I have wallpapers of Renaissance paintings And cultural depots When in truth, I don't really understand them. I could find euphoria in poetry and literature And now I can't drag myself through a haiku. I praise it all day and night and recommend my unknown favourites to all. Have I fallen prey to everything I stand up against? Does finding your own words mean losing awe of others'?
Tupur rushed down a flight of stairs and ran to her mother, who was stirring the gravy of the 'illish maach' eagerly. "Ma! Can you give me 50 rupees?", Tupur said breathlessly. "50 rupees?! Whatever do you need that amount for?" "I need to buy something. Ma, please? You promised that you'll give me money before Durga Pujo, remember?" "Yes. But you still did not answer my question. What do you need it for?" Tupur hesitated a little. "I want to buy something for a friend on her birthday.", she said weakly. Her mother lifted her hand to cup Tupur's cheek. "Tupur, we cannot afford to distribute gifts. We can barely make ends meet. Had it not been for Thakurda, we would have been homeless by now. I'm sorry." "But Ma", Tupur said with a breaking voice, "it's Durga Pujo" "I know Tupi, but beggars can't be choosers." Tupur turned serious at this. In a grave manner she said, "We're not beggars, Ma. Never call yourself that. We work for a living just like everybody else. Just because cooking and cleaning is considered as jobs for inferiors, doesn't mean it's not work." "Accha baba raag korish na. Go and deliver this to Sayani." He mother handed her a cup of tea and two toast biscuits.
Tupur and her mother, Lata had been alone for as long as she can remember. Her father was a drunkard who suffered an untimely death. Although she doesn't remember him, she has heard horrifying tales from her mother of what a despicable man he was. She hates him. Her mother used to work at a certain Mr. Mukherjee's until he died due to an unforeseen heart attack. Lata and Tupur became homeless. They went from door to door asking if anyone needed a full time maid. Tupur was willing to work too. Luckily, they ended up at a house who's master was awfully generous. Mr. Hiraklal Ganguly. He was a retired railway officer with a daughter who is not much older than Tupur. He was a kind man with a massive heart and he welcomed and helped the inferiors.
Tupur always believed that love is for the rich. Well, until she fell in love herself. She is in love with someone who she did not want to love. At first, she hated the person for their flawlessness and beauty but then the more she came in contact, the more she felt it. The smell, the ways, the happiness radiated from an impeccable source and astounded her as she absorbed all of it. It felt like lying on a vast plain of grass, the birds chirping at a distance, grasshoppers hovering around your arms as you take a long sniff of the myrtle and the sunshine mixed together. A necklace with a heart engraved on the pendant. She wanted to gift a necklace for which she needed money from her Ma. She had seen it in the movies and has hence dreamed of giving her lover a necklace.
The poor don't dream. They don't have the privilege of being "out of the box". And when Tupur realised she was in love with a girl, she was in disbelief. She slapped herself quite a few times and even restricted herself from seeing her but it ate her up. She was fond of watching movies where love ends tragically but living in a tragical tale did not suit her fancy. She wanted to be around her all the time. She wanted to suffocate herself by filling her lungs with her aroma. She wanted to feel her, to love her and live her.
And she did.
She walked up two flights of stairs and stopped right before the door. She let a deep breath out and knocked on the door. "Come in." Tupur entered the room and closed the door behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. "I can't give you anything for your birthday. I'm sorry." Sayani looked up at Tupur with eyes softer than an angel's and smile warmer than the sun. "I love you anyway."
#free#wod@writersnetwork@mirakee Thank you for giving me the courage to write this❤ Thank you WN and Mirakee ♡ I'm grateful to you all for reading me THANK YOU EVERYONE❤ Being a woman is a paradox, I dare not comment on. @raika_ I wasn't gonna write but reading you made me. I had to. #piyufav
On a bright heated afternoon in a room drowned in gloom, full of chaos's tranquility, was a man sleeping. As for his physical appearance he was ugly, and was balding too. And he was tired of people calling him ugly. Deep down in his sleep if you climb down the stairs of his dreams and see the world his mind chose to roam in, you'll see him standing in front of a mirror, his eyes wide, his face uglier with dark flesh which somehow feels dead. He closes up his face nearer the mirror, his eyes out wider, stretching the nerves on them, his eyeballs dancing, scanning his own face. His hands now shake, his face now aches but his eyes still fixated his dark flesh still dark, and ugly which was somehow getting darker and uglier with every passing second. The madman was about to what felt like scream but then the silence was shattered by the alarm clock. The dream now collapsed, the man now out of his own thought prison, his face is now relieved.
He lazily gets up from his bed, picks up his white towel and strolls to the shower room. Standing beneath the shower with face facing upwards with eyes closed, the ugly man stands still as if lost in a lifeless pause. He opens his eyes, switches off the shower, wraps the towel round his waist when his eyes catches the fallen strands of hair, quite many of them. He looks at them helplessly, then plods out the bathroom with a tired face like a deflated football.
He then puts on his white shirt, takes a few steps towards the mirror, pauses and then walks to the main door, bu hesitant to go out like any other day, for he is tired of people calling him ugly. He yet gathers the courage and strolls toward the metro station, he looks at the people around him in the metro in which he stands guilty, or not maybe.
His eyes steals a few glances of a girl a few steps away from him with bright eyes, dark hair and fair skin. She was, what they call beautiful. His heart thumps with an unexplainable excitement, but a few seconds later self realisation kicks in hard. His eyes now facing down, a sudden air of toxic inferiority passes by him. His self drowning in the pit he created himself, he walks away. Or should I say he ran away.
Passing by the huge posters on the streets, posters of beautiful people, he looks at them with pretty straight face as if it was inevitable to face them perhaps. The day passes, the painter sells his paintings and when hunger begs again, the traveller reverts back.
When dusk completely lured the sky and when the world was tired, he was in a metro again, sitting this time. A woman stands infront of him with dark skin, an unsymmetric face, basically ugly. The man looks at her, indifferent. He opens his book, starts reading. A few stations pass then enters a girl. Only this time, she was attractive. The man notices her as she made her way in the crowded metro. As it was, she had to stand. Lucky for him, she stood near him. He steals a few glances, suppressing the guilt and only this time, he wasn't gonna give up easy. He stands up all of a sudden with gentle voice he says "You can sit if you want" and holds the support rod. The woman thanks him. His face goes red glowing like the moon. With a few slow steps he stand hear the gates, with that constant smile on his face. Until he finds the ugly girl staring at him. "She is ugly," he tells himself as he looks away. The girl keeps staring at him with a tired face like a deflated football.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ @Say_me_krish here, my darkest writeup (I feel), for you wanted to read. And if not for u, I wouldn't rewrite or post it again, so thank you brother ❤
I watch, as the clouds unlade themselves off their existence. Diffracting variant shades of grey, slowly fading away, leaving the sky bare. "Last rainfall of the year," my mom exclaimed. "Last," I whispered back. And my eyes too, wanted to be the clouds today. I woke up with a jerk, when the clouds finally rumbled aloud, and found me staring at the rain. My skin caused bumps in it, when I decoded the reasons behind 'my' rain.
"Why am I so attached to them?" "Why do I imprison myself in the conundrums of the camouflaged relationship of the sky and the earth?" "Why can't I breathe solace without feeling the rain on my skin?" Thousands of thoughts raced through my mind, and only one could reach my heart. Before I knew, my hands started scribbling. Thoughts were flooding around, and what-to-write-first was obscuring them, throughout.
//I let myself drown, in the sangria of our love, shimmering in red. The contrasting blue in the sky, makes me aware of my presence without you. Would it be same as the cold, crisp land after the rain bades goodbye for another seven months? Would the dying of summer be ever capable to bring life in your memories? And all I could write was a big N-O. As long as the rain lived, peeping out of nowhere amidst the breeze sweetly baked by the sun; my poetries lived gulping down your memories with the savour of my rhymes. I lived in the world of as-ifs but you never let me breathe its air. You caulked me, with your promises and never let them crack. And now I know that, it would take the comeback of summer to mend the broken metaphors I would be weaving down everyday without being drenched by its rain.//
My fingers came to a halt, when the last drops of rain kissed the earth. And I watched the earth, anxiously swallowing the last globules, to their deepest hoard.
from a hidden alleyway, agony peers at a man like his divorced wife accusing him of adultery, which she forgot to define before she left their together constructed street spilling 'cheater' on every wall as if wanting the neighbours to encage their proprietorial wives before the flawless families reek of white lilies, not the one born out of wedlock but ones who sounds like the inadvertent dirge in ears of helpless children who lock themselves every night when they see patriarchy coming home as the tipsy sorceress and lying befuddled in arms of anarchy
on the sidewalk,sits an aged lady holding arms of her wheelchair tight, chanting the name of god disguised as her once seen innocent child who she bought from the grave of her husband who left her silently after writing hundreds of poems on how love is all about second chances but god of death rejected his plea saying that the pitcher of his uncommitted sins has filled upto the brim and if he lets him breathe for another second than the earth will topple because of snowballing lechery
years later, a girl blooms womanhood wanting to get her newly born forelsket published after which her father thrusts her into orphanage where she carries her poems as only pennies left to buy subsistence, there she meets a boy in her dream murmuring like Hitler guilty of letting rage of his father beating him turning into a brother bullying her sister unknowingly
one disastrous night, girl walks back to the streets where once she called four walls a home, suddenly a star in the sky enters her ears as distressed voice of his grandfather- "I'm the root of your burgenoning dysfunctional family" _______________________________