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.

आज मै डाकखाने गई थी।

Note: I had written this a few weeks earlier. An account of a previous date.
03.07.2015

अाज मैं डाकखाने गई थी। चंद दोसतों अौर दो अध्ययापिकाऔं के साथ। स्कूल के चार कदम पीछे ही है हाॅज़-खास़ का दाकखाना।

वहाँ  जाकर कुछ अलग सा ही महसूस हुआ। जैसे वो चार कदम चल अपने बचपन में आ गई थी।

सातवीं कक्षा में हिंदी का कार्य मिला था कि गर्मीं कि छुट्टियों मे एक दोस्त को पत्र लिखकर पोस्ट करना है। तब इंलेंड लैटर लेने पहली बार डाकखाने की सूरत देखी थी। पापा जब काऊंटर पर खत जमा कर रहे थे तो मैं वहाँ बेंच पर बैठी एक गहरी सोच में डूबी हुई थी। कि नाजाने किस तरह भारत के एक कोने से एक कागज़ पर मामूली स्याही से कोई व्यक्ति अपने एहसास लिखता होगा अौर चंद दिनों बाद उसका मित्र वह कागज़ अपने हाथों पर पाता होगा। आजकल अगर कोइ पार्सल लेकर पोस्टमैन अाता है भी तो शायद Flipkart का भेजा हुआ औरडर होगा। खत पाकर, खोलकर पढने का वो रहस्यमयी एहसास तो डाकखाने की तरह ही लुप्त हो गया है।

आज रह गये हैं तो केवल SMSs अौर e-mails, जिंहे ना तो मैं संज्यो कर अपने मेमोरी बैग में रख सकती हूं अौर ना ही सालों बाद उनकी सुगंध से यादें ताज़ा कर सकती हूं।

ऐसे ही कुछ खयालात लिए INDIA POST के दफ़तर के सामने खड़ी थी। इतने में एक मध्यम-आयु के पुरुष आये और हमें पोस्ट-औफिस कि नयी सुविधाओं  के बारे में जागरुक करने लगे। Digital India के तहद अब भारत के डाक-खाने उपलब्ध एवं बेहतर हो गये हैं। Core Banking कि सुविधाएं काफी आश्चर्यचकित लगीं। मैंने तो कभी सोचा भी नहीं था कि एक डाकखाना बैंक की तरह भी काम कर सकता है!

आखिरी कमरे से बाहर निकल रहे थे कि देखा दीवार पर कोने में एक कागज़ पर लिखकर चिपका रखा था - "हिंदी कार्यालय दिवस"। एक ग्यारहवीं कक्षा की लड़की ने उन पुरूष से पूछा कि इसका क्या मतलब है तो उन्होनें हमें बताया कि हर बुद्धवार को विधि हेतु सारा कार्य हिंदी में निभाया जाता है। पहले तो यह सुनकर चेहरे पर मुस्कान आ गयी पर फिर हैरानी ने माथा ढ़क लिया। भला ऐसा क्यों कि भारत के डाकखाने में प्रमुख भाषा हिंदी के लिए एक दिन सिद्ध किया गया है? डाकखाने जैसे बुज़ुर्ग दफ्तर में भी अगर अंग्रेजी आवश्यक हो गयी तो आखिर हिंदी प्रयोग होगी कहाँ?

इसलिए अपना छोटा सा ही सही, पर हिंदी में यह लिखकर, योगदान देना चाहती हूं उस भाषा को जो मेरे दिल के बहुत करीब है। इतने करीब कि ये आखिरी वाक्य लिखते सार ही एक आंसू आंख से छूट अाया है।

Image courtesy: Vani Devraj

Shot In Heaven

He sips on his coffee

and remembers when love was brewing 

moulding them in feelings

warmer than the mould that holds his coffee

----------

He looks out of the window

and sees himself dwindling in the street

holding her hands, jumping over puddles

This monsoon had been prolonged, the reporters had said

our courtship had lasted even longer, he thought

----------

The channel flickers on the radio he is listening to,

breaking his tryst with the outside

he rubs the small droplets of water off the antenna

and the song that plays then, he remembers, was their favorite

he can feel his palms on her waist as she swings along.

The beats are zealous, but her moves were exuberant, he knew

----------

He closes his eyes and when he opens them

for a moment he doesn't blink

what he sees is her face, exquisite as ever

then his pupils broaden and he realizes it's her picture 

the last one of her life; poised on the bureau.

The picture is beautiful

but lifeless,

just as his wife now is 

And I Found Myself Like Never Before

It was a usual Sunday morning and I had my Maths class test (I had studied for this one). It is the beginning of class 12^th and we are all on this study spree regarding this whole CBSE Board thing. I am not the one who usually studies for a Maths class test but this time it was different. Since the past two weeks I had been in a deplorable academic condition. All these days I used to sit in the class and stare blankly at the blackboard trying to fathom what the teachers wrote. All I could still fathom was that I was a loser. Absolutely. Completely. One part of me cursed the education system and just wanted to write multiple poems to the non-existent love of my life while the other half nudged my loser self to work hard in order to achieve my long-lost dreams. In short, I was constantly at war with myself.

With all these thoughts playing in the back of my mind, I completed the math test way ahead of time. I submitted my sheet and glanced back at my friends who were furiously stabbing their answer sheets and I knew better than to wait for them to finish. So I went out, alone. I had a lot of time in hand and as I had mentioned earlier, it was a Sunday morning. Cold winds, seclusion and stuff. A solitary walk was needed. High time. So I started walking. I had no idea where to go but I wanted to reach as soon as possible. I had long been in search of a parallel universe, or maybe the fourth-dimension. I just wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere better. I wanted to explore. But before that, perhaps, all I needed was to find myself. Explore myself.

While I was walking, the first drops of drizzle touched my palm. Unnerved, I kept walking. I saw a man fixing the chains of his bicycle. I couldn't have been of any help. Loser. I kept walking and reached a familiar road.  I remembered how I used to walk here and listen to Tum Se Hi with Tanya. She was probably still stabbing her answer sheets right now. I put the thought away and started walking swiftly. I came to a sudden halt in front of an old park which was almost to ruins. Due to the recent turmoil of bad weather, a few trees had fallen in the middle of the park which blocked the inside view. I kicked a few bushes off the entrance and went inside. Thankfully, one of the benches, though muddy, was still intact. The fallen trees provided a kind of enclosure and blocked this spot entirely out of public view. Relived, I sat down.

For a moment, I sat there emotion-less. And then it happened. Tears trickled down my face beating the speed of the ongoing drizzle and soon I was exhausted and choked. But when I stopped and wiped my tears away, I swear, I had found myself. This was the place. I picked up my phone wanting to listen to some radio but realized I never brought earphones to the math class. Then I saw my register. And my pen. Bliss was never so exquisite. It was the end to my month-long block and I kept writing until I had nothing more to say. It felt as if a big burden was hustled off my shoulders. I felt light as a bubble, ready to float around without the fear of being pricked.

I saw that my phone was vibrating. It was Arunma’s call. They had finished the test. I got up to walk back. But I was different now, no longer the same person who wanted to run away. Now I had the courage to bounce back, and fight.

I Am Sorry

I am sorry

And I've always been

For one thing or the other

I’m born into a world where I am constantly reminded

That I should be sorry and that I should not have it any other way

I am sorry because even though some people hate me

I do not hate them back

I am sorry because I feel only love can drive out hatred

I am sorry because no matter how hard I try to be the ideal child

They still find a speck of dust in the vast ocean that is my demeanor

I am sorry because no matter how much generous a human being I try to be

People don’t cease to zoom into the flaws

But despite of that I continue to believe in myself when no one else believes in me  

And trust me, I am sorry for that

The people who abandon me and choose to leave

Are like scars on my soul

With every second scar my skin grows rough and ugly

But this time if you choose to be one of those scars

I will still care and love, like always

And I am sorry for that

I love, and therefore I am

What is the essence of our transient being if we don’t feel the need to love?

I am sorry I theorize that we’re all broken into pieces and that only love can join us back

People continue to forego my love, but still I continue to love, and fiercely so,

With the sum of all my broken pieces

I’m really sorry I do

I have dreams. Indestructible dreams that won’t let me sleep.

Oh, but I’m not sorry this time.  Why?

Because when in the day I allow the world to slave me and my thoughts,

I wait for the dark. That is when my dreams breathe life into my scarred soul.

That is when I, and only I, have the key to my conviction.

That is when I can unapologetically hope for a better world

And I will not let you snatch away my hope and crumble my dreams

Even if I belong to this world, my dreams solely belong to me.

And mind you, I will never be sorry for that.