Reader's Post

Recently I encouraged all my readers to write poems to themselves, for self love. I got to read some really beautiful poems. I would like to share two of my most favorite ones.

Introduction

Why hello there young lady
Came around to recheck?
While you stand at the 'right' angle
Here is a gentle reminder-
It's about time you sung your song!

An introduction
Of a peculiar soul
Behold the irony-
With just two syllables
You scribble a whole saga!


Born amongst fiery flames
Under the northern star
As nine as a feline
As clean as a cleanser
And yield company like Caesar.

Your ebony coated pupils
Shy away from those ivory
They tremble with grace
Look down with "dew" respect
And up with a gazillion ambitions.

Your bruises have a healing power
Right now they may be numb
But they contain ingredients
Of a soothing lotion
Which creates dimples in melancholy.

The strands that fall out of place
Creep under your quilt
To tease you during wintry nights
Yet when you mercilessly splash water
They go on and kiss your blades.

You bump into humps
And enter a different dimension
You trip on a tile
And fall into nature's cradle
You make clumsiness feel trendy!

Your puffed up cheeks
And ever pigmented lips
Moisten the mist
Outshine the sunshine
And drill the craters further.

And when you hide your face
While chewing those treats
And when you button your cuffs
Like it's a huge obstacle
There's someone capturing your moments.

Honey, you are beautiful
A treasure, a dynamite
You wear a halo for a tiara
Just never fall for your shadow
For it is the black in a spectrum.

- By Vani Devraj

Loving Me....

Comfortable, neat, pressed, well dressed;
Yep, I take pride in always looking my best.
I'm fly, I'm breezy, I'm sharp, I'm mean
Whenever they see me they say I'm too clean 😎

Calm, collected, quiet, reserved,
I'll give you no less than the respect you deserve.
I'm shy at first but don't be deceived
If you ever befriend me I'll make you believe
That even if you're hurt and filled with sorrow
There's waiting for you a beautiful tomorrow

Lean, fit, ripped and toned
At 5'5, man I'm bad to the bone
But don't be alarmed, I'm gentle I swear
Yep, I'm cuddly just like your teddy bear

Smart, wise, mentally sound
My head's held high, my feet firm on the ground
Straight A student, yes at every school
Try me America, I'm no "nigger" nor fool

This poem is mine, but its not just for me
It shows you everything I think about daily
My virtues, my strengths, my guidelines in life
Things that help me in times of strife

Standing in front of my mirror, I will try something new
I will lift my eyes... Smile... and whisper "I love you"
I've said to so many, friends and family.
But I never said it, to the one that is... Me

"The Bipolar Being", my friend, I love you too
Because without this poem I would've never knew
How lost I was, trying to please everyone else
Trying to help them I neglected myself

So in my closing, a quote i leave with you
"If I asked you to name all of the things you loved, would you ever name you?"

- By Tadãshï Yasáhîro

The Curse Of Monsoon

Photography: The Dreamers 

This title might be indigestible for many of you.

Monsoon can’t be a curse! 

What is she saying? 

We all love monsoon! 

Maybe you do. But some people don’t.

When I travel to school, my school van passes under a flyover in Hauz Khas. Like every other flyover in Delhi it houses a dozen or two beggars and vagabonds. And when it rains, holy shit, when it rains; they live in literal hell. My school van’s window seat gets wet in rain because the window doesn’t shut properly. I was annoyed at the driver for this the other day. But then I looked beyond the window and what I saw has pacified my grumblings forever. Of those nomads, ones who have the flyover as a roof are still the lucky ones. Some of them sleep on the footpath, the ones that don’t have a family or are abandoned by them. They are the minorities among the minorities. The footpath is their mattress and the night breeze becomes their air conditioner. But when it rains they are left devoid of even these petty dwellings. They probably have only one pair of clothing that soaks wet and dries along their skin and this cycle continues with the water cycle during monsoon.

The situation on the flyover is no better. All the water slopes down the steep end of it, where it clogs. It should rather flow into the drains but for some reason it doesn’t. So the cars riding towards the flyover have to swim across to go ahead and climb the flyover. Almost always an aged car drowns mid-process. This leads to a line of cars behind it honking ridiculously to make way. My van mostly swims, thankfully. And then we go on peacefully till we pass in front of that huge MCD public dustbin. Now what is a dustbin doing here, right? The problem being that there is always more waste accumulated at a time than the dustbin can capacitate. So the waste walks out of it on the by lanes and forms grand heaps. The time at which my van passes by this vista the MCD truck has not come for picking up the garbage. Coincidently, at the same time the Heavens shower pious water droplets on these heaps of garbage giving out the pleasant odor we all despise.

Thinking of all this I start to wish for the monsoons to storm away to some far off land and not return. But then I think of the farmers, the devotees of monsoon. They wait all through the sweating summer and windy winter to quench their thirst. The harvest needs rain, and the country needs the harvest. Not just our country, but this harvest is exported to all over the world. This eventually stimulates the inflow the foreign currency and the Economics student inside me boasts with pride. The tiny droplets of water caress the seeds of nutrition sowed in the fields of Punjab, Haryana, Madhya Pradesh and all the agricultural states. Monsoon is the time when the perpetual sweat on a farmer’s forehead is wiped off with the rain droplets. The country rejoices. Now I cannot wish for the monsoon to go away to some far off land.

But all I wish to ask is that can I not, as a teenage girl from India, love monsoon like others do? The answer comes no. Never in my life have I been able to look at something from the face value. I see beyond my immediate pleasures. And I get sick tired of this process. To think so much about matters supposedly not concerning me is the reason I have pages of my diary filled with rants. But let’s not shift from the point, here. The point is that I live in a beautiful country. We are blessed with the most diverse combination of land forms, climate and resources. What we could achieve with all this, yet what where we stand is miserable. If water clogged flyovers and stinking by lanes is development for people, I don’t know what we’re up to. If these developments were taken care of in the right way, I would also enjoy monsoon like the rest of the girls; gazing out of the window and daydreaming while my face is smitten with the cold winds. But here I am, indoors, terrified of stepping out into the muddy roads and water clogged flyovers! 

Writing all this and wishing for the world to change won’t do. I cannot change the world, but I can change myself and the people around me. And that might as well change the world?

Hideous Beauty

I recently read a post while surfing the net. It emphasized on the fact that why are all those love poems dedicated to someone else but yourself? Why is it that we have all the love in our heart to love somebody else but not ourselves. So I decided to take it up and write a poem dedicated to myself. 




I was born and I shall die. But in the labyrinth of life if I ever get lost, let me not loose myself.

I love the way my wet curly hair
Flow lustily down my shoulders after a shower
They be frizzy and untamed, but they be mine
I won't tie them up, what if they don't smell like the flower?

During times of melancholy, I read myself stories, poems, listen to songs, go on a walk.
Who else would ever do so much and why?
I can trace the map alone
The comrade of my soul is never shy.

I have brown eyes that glisten with dreams
Even after my specs hide them
Some days I have dark circles and my eyes look dull
But to me they'll always be a precious gem.

A stranger is never strange to me
I gel with a myriad, not just one personality
Deliberate in my efforts to not leave a scar
Even if I fail, I value this mentality

My nose is flat and small
But it breathes for me the smell of rain-drenched mud
Twitches everytime the sneeze plays hide-n-seek
But it's as significant to me as the redness of my blood

I am short, but I can make a big difference
I am fat, but my greed is bleak
I am amateur, but my pursuit is clear
I am flawed, yet beautiful all the same.