away as the girl descends down the bus
( II) Close your eyes gently What happens when you think of the word W-O-M-A-N Do you see women running? Running in wheat fields or mustard if you are that creative as their lovesick lovers run behind close your eyes or have them done so by a woman seductively, as she feeds you grapes and what not do you see woman with purple skin and neon highlights as hair whiskers and ears of a cat political and profound or do you find them shying away, their cheeks now a pomegranate as you pull their drape or do you find them sitting sitting at a family function all nice and tidy even when the touches are far from acceptable or even decent, do you find them cowering away Or do you find them with their hands shaking Eyes downcast as they give you the glass of milk And crushed almonds on their wedding night are they feminists and feral? Are they submissive or dominative? Are they bottom or top? Are they shy or a tease? the girl and the woman the girl with the woman the girl now the woman are all this poem with no syllable count Nor even your aabb ccdd they do not rhyme they don’t need to but in the kingdom of poems where the rhymes sits as a monarch and creativity will be a slave where every syllable shall praise As haiku's and limericks giggle Over a cup of masala chai this poem will be a prude, an outlaw and when they shall search this poem They'll raid it's home, it's identity It's origin and individuality And after they have checked all the surveillance devices CCTV footage and of course the internet strip a poem, you will find a woman Strip a woman, you will find a free verse.
I'm not back. Just wrote this because I wanted to and I could. Illustration by @/ richakashelkar I'm starting to hate everything I write Stop deleting your posts beautiful hooman. Or else I will shave your eye brows
Hair under armpits is a metaphor to show how much of a taboo this subject is and how often it is undermined and overshadowed. We often try to shave the hair under our arms, and also sweat and bad smell often accumulates there and we try to cover it with deodorant. So hair under armpits basically refers to something unpleasant that we try to hide in order to appear more appealing. The way we try to hide the blatant sexualising of MILs, DILs, Sisters maids etc
I have uncombed emotions lingering in between the teeth of a dusty comb that I forgot in the drawers of your heart, the day, one hundred and fifty minutes delineated distance and not time for reasons unknown.
It takes a great deal for a person in real, to read through the words, I often conceal in pauses, during incomplete conversations that I finish with a smile but somehow, you turned out to be that one person for me, maybe 'cause you are good at deciphering the breaths, I exhale in p/v(ain).
You slated my unsung scars with a layer of happiness and halted the chaos, I carried in equanimity, smeared love on my abandoned canvas and taught me that a universe exists underneath my anarchic self, and that, it can be painted with a broken-heart and fresh crayons. It's unusual but reposeful that I circle in thoughts and end up with you.
You and I and a night passing by,
Pin drop silence and dew drops on leaves synonymous we stand like tranquility and peace.
I know I am in the last pages of my life My life encased in a solitudinous bubble Tears rolling down my jubilant cheeks As I sit down on the desk Remembering your kind songs Soon I'll be a painting in your walls A wanderer in your dreams A tiny ache in your aged body My throbbing heart will lose pulse And life will become a silent memory A glue sticking to your blurry imaginations A flower in your fantasies A piano without note or melody
With a deep smile I recollect my broken childhood The struggles of youth The burden of joyous marriage The elation of becoming a parent The emotion of middle age As I reminisce the process I am hounded by a few questions Have I loved with heart's content? Have I been loved fully? Have I found acceptance In the lives of others?
I want to restart And ink on those pages once more Feel the warmth of my mother's womb Relearn the lessons that I was taught Rectifying my noxious mistakes Reliving the dying magic Crying tears in the elixir of memories Be more humble and transparent Be a freebird writing a hummable song A song that is virtuous and distinct I want to symphonise a piano with broken strings Streaming a soft tune on torn pages The tune of being happy Breathing forever in windows of peace.
If they ever ask you about us, tell them about "US" the way we had been once and how we had together dreamt dreams, stolen kisses over coffee, baked burnt cookies and ate pizza with whisky while making love
Let them not know how, when or why we parted ways, because they won't stay long to wipe your tears or comfort your aching heart.
So don't, my love hold grudges
Because if someday circumstances play Cupid, we will meet again
across the seas
hold our breaths during the longing's gaze, slowly relaxing in eachother's embrace, and stroll down the lane of happy memories hand-in-hand once again,