reshma_kausar_mohideen

Insta handle: sword_of_word_86. Reshma Kausar Mohideen is a commerce professor. She is an aspiring writer as well .

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  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 5w

    DIARY (8 WORDS)

    DIARY IS THE REFLECTION OF A WRITER'S HEART.
    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 6w

    BEAUTY.

    Beaty is upon the point of utmost dark that becomes the womb to nurture the first beam of hope.
    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 6w

    SOCIETY

    If I were a society, I would have never been like a court room where each one is a judge but none likes to be judged,
    If I were a society, I would have never been like an university where everyone wants to preach but none wants to learn,
    If I were a society I would have never been like a foe in disguise who's friendly to it's people in the most unfriendly way,
    If I were a society, I would have been like a bridge to cement the gap between past and new generations,
    If I were a society I would have been like an accelerator to ensure upward movements in terms of development and downward movements in terms of blind faiths amd superstitions,
    if I were a society I would have never been like the heap of sand that pulls the person down everytime he wishes to climb up,
    If I were a society I WOULD HAVE JUST BEEN A SOCIETY.

    -Reshma kausar Mohideen
    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 6w

    THE POWER OF MY PEN.

    Reluctant to inhale the novelty of the world and diffuse its fragrance,
    A newborn bud suffocated within, feared opening up, too timid and shy,
    Overlapped the dried tears, silent roars, calmed anger, the real me vaporised in essence,
    The one whom I once hated the most is the soulmate now, all other bonds glitter with a lustrous die,
    My metallic pen owns a golden heart, rusted humans gilded with goodness corroded my innocence.

    Like the sharp blades of cascade falling from a great height,
    Splitting the chest of stubborn rocks, kissing the depth of poised waves,
    Like the tiniest point getting targeted by the sharp beam of razor light,
    The ink of my pen is such, through thy damp eyes, seeping into heart, it paves,
    The way to the abyss of thy soul, eroding darkness, to unleash thy own light.

    The inky wine it spills on the virgin pages toxicates those who read and preserve,
    It bleaches off the scars of wounded hearts, words turn out to be a healing potion,
    I have risen in love unlike others who stumble upon and fall over the slippery pebbles of love,
    An immortal holds my mortal breaths fighting against the gravity of death's cushion,
    I meditate in the arms of my addiction, gain freedom in it's slavery, nothing better than this heavens could ever serve.
    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 7w

    ONCE WHEN
    I WAS YOUNG.


    Once when I was young,
    I used to get scolded by my parents and teachers,
    As my fingers cease to create magic on blank papers,
    My unfriendly pen's writing appeared like ugly creatures.

    Once when I young,
    I used to draw mirror image of alphabets,
    Letters were my enemy, except O & I, my fingers' pets,
    I could seldom write clean, without any mistakes and regrets.

    Once when I was young,
    I never liked the concept of spelling and dictation,
    I struggled with phono - graphics and diction,
    Memorising peculiarly, my tongue tasted friction.

    Once when I was young,
    I loved the people around me, I cared and trusted,
    To fit In to their Boxes of Perfection, I shrunk and adjusted,
    Stupid me did not know, those smiles were greeced with greed and hugs, lusted.

    Now that I have grown up,
    I noticed my books have put on the cloak to be my dear diary,
    The pen that betrayed me then, still stands aside, my only confidant, my dearie,
    My foes then are my friends forever now, they all blend smoothly to be my poetry.
    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 7w

    RED LINES.

    (PROSE)

    She had never waited too long for someone or something, may be nothing could ignite the lamp of her desires too long.
    The number of times you fail is directly related to the increase in the intensity of your desires. Red lines, yes red lines, which she hated to the core as a student because those red lines in the marksheet invited taunts from her parents and compelled her to re-appearing for the paper she didn't like.
    Time has taken her on a roller- coaster ride. It is the same girl who used to curse those red lines wishes to be blessed by them.
    Every month she buys a pregnancy kit, get herself tested and desires to get those two lines.
    It's been five years, it seems the red lines she used to curse then are too disappointed to visit her. She is still waiting, holding onto hopes firmly.
    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 7w

    POWER OF PEN.

    Calenders do not adorn the walls, no more hanging,

    Calculators are not found in the drawers any more, missing,

    Radios have been silenced forever, aren't found singing,

    Bells in the schools do not swing merrily on the celing,

    Wrists have forgotten to wear watches, hastily ticking,

    Walls clocks seem to be on the verge of extinction, retiring,

    They all point towards the culprit, grinning and teasing,

    Smart phone who's replaced
    them to bring about a new begining
    ,
    But there's someone sitting aside, gracefully smiling,

    As it's existence is old yet as good as gold, most appealing,

    The one who has clutched the heart of logophiles, crazy about writing,

    Its the pen, the void of which no substitute will ever be filling,

    The joy of staining pages over pages ,overwriting and cancelling,

    Making umpteen corrections, checking multiple times before finalising,

    And then looking back at those crushed pages with endless inking,

    Soothes the writer's heart, rendering him a sense of ecstasy, a proud feeling.

    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 7w

    #mirakee #mirakeeworld #writersnetwork #writerscommunity #teachers

    PS - THE LAST LETTER OF THE PREVIOUS LINE IS THE FIRST
    LETTER OF THE NEXT LINE.

    Read More

    SOW GOODNESS
    REAP FORTUNE.


    Lost in the maze of prolonged barrenness,
    She was made to curse her womanhood,

    Death and life felt alike, she was numb,
    Burning in the furnace of humiliation and taunts,

    She turned into ashes, a lifeless life,
    Every fraction of second she missed being a mother,

    Rivers of pain flowed and soon a time arrived,
    Damp eyes too became infertile, they ran arid,

    Dreams of cradling a charm appeared to be real,
    Lost in her own world, world of hallucination,

    Nothingness brimmed her soul, silence filled with cries,
    Summoning voice of a baby in an empty cradle, 'maa' made her go crazy,

    Yearning to be a mother, she was gradually being pushed,
    Down into the swamp of depression and sickness,

    Sound of baby cries which actually didn't exist,
    Turned her mad when she couldn't yield any milk,

    Knew she not, her breast won't even fetch a single drop,
    Pressed to lactate, all in vain, trying to calm her imaginary newborn,

    Nothing could help, her education or beauty, fame or riches,
    She lied unconscious until husband arrived,

    Days and nights, weeks and months passed, years flipped,
    Day dreaming once, she was walking on the footpath,

    Heavy rains pouring got a new mother cat to lose her life,
    Encountered she, motherless hungry kitten crying,

    Got down, she lifted it up, fed the kitten, wiped it dry,
    "You were so hungry, I had no choice but to feed you with my baby's milk",

    Kissed the kitten and said, "it's Okay my baby slept",
    "Time for you to sleep as well", she comforted the cat,

    This melted the heart of heavens, her sacrifice,
    Emitted silver lines splitting the clouds, blessed her womb,

    Bore a baby later that year, she safely delivered,
    Darkness of depression vanished, her newborn ignited,

    Dreams of her, reality was far more beautiful than what she dreamt,
    Turning a barren into mother, a single deed to please the divine was enough.

    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 7w

    TEACHER'S TALK.

    English Sir: Hi, ma'am what's up?

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: नमस्ते सर, बोलिए l

    English Sir: Actually, I wanted to make a request to you.

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: क्या सिर?

    English Sir: Humko apka sayta mangta.

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: आपका मतलब सहायता, हेल्प?

    English Sir: Yes yes, that only.

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: हां, तो बताइए न, क्या मदद कर सकती हूँ मैं आपकी?

    English Sir: Actually, 10th std English syllabus of ICSE board is too tough. I mean I am finding it really difficult to explain.

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: सर, आपकी तो इंग्लिश में इतनी अच्छी पकड़ है, फिर भी?

    English Sir: No no. Not like that. To teach them without using any other language which they are familiar with is getting really difficult. There are a few students who are new comers, some have their fundamentals totally shaken.

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: ओह! अब समझी l

    English Sir: So, summer vacations are on, I thought this is the best time to ask for a favour. Can you please teach me basic Hindi so that I can explain in Hindi whenever situation demands?

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: हां जी, वैसे भी हिंदी हमारी मातृ-भाषा है, उसे तो हमें सीखना ही चाहिए l
    हम पेपर चेकिंग के लिए तो रोज़ मिलते ही हैं, रोज़ एक घंटा भी आप हिंदी के लिए समय निकालेंगे तो बहुत फर्क पड़ेगा l

    English sir: Thank you so much, fees?? (Smilingly)

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: कैसी बात कर रहे हैं आप सर? आपने ही मुझे ऑनलाइन पढ़ाना सिखाया था, याद है आपको मैं उस वक़्त कितनी परेशान थी?

    English Sir: Yes, I remember Ma'am.
    हिंदी शिक्षिका: यही तो खासियत है एक अच्छे शिक्षक की, चाहे वह ज़िंदगी में कितना भी बड़ा शिक्षक क्यूँ न बन जाए, पर विद्यार्थी हमेशा रहेगा l

    English Sir: Exactly, You need to be a good student to be a good teacher, if the thirst for learning dies in a person, the teacher within him dies too.

    हिंदी शिक्षिका: जी बिलकुल सही कहा आपने, कल मिलते हैं l

    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen

  • reshma_kausar_mohideen 7w

    A TEACHER BEYOND TEACHING.

    A TEACHER BEYOND TEACHING.

    With her face still afresh in my mind, I remember her vividly even today,
    My heart recalls her name with utmost love and respect,
    She touched the core of my tender soul in a thoroughly distinct way,
    Essence of her nature with fragrance of uniqueness, never remained confined to her subject.

    Her nature was as soft as a new born drop of dew,
    Her will power was as strong as an aged rock,
    Her actions spoke aloud, volumes she communicated with words very few,
    Even pencils stayed obedient, benches paused, when she used to talk.

    Perfect blend of a teacher, comrade, mentor, guide and counsellor,
    I can ceaselessly sing songs to please, in her praise,
    Mrs. Anita Mascarenhas, my History and Geography teacher,
    Stood by my side in the most strugglesome phase.

    My new convent school, too grand and stylish,
    Peers reluctant to accept me and my ruptured English.
    Bullied and teased, compelled me to quit, surrender and leave,
    That's when she intervened, strived to mend the broken child in me, aided to retrieve.

    Counselled me with sheer patience, after school hours, without any fees,
    Extended a helping hand beyond her professional boundaries,
    Worked selflessly to underpin the shattered girl, enhance my linguistic knowledge,
    Not to repeat the act, she made the bullies to repent and pledge.

    She pampered me with the goodies of courage and hopes,
    Taught me to glide confidently over life's slippery slopes,
    Her red pen inscribed my soul with traits like will power and self-confidence,
    She was the sun, like a sunflower I blossomed to the fullest in her nurturing presence.

    She taught me for just a few years, very short span,
    But the lamp of her lessons still burns she ignited with love, then,
    Guiding me through the curvy lanes of life I still feel she's held my hand,
    Millions of years may she live, a boon on the earth to students, Godsend.

    ©reshma_kausar_mohideen