Spring was beautiful now, maples seemed to glow
]]>
BY SHINJINI DAS
Spring takes over, wintry winds retreats slow and nice,
You're a box full of warmth, if I manifest ice.
Roads full of maples, some rusty, some yellowed
This restless heart of mine, desires to be mellowed.
The spring dances and sings overjoyed with colours,
Like a leafless fear stricken tree, I had lost my valour.
Tripping and falling, I was walking on the maple covered ground,
Unaware of the kingdom you were making for your queen to be crowned.
Feared looking back,
Apprehended an attack,
Right there on the left corner of my chest.
Faced my fear, at thy behest.
Oh what a delight my eyes caught
A stranger came out of wonders' lot.
Then what I saw, felt like an utter dream,
Took me by the arm, to a strange door so gleam.
Past the door was the kingdom he made,
Unicorn feeding on rainbow like grass, walls covered with candy and chocolate.
Past the meadows there I saw a stream, to my surprise, it was carrying cocoa cream.
Trees beared candies here,
Which I conspicuously decided not to share(if I got)
The stranger was the prince, in search of his princess.
Pulled me closer, kissed me slow
So freaked I was, still my face was aglow.
I moved forward to kiss him again and the dream broke down to reality.
Found myself in the arms of that Stranger, not a stranger any more
The rustling of newly formed leaves seemed approving the union we made.
Spring was beautiful now, maples seemed to glow
No more I feared of ice, wanted to melt like snow
]]>Your love was unconditional and true,
A friend like you, so rare and few.
]]>
BY MUSKAN BOTHRA
My little furry friend, my loyal pet,
Your love was like none other I've met,
You came into my life and filled it with joy,
A bond so strong, it was impossible to destroy.
You were there through the ups and downs,
A constant presence, never a frown,
Your love was unconditional and true,
A friend like you, so rare and few.
I remember the way you would snuggle,
And how your purring would calm my trouble,
You were always there to lend an ear,
And wipe away every single tear.
But now you've gone, my heart is breaking,
The pain is so raw, it feels like I'm suffocating,
The house is empty without you here,
And my heart aches with every tear.
I miss the way you'd greet me at the door,
And the way you'd curl up on the floor,
The warmth of your body, the softness of your fur,
All the memories of you, they start to blur.
But even though you're no longer by my side,
Your love lives on, it cannot be denied,
For the bond we shared was pure and true,
And nothing in this world could ever undo.
So rest in peace, my dear furry friend,
Your love and memory will never end,
And though my heart is heavy with pain,
I know I'll see you again, someday again.
Muskan, an aspiring writer, dwells in the city of Erode,Tamilnadu.She believes in the motto of learning by sharing and constantly brings her creativity into display by scribbling thought worthy verses. Spreading smiles all around is her favourite hobby and constantly succeeds in doing that with her positive thoughts and happy vibes all around. Do check out her writings on Instagram @heart_sayer.
]]>Love is a lifestyle,
Yet we are terrified of love.
]]>BY ANKITA DUTTA
Love is ebony,
Love is pale,
Love is a rainbow.
Love is a puppy wagging its tail,
Love is the crescent of a dark night,
Love is a path to the woods.
Love is a story to be perused afresh,
Love is a faith for gay sunshines,
Love is the elixir of all malaise,
Love is an academic validation.
Love is an unsolicited act of benevolence,
Love is the blushing peek of a sweetheart,
Love is chuckling with pals.
Love is traversing through the convulsions of continuance,
Love is the strength to keep stimulating ahead.
Love is a poet’s verse,
Love is the aroma of homemade food,
Love is the warmth of a mother.
Love is mindfulness and meditation,
Love is the role we enact.
Love is self-discovery,
Love is the conviction to endure.
Love is a lifestyle,
Yet we are terrified of love.
Conventions are painful,
Scrutiny is painful,
A darling’s demise is a pain.
A murky winter day is painful,
An endless solitary journey is a pain,
Incessant agony is painful.
A lethal contagion is a pain,
A crumbling semester is painful,
Reckless judgements are painful.
Unrequited affection is a pain,
Splintered brotherhood is a pain,
A virtuoso devoured by humanity is a pain.
Abiding in antiquity is pain,
Dearth of ingenuity is painful,
Metamorphosing to persist is painful.
Frigidness of mankind is painful,
Abandoning the scheme of life is painful,
Amalgamating with chaos is painful.
Stifling individual fancies is painful,
Conjuring death is painful.
Surviving itself is a pain,
Pain howbeit is willingly favored.
Ankita Dutta, born and brought up in the suburbs of Kolkata, writes when the amalgamation of words in her head can no longer be suppressed. A contemplative student, she finds pleasure in reading and observing. Trying to live many lives and create a niche in the galaxy, the young poet is afraid to be lost and forgotten in the cosmos of time.
]]>So now every time
I see my reflection in a puddle of water
]]>BY KARIHA JAVAID
They tell me that love is attention
So this time,
When I go back home on a morning flight,
I promise I won't fall asleep.
Instead, I’ll look out the window,
My gaze so strong,
The mountains will be forced to reflect my childhood on the white snow,
A montage of longing for a home while being home, passing nice and slow,
I’ll trace the outline of the clouds,
Tear it and merge it, like my nani’s recipe of sourdough
But I will add a few step of my own.
I will allow it the time it needs to grow.
When the first rays of sun will hit my face,
I won't close my eyes shut.
It's alright, because if love is attention, I can do both without blinking till my vision blurs.
They tell me that love is attention
So now when I sit with my father
I calculate the time between his sighs.
If its less than a minute,
I look in his weary eyes
And give him my smile, like a prize.
He can keep it for as long as he wants,
But he always returns it.
No surprise.
I tell him I could recognize
The sound of his footsteps outside
My door every school morning.
He tells me he still tiptoes when he walks by my room.
They tell me that love is attention
So I apologize to my mother
For looking at her and seeing only
The motherhood in her eyes and not the wrinkles around it.
For not hearing the clicking of her knees
And the panting of her breathe,
Everytime I ask her to find my keys,
That is always in my own pocket.
I pay attention to her humming while she does the dishes.
Songs of her childhood drowned
By the sound of running water.
Does she know,
The decibels of her voice are an inheritance to her daughter?
Everytime I call her name,
My voice breaks,
I gasp for air
And also an identity.
They tell me that love is attention
So I am bound to forgive them
Because everytime I mention
Something as simple as
Maybe I don't feel so well
My fathers sighs turn into an extension
Of my mothers childhood songs
And my mothers redemption
Turns into a prayer
A prayer for me to be well.
They tell me that love is attention
So now every time
I see my reflection in a puddle of water
I don't jump in it.
I keep standing there for a bit
To admire the curl of my eyelash
And the patterns of my skin
As if they are knit
With the same care with which
My nani made sweaters for me.
I pay attention to my feet when
They ask me to leave some rooms.
I don't force my lungs to breathe air
That I always knew were just fumes
I stopped offering flowers to shrines
That turned out to be just tombs.
They tell me that love is attention
I pray to God they are right.
My name is Kariha Javaid, I am from Kashmir and currently pursuing my undergrad from Gargi College. The poem I submitted is influenced by a scene from Lady Bird wherein they say that maybe love and attention are the same thing.
]]>They try their best,
As if breaking from a prison
]]>
BY JAPJYOT KAUR CHAWLA
The brown dot
Immerses peacefully in the white sea.
The quiet creepers
Spread off like an algae,
While the black blob
Stands, lost,
With its boat,
Wandering aimlessly.
Those eyes are quiet artists-
They portray an art
Every single second,
Which the viewer either embraces
Or ignores.
Thousands of eyes meet ours,
Exchanging masterpieces
Torn with edges of pain,
Or dilated like a tranquil evening,
Or running from nostalgic whispers,
Or resting in clouds of love,
Or restraining to pour out.
Our eyes gave up on words,
Choosing a path of creativity.
But, who will explain to them,
That art is harder to comprehend,
And easier to be left alone.
Yet their portrayal never fades,
They try their best,
As if breaking from a prison,
Screaming so loudly, that we can't even hear.
At last, they turn mundane,
Depicting just a white show,
Sometimes watering in the dark,
Sometimes staring a blank space.
You will ask me that,
Why did such great narrators
Fail to entertain a huge audience?
But I will interrogate that,
Why did we fail To understand a craft,
That was dying
Right in front of us?
Hello world, I'm pursuing Fashion Designing from National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT), while being a writer by heart. Even though I'm freelancing as a content writer, penning down poems and quotes are my ultimate source of peace.
]]>Sitting at cafés and smiling at complete strangers. And them smiling back.
]]>
BY AISHWARYA ROY
It's three in the night,
and I'm writing you a letter.
The sky's dripping into your mug and you taste salty rain.
It's the same mug that once made you drink hot rainbows,
topped with rare Bosnian chocolate chips.
The days taste cold and bland.
(and so does your tea)
The nights smell of meltdown,
puffy eyes, lips quivering — like the flickering of an old tubelight.
You long to remember the feeling of returning home,
after a long hard day of work —
Unhooking your bra, you'd change into loosely hung clothes,
and lie down on your warm bed.
Like Polaroids exposed to sunlight for months,
your memories begin to fade.
The way you cry into your palms and your pillows, it's almost like
your sadness suffers from stage fright.
You've swapped shimmery LBDs for nightgowns,
and Kajals for dark circles.
The night is spilling into morning,
and you're staring at your celling, which resembles a zigzaging chaos —
One that imitates a maze, but has no exit.
For someone who once hated a speck of dust on the carpet,
I see you not making any effort to pick up the tee you left back.
The carpet is confused.
(and so am I)
It's three-thirty in the night,
And I'm listening to Cohen's songs of love and hate.
And writing you a letter.
(do you smell cinnamon? Or is it just me?)
Your incessant WhatsApp texts read piles of,
"𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺." "𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶." "𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳."
But are you, with yourself?
(hi, will you please look up?)
Here's a reminder to not always look for pattern in clouds, music in waves,
poetry in a person.
The world is not supposed to be a beautiful place, all the time.
Your meltdowns are not poetic,
and the coffee stain on your table cloth is not at all metaphorical.
History has recorded a tangible trail of incredible writing,
Be it in the plague, times of war, in the shackles of tragedy.
So wish your anxiety a better luck next time,
and write that little piece of poetry,
for yourself.
Take some time to be grateful for all the extraordinary things
you've had taken for granted –
Long walks. Small talks.
Sitting at cafés and smiling at complete strangers. And them smiling back.
Holding hands. Hugs. Longest hugs.
The roads are empty,
And the hearts are full of longing.
It's four in the morning, and I'm brewing some tea.
(I love the smell of cinnamon sticks. Do you, too?)
As you wait in anticipation,
Dressed in yearning skin,
My tired fingers are writing this poetry for someone,
They can touch the whole universe with.
With a wake-up call and a steaming cup of masala chai,
Self-love.
Aishwarya is a Biotechnology post-graduate and a writer, who believes the amalgamation of science and art can create something that looks a lot like magic. She wants to change the way people see the world, one story at a time. And liberate herself, in the commas in between the lines.
]]>कश्मीर सा बटता दिल मेरा,
एक पल उन खेतों में लहराता है
]]>
BY DAKSHITA BHATIA
गुज़ारे लम्हे अनगिनत, माँ की गोद सी सरहद लगती है
ये माटी मेरी रोज़ दुल्हन सा, एक जंग के लिए सजती है
यादें तुम्हारी आकर, अब हवा हो जाती है
रातों को तुम्हारी चिट्ठियां, एक फ़ौजी को भी रुलाती है
"पर ये दिल मेरा अब कश्मीर हो चला है
ख़ामोशी से अब घबराता नहीं"
हाँ, गोलियों की आवाज़ से सुबह,
बम से लिपटी रातें हैं
करने को है बातें कई
नजाने, खाक में मिलती रोज़ कितनी मुलाक़ातें हैं
तू जीती तो, खुदको हार के जीता था..
तेरी हर एक याद को इन्तेज़ार से जीता था..
"पर ये दिल मेरा अब कश्मीर हो चला है
ख़ामोशी से अब घबराता नहीं"
कश्मीर सा बटता दिल मेरा,
एक पल उन खेतों में लहराता है
तुम्हारे प्यार को तरसता,
एक पल दुश्मन को धूल चटाता है l
जाने जाती है , लाशें आती हैं
मैदान-ऐ-जंग अब घर सा लगता है
"पर ये दिल मेरा अब कश्मीर हो चला है
ख़ामोशी से अब घबराता नहीं"
Myself Dakshita Bhatia. I lost me in discovering what art really is. And I am still nowhere near it. They say you can’t find yourself at the same place where you lost, say if not in art, then maybe I’m better off a mystery. I am chaos and peace sometimes, a hurricane mostly and grief quiet often.
It's my first day at school,
Dad left, dropping me outside the class
with a roomful of kids, resembling to monsters
Clamoring constantly.
Just when I begin to bawl
A boy holds my hand and walks me to the class.
Named Prem or some metaphor for love, I always forget,
sits next to me,
shares his faber castle crayon set during art class plays with my spiderman pencil box
and I survive the day.
Same routine follows,
Until i pick 3 more friends and walk past him to the class for the entire session.
I still have his crayons.
Another metaphor for love, I always forget his name,
Is an almost grownup
wears a cricket jersey almost fitting to his skinny demeanour at almost every inter school sports day tournament
And as usual, pitted to the running squad, I happen to watch every practice tournament.
He makes an eye on me and another one on the crease, elevating his chances of a run out and a clean bowled at the same time.
As I win the race, he congratulates me asking for the two things he needed the most
some running tips and a much awaited conversation.
As i progress with the former, it merges into latter with
him handing out a picture of spiderman asking me to turn it over,
With the other side painted "i love you, star runner" in bold capital.
And i merge the latter to former
giving him the best running tips of his life.
Yes, i don't even turn back.
Love has a bike, a stubble covered around a perfect jawline this time,
And everything else that screams attitude.
His attendance is short and so is his ego.
So, he asks for help in studies.
I teach him after the lectures.
He doesn't carry a backpack, eats off my tiffin
Drinks water from my bottle, and walks to the gate with me, just boyish things,
I thought.
He asks for notes, sometimes i lend
And most times not, cause he manhandles them,
Just like his heart he carelessly lost on me.
My friend tells me about that.
He messages, calls and tries to talk to me a million times after the love declaration debacle
But i don't entertain him anymore.
He failed that year, I topped.
Love wears a shirt and a trouser, and an id card
And holds countless dreams in his heart
He is tough, silent, introvert all at the same time
And wore spiderman t shirt last friday,
So perfect.
He seldom talks to me, mostly drifts apart
Borderline ignores me and I don't even try to make an eye contact
For he clearly isn't into me, he made fun of my face the other day, but it doesn't hurt...cause he is no Tom Cruise either
With a clobbered heart, I comfortably step aside
Cause i can't hold his hand and walk him into the odc
I can't draw him a picture of his favourite superhero(batman) asking him to turn it over
Neither can I declare my love in the middle of the canteen for him
i know how it'll end.
because i know it's my chance now
To explore this side of the tunnel.
Love has been a therepy
And ignoring it,
a lifetime of a habit.
Now it's love's turn to settle scores with me.
Its 3-1, and I am still winning...
Though, should i be scared?
You try to avoid, but then wrap
your arms around me with a soft slap.
]]>BY ASMA KHATRI
After a frustrating morning; the sun burning.
And all that rote learning.
Asking you, "maaaa!! Is there something to eat?
If not, then I'll snuggle up in my bed sheet."
You ask me to first freshen up.
Still, I cling to you like a dog's own pup.
You try to avoid, but then wrap
your arms around me with a soft slap.
We finally begin to eat.
Watching our melodramatic serials; script concrete.
Obviously, bahu ending up with mistreat.
Hmm, who will be next on kaun banega crorepati's hot seat?
Undoubtedly announcing your food as elite.
We share our gossips of the century.
Our same old family treasury.
Dad's side family; a complimentary.
It's all imprinted in my memory.
Now when I look back,
I wish to begin my life as a yolk sac.
"Padhne baitho!", hearing you complain.
Coming home to you again.
I am Asma Khatri from Vadodara. I am an undergraduate medical student studying in GMERS Medical college, Valsad. Few of my poems have been posted on my college page @moajize_e_kalam_mcv. On the occasion of earth day I wrote a poem for a NGO World Healing Society Foundation. I wish to explore poetry more in the coming future.
]]>BY ROBYN DAJQ
कुछ अलग था
कुछ नया था
पहले प्रेम का एहसास
]]>BY SAUMYA SRIVASTAV
मै सकुचाई, संभली खड़ी थी
जब उनसे मुलाकात हुई
लेकिन पूर्ववत नहीं
कुछ अलग था
कुछ नया था
पहले प्रेम का एहसास
लिपटे हुए असीम शांति के ओट से
जैसे किसी सूफी को मिल गया हो
प्रेयसी से मिलन का राज़
दिव्य जैसे किसी सुप्त मासूम के वदन पर
गिरा हो किरणों का साज
हृदय था आल्हादित
जैसे किसी विरहिणी को हुआ हो
पिया-मिलन का एहसास
कुछ रंग थे, कुछ खुशियाॅं थी
कुछ शब्द थे पन्नो पर झूलते हुए
जब मैंने किताबों को हृदय से लगाए
महसूस किया खुद को.....।
A selenophile who loves to read books and is often lost in her poetic world. She absolutely adores Hindi Classics, painting and psychological and philosophical discussions
]]>
I am Varsha Karnani, an engineer by profession, who likes to play the odds and fantasize through the pixels and letters.
]]>Immortalized, by eyes capturing the palette,
A veduta brushed into the painter’s soul.
]]>
BY KSANBOR SHULLAI
Can I capture happiness, the way
A painter captures a beautiful scenic day?
Attempting to evoke all goodness known.
Clear skies from the finest blue acrylic paint
With soft wash white strokes of cool wind
Swaying the rich greens of impasto grass
Shaded by cotton clouds above film, shaped
By skilled hands, glazed by yellow sunlight.
Canvas traction inside the deckle edge, has
Immortalized, by eyes capturing the palette,
A veduta brushed into the painter’s soul.
What does it mean to write about my happiness?
When differing reports signify it’s presences.
A shelter-hole during a vicious hurricane
Glooms our spirit when it’s ugly depths
Sit on pastures devoid of drought-lands.
When blinded by vivid visible spectrums,
The blackest of inks becomes my guide.
Reminded that I can not just stroll when asked
To dance to human instruments of duality.
My parched searching for happiness quenched
In the darkest of abyss by a drenched heart.
A writer with a passion for storytelling. Has experience as a freelance content writer and aims to work as a screenwriter in the Filmmaking industry. Holds a Bachelor's degree in Horticulture (for day job purposes) and pursuing a master's in English Literature (career purposes).
]]>BY DEEPAK AHUJA
BY DEBAHUTI BORAH
BY PRINCY SANGHVI
Her subtle gold, and
Embellished suit salwar,
Would hug us on the doors,
]]>BY JAPJYOT KAUR CHAWLA
In the midst of her peaceful bliss
Lies the core of simplicity-
A cup of love,
A plate of desirable delicacies
A spoonful of her taunts-
The entire dining table holding
Her handful of plaful stories
And a smile, that is void of worries.
The insides of my heart,
Find a calming happiness,
In her house, in her presence,
In my nani's shelter.
Summers would ring excitedly,
And our bags would start their journey
To her geriatric house.
Her subtle gold, and
Embellished suit salwar,
Would hug us on the doors,
Marking our sunny days,
To be filled with her morning tantrums,
Noon's savouries and naps,
Evening's garden ride,
Night's grand feast,
And midnight's terrace slumbers.
For the endings to be sweeter,
Her money covers would fill our pockets,
And turn us into
Tiny responsible citizens.
Each second spent around my nani,
Was the ultimate source of contement,
And each May passing by,
Is a remembrance of her death.
Ah! The face of nostalgia
Is beautiful as ever,
Sending me ripples of memories,
And waves of happiness.
With her huge home conquered by her sons,
Her soul has never left this world.
It stayed with me in those photographs,
Which captured or captivated,
My long lost euphoria.
Hello world, I'm pursuing Fashion Designing from National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT), while being a writer by heart. Even though I'm freelancing as a content writer, penning down poems and quotes are my ultimate source of peace.
]]>The horizon radiates melange of ecstasy as we celebrate our transformed aura and all the good we did to prevail over evil;
]]>BY ALI ASHHAR
क्यूँ टोकता हूँ तुम्हें
ख़ुद मन की करूँ…क्यूँ रोकता हूँ तुम्हें
छोटी सी ही बात पर क्यूँ दबाता हूँ तुम्हें
]]>By Gaurav Bhatnagar
क्यूँ टोकता हूँ तुम्हें
ख़ुद मन की करूँ…क्यूँ रोकता हूँ तुम्हें
छोटी सी ही बात पर क्यूँ दबाता हूँ तुम्हें
प्यार करता हूँ तो जवाब क्यूँ माँगता हूँ
और फिर नज़रें क्यूँ नहीं मिला पाता हूँ
सुनोगी मेरी हमेशा ऐसा तो नहीं सोचता
करोगी मेरी कही ये भी नहीं जँचता
फिर क्यूँ ऐसा इंसान बन जाता हूँ मैं
तुमसे पहचाना भी नहीं जाता हूँ मैं
सपने तुम्हारे भी हैं ये क्यूँ भूल जाता हूँ
आशाएँ तुम्हारी मुझसे भी हैं
वो वादे क्यूँ नहीं निभाता हूँ
परवरिश है ये या सदियों की सीख़, की रखूँ तुम्हें थोड़ा सा खींच
परवरिश है ये या सदियों की सीख़, की रखूँ तुम्हें थोड़ा सा खींच
माँ को भी देखा था पिसते इस पाटे के बीच
अहल्या, शकुंतला, सीता में भी शायद बोए गए थे इस सोच के बीज
संगिनी, जीवन तरिंगनि हो तुम ये समझता हूँ
मेरे अरमान तुमसे, तुम्हारे ख़्वाब मुझसे ये अहसास भी रखताहूँ
तोड़ रहा हूँ सदियों के भ्रम...तुम्हें दबाने का ये क्रम
प्यार तुमसे करता हूँ, तुम्हें भी उड़ते देखना चाहता हूँ
करी है नयी शुरुआत, फिर साथ तुम्हारा चाहता हूँ
अब तुम्हारे साथ उड़ना चाहता हूँ
For not paying heed to their exigencies
They said this might be my worst deluge of mistakes
Not being coy enough
Not nodding to their patriarchal rants
By Debarati Sen
Every time I try to break the barriers and the banalities
My role as a woman is being persistently questioned.
My benevolence as a female who is the epitome of benign kindness is in jeopardy.
My existence as a human being is growing in precarity
Being overshadowed by my existence as a woman.
Women aren't supposed to shout like that, they said
They gave me a cold stare everytime I raised an eyebrow and my voice
They did not find me 'feminine' enough.
They said I did not duplicate Goddess Lakhshmi in my posture and actions
I questioned why Lakhsmi? I could be Kali and still bear equanimity!
They snapped at me again for trying to defy the norms.
For not paying heed to their exigencies
They said this might be my worst deluge of mistakes
Not being coy enough
Not nodding to their patriarchal rants.
Trying to break free from the shackles of a dismembered identity.
If being vociferous meant being less of a woman
I am better that way!
looking for something more tangible than being 'feminine'.
you don't sleep the entire night,
the first time you notice your father talk over your mother at the dining table,
she forces her words down
her throat, a museum of everything deemed less important,
]]>you don't sleep the entire night,
the first time you notice your father talk over your mother at the dining table,
she forces her words down
her throat, a museum of everything deemed less important,
her mouth the graveyard of expressions that keep biting into the insides of her cheeks,
and you wonder if she ever retreats to the bathroom after, and spills them out in front of the mirror,
to make sure they're still there,
to make sure at least someone's listening,
and maybe that's why she's been having trouble sleeping lately,
maybe that's why she wakes up with the dreams she'll never see
tinging the crinkles of her eyes the lightest of purples and blues;
right?
but how could you have known better when you were only seven at the time while everybody else at the table wasn't?
your remember your childhood as the mosaic of a 'culture' you wish to outgrow;
your grandfather shaming the emotions out of your brother, at eight; telling him to 'man up'; telling him he loves him in the same breath, never once realizing that the poor boy mistook oppression for affection, instead;
your grandmother not letting him in the kitchen at thirteen, saying it was a workplace reserved for women only;
at fourteen you're told you need to learn how to shut up your damn mouth, your brother, how he needs to learn to live out loud;
fifteen; you overhear your father telling your mother to ask you to change out of the shorts you're wearing,
him scavenging for a substitute to crying;
at sixteen, you are the tainted mirror images of the world looking back at its roots,
so you carve your bones into daggers,
the one way you wish you'd been taught to;
hoping,
praying,
they'll be sharp enough to cut through
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I would tell her to not step in a cab with unknown people
not travel alone,
not wear ripped jeans
]]>By Priyanjana Das
If I should have a daughter,
I live in a world where the scale of justice was
tipped lower for a female for the higher societal standards
we were meant to follow
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By Mehak Rajoria
Ever since I could remember,
I have hated cooking
with all the passion I could conjur
in my chubby 4 fingered hands.
The onions that made me cry; the splashing oil.
The expectation that the boys sitting around the
dining table would smile at what they thought was their right
after a long day of football under the sweltering sun.
I hated it all.
Their grins or their compliments when I cooked
Their attempts to flatter me were just actually just a
reflection of my faults in my little 6 year old mind.
From then on, I started pouring the salt instead of the
sugar. My hand, a little too loose with the spice.
And then I saw how it all unfolded according to my plan.
It made me grin sadistically watching their faces turn green
The faked forced thin lipped smiles as their
adams apples' tried to down the
Chai I Made with Rotten Milk.
Never again did I hear “you're so good at cooking Leila”
“Cook again for us Leila.” The boys in my school stopped saying
girls belonged in the kitchen because they knew I certainly didn't.
And it made my cheeks hurt with pride that I was the reason behind it.
But I didn't realize that I don't live in a world in which I can cook
for myself without believing I am perpetuating a stereotype.
Where I can be feminine and masculine without being l
labeled as a “bruh” girl or a “🥺” “girl.
I live in a world where the scale of justice was
tipped lower for a female for the higher societal standards
we were meant to follow and
I hate it all.
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