On Indian railways, you'll either be caught stirring the hot tea of politics or relying on music; annoyed by a baby's cry.
The ardour of cutting onto sleep to not miss a single landmark and travel less through places and more through shades of nature has somewhere been lost.
Oftentimes, I wonder how elders acquaint themselves with each- other, digging relations, munching on groundnuts and peculiarly grumbling about cleanliness.
The like-aged girl before me sneaks silent glances at me. Perhaps, we are yet to learn the art of communication because sometimes, all you need is a strange face and a futile conversation in a world which is busier than the bustle on a railway station.
I'm a poet with a rustic attic. And I'm falling for everything that lies within countryside since childhood. When the sky dances in pink and orange, and mauve and blue, on the canvas of my eyes I leave this pastels, preserving them every season. It feels like the cocooned autumn has-been blooming as a spring in strangest way, more like Romeo and Juliet getting another birth.
For me stars are the drawers for midnight thoughts concealing my sleepless nights with croons of moon, while the winter zephyr gives me chills like the touch of my past lover which I'm hiding beneath the sleeves. And my heart seems to be an old piece of paper on which poetries are written and erased a million times, stained with stories and scars for years. And I'm tired, I'm tired of carrying the pain of these scratches on the walls of my chest each upcoming day.
Moreover, I've emptied umpteen sunsets in my trousers and withered roses in my diaries. I've kept letters of rusted memories in drawers and demons under my bedsheet. I've folded love beneath my wooden fenced smile and my first heartbreak with metaphors in poetries. I've eclipsed bruises by dandelions and poured my life in some old playlists. ~Purva
/ written from the POV of a cow who is about to deliver a baby /
Cows produce milk for the same reason that humans do—to nourish their young—but calves on dairy farms are taken away from their mothers when they are just one day old or so. They are fed milk replacers (including cattle blood) so that their mothers’ milk can be sold.
Male cows are sent to slaughter houses and female cows are sent to milk industries and separated from mother.
Female cows are kept in merciful conditions for life and are inseminated again and again artificially.
Oxytocin injections are given as milk enhancers. This all decreases the life expectancy of cows
That's the thing about this community, always ready to learn and correct. Thank you for the corrections @gunjit_jain
In God's grey reign Where perfection Is a lie, I stand 17 summers later Nurturing a sunflower in my palms And grey promises on my forehead Growing up Feels like painting a sunset On wooden fences, You never get the colours right Or planting a skyline On both sides Of an uneven smile Growing up is a story Whose end is a two-way street, But your feet are heavy From carrying the weight, Of faint memories While your name Is baptised by the clouds Growth knocks on your foggy windows An apocalypse disguised as home Growing up is a poetry Metamorphosing to a song A Vangogh's sky in the making, A dried paintbrush, A dull panorama And it's okay, If your painting, Is not an art Remember, In God's grey reign All artists Have a story But growth, Is an abstract poem
~M e g h a / Growing up is like painting a sky picture