Meditation fails to dress warped peace in homes where morning quarrels break sleep and dull day steals the worth of night.
More often than not, I have seen homes inflate into a battlefield where contrasting perceptions rain like hand grenades particularly because we assign genders to chores that further the disparity between kitchens and drawing rooms, paving way for windows to carry forward the obdurate legacy.
Albeit, love does bloom in ventilations on fine days but I have seen rage climb up as fire in hearts and rush down as tears on cheeks, on days— vulnerable, dry and intense.
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.
There's a salvation when, your feet don't long to melt in the footsteps of chaos and you share this breathing space word by word on a blank leaf. A home you made, a temple it looked; where whole universe is draped in an explicit cloak of a rhyming poetry.
There were times when, the world was painted in green except for the blue skies and sapphire oceans, where we made love in epilogues of rainbow and loosened-letters called stars of dusk. Moon did brightened, twilight borrowed some hues; when the geometry of our souls was drawn amidst the syllables of a beautiful poetry.
There's a closet opening in my arms, of flowers that smell of hope and books that read self-worth when sunshine wraps around me and clouds leak pride. A wound I kissed, It bloomed into a rose; where scars are sown and raised as strength into the empty spaces of a free-versed poetry.
There's peace in silence when, the words turn down to ashes but are still sung upon in poems admired by each passerby. A dream you weaved, a beauty that flourished; where the midnight rustle of leaves and the blow of air is treasured in the collection of poetry, and in a touch of moment with ink I understood, Everyone becomes a poet. ~Purva
/In the battlefield of households, She is the bravest warrior./
Born as a daughter, she carries the burdens of outdoing her brother, of being obedient and gentle, to hold the prestige of her father's name, before her own self-respect and aspirations.
Married to an unknown man, she hides behind the crimson veils of a wife's responsibility, her forhead embossed with sindoor, her wrists bound with duty of being a perfect housemaker.
And soon she becomes a carrier, of her own daughter, whom she teaches to shoulder the legacy of womanhood, as she does, till her hearse arrives at the doorstep of her unheard dreams crushed under the heaviness of society's conventions.
/A woman, is never her own self, She is always a man's daughter, wife or mother. /
~ But men, they never value her virtues and sacrifices. They always treat her like an object according to their own convenience.
Tw: fiction Some sentences might have been inked under the influence of some provocative songs.
"And now that I'm without your kisses I'll be needing stitches" - Stitches, Shawn Mendes
A choking metaphor finds a way To seep between her bones to enter Her poems once in a while, Here and there, ringing a cataclysm, Leaving cathartic musings, Stained time loops And nihilistic reverberation, It all starts with a flicker, a matchstick, Contributing a conflagration to a Larger part of her hands and mind, The fire ain't enough to warm her Frozen breaths, or powerful enough To plant penelopes in her Cracked heart; Clutching onto words Reeking of aestheticism, echoing soft past, She's a crossover of September sonnet And a jinxed June She's searching for a hand That'd spell back f o r e v e r on her palm, But all she can do is put a tired smile, Because when she closes her eyes, All she sees is that face and feel the hand On hers, For whom she once wrote scores of love poems, He was a shy wallflower, and she, a chirpy leucanthemum, She has a kinship with sunflowers and heathers, Whilst she wanders with daffodils, When they ask her about her home, She blows away dandelions petals, Lately she is wearing a pinafore And flared blue jeans, Working day and night in rural fields, Occasionally during a sunset, She grasps for a moment To convert it into a gasping haiku; Tendering the sheep, shearing the yarn, To stitch tilted smiles on her sleeves, Which has been to wars uncountable With herself and the world and her love; Her skin is a beautiful artwork Of battlefields she has been part of; As a souvenir of her endurance Her forehead is creased with waves, A faithful smile always lingering on Her pretty lips, she hopes to dust kindness On surfaces her feet trudge upon, Her soul is a triptych depicting Conflicting perception about love, Family and identity, Trickling drops of rain takes shape of a rainbow In the bleeding sky, Camouflaged with courage and hope, Falling over her face as tears She is too afraid to shed, A constant conflict between saying and Caring too much– keeps her on her toes, When I catch a glance of her heart, I wonder whether he'd have fallen in love h a r d e r with her if he'd met her before me Combustible heartbeats of ours Mush into a dough of silence My words lie often only upon the paper For my tongue can utter Only what my mind considers true I wish for an eternity Drenched in seclusion I wish upon a shooting star To fade away like her, far I have a loose grip But good instincts I'm searching for a moment Only mine to call, Mine to own, It's all only a thought, until the metaphors Overpower my worth and existence, I'm driving the car, To get my driver's license, Only to wake up From this dreamy reality.