Woman with wings!

Forbidden wings she possessed,
Alarming the wannabe superiors.
Laughing her fears out,
Launching herself like a missile, but
Enormous wings that once spread wide open -
Now, are caged like wild bird that she was within.

Another puppet, she was, in the show,
None stood against, but applauded instead.
Glowing in the dark, she danced,
Even though her self was falling apart;
Like death happened to her soul, not her body.

A Shared Story.

The dew drop just started its small journey from the corner of the leaf toward the pond. Glistening in the sunrise behind the drop wavered its way to the pond surrounded with moist waves of cool breeze nearby.

A pond set on top a picturesque mountain. There stood a lonely banyan tree. The tree had lived a really really long time and had seen time move on with its slow churning movements across life cycles.

On each direction the trees branch stretched out, there were multiple views. Multiple views and multiple stories stretched out across its laborious memories.

Multiple stories did the tree bear, for many sung the songs of the village, of men and women, of animals and of family under the shade of its branches. The children looked at the setting sun over the horizon and their eyes gleaming with luck for they could see nature's magic.

The water in the pond was an abode to the tiny fish, which swiftly swam across the pond, delighting the onlookers. This was the place that had to be searched, for many Arabs had wasted their lives in search of treasure. Seldom did they realize that the true treasure lies in the beating of the heart with joy and peace.

Folktales were told during the nights under the tree and in front of the burning wood, the animals in the stories came to life and tried to teach mankind to live the life, the one life that they were blessed to have - even the fiend of the folktales became the children's hero.

Who knew that some day, the tears would dry and the eyes would be left barren! The same eyes that once sent little drops down the cheeks of children who watched the unleaving of the golden leaves from the branches of the magnanimous banyan tree.

The eyes were now void of tears, attachments receded and the innocence lost, for the times, now changed. Children grew up, and were no longer fascinated with the folktales that they loved at some point in their lives. They are all set to leave the village today, to leave their families, to discover themselves elsewhere, to learn new things and to attain success. They, now, chose the city life, promising their families for a better future, and a better life. They bid adieu, leaving not just the village, but also leaving hopes in the hearts of their families, hopes of seeing their children soon. Now, the banyan tree has also witnessed their departure.

Strong wind blew, like the nature already predicted something, but this was a storm, which failed to stop them from leaving; and they left, not looking back, at their families who brought them up, lessons that they learnt, stories that they shared, and the village, where they grew up.

Days, months and years passed, but none returned. The families only received some money in the early days of the month.

Today, people gathered around the banyan tree once again, but this time, for a different purpose. This time, people gathered, not to sing the songs of joy, but to sing a song of lament.

A better life and a better future, were promises left unfulfilled. Life in the city for children, and life in the village for people became monotonous, where the city worked, and the village awaited.

Writers; Dexter, Panda and Junior.

A fallen, broken doll.

I'm sitting in my room, playing with my dolls. Today, one of my dolls was getting married and all my other dolls have gathered to congratulate her. This is such a happy occasion, I have a bright smile on my face.
"Sagrika?", a call from my father; his voice, very loud. I was frightened by his voice and accidentally dropped my doll, and now, it lays down broken. If I had to look at my broken doll any longer, I would end up crying, but right now, I must rush to where my father is.
I see him seated in his room, who is accompanied by my mother, my little brother who is playing with some wooden sticks, my mother's sister (my aunt) and, oh, my uncle, who is wounded.
My father walks towards me, kneels down and says, "Sagi, do me a favour, will you? Go to your room and pack a few clothes of yours, we must leave this place..", I can see tears in my father's eyes. He shuts his eyes immediately, and after a while, he opens his eyes, looks at me, and says, "- this place, our little paradise... we must leave and never return. pack only a couple of clothes, I'll buy other things for you elsewhere." He looks confused, unsure of things; I look at him with several questions, but I dare not ask him any. I do not want to leave this place. My school, my friends, my dance classes.. How can I leave them all behind? I turn around and walk towards my room. I shut the door behind me, my back against the door. What's happening? I think to myself. I cannot figure out anything; but now I have to do what I was told to do, 'to pack my bags'. I pull out my favorite bag, that has a design of a beautiful peacock, and colorful beads. I pick out a few clothes of mine, randomly, lost in my memories with this place. As I tie my bag, and to check for it's weight, I stand up, and underneath my feet is the fallen, broken doll. I look at it, as if I were that doll. I leave the doll there, and walk out of my room, where I find my entire family, with a few bags, ready to leave.
There is a ruckus outside, and my father looks petrified. When I look outside, I see Meena's house in flames. I've screamed the loudest within myself, but I couldn't manage to utter a word. I see my fights, my friendship and my time spent with Meena in a flash. My mother lifts me up and embraces me, like she is trying to hide me in her arms.
We dunk and move cautiously, trying not to be noticed by anybody. Suddenly, Samreen aunty, my mother's friend, comes before us along with her husband. She looks concerned, but my mother tells her to back off. My mother feels threatened; but why, I wonder. Samreen aunty looks shocked, and says, "Chandini, how could you ever think that I'll bring harm to you and your family? I'm here to help you. Attackers are just around the corner; come to my house, I'll keep you all sheltered there until it is safe to leave." My mother puts me down, and hugs Samreen aunty.
We're, now, hiding in the house of Samreen aunty, in a dark room. I do not understand why do we have to leave our own house and hide just the next door. My younger brother starts to cry, and my mother hushes him to sleep. I'm so confused, my father said that we must leave this place forever and never return; but why? Who wants us out? Who harmed Meena and her family and why?
Silence has sealed our lips and fear ruled our minds and hearts.
I'm tired, I feel so sleepy, but I'm also hungry. I nudge my mother and say, "Ma, I'm want something to eat, I'm hungry; and also sleepy. Give me some food and then I can go home and sleep, please?". My mother hushes me quickly, placing her hand over my lips, like she doesn't want me to talk. Then, she slowly whispers, " Honey, I'm taking you to a better place, where rooms are bright unlike how it is here; and there, I shall cook all that you like, and you can eat all of that as much as you want to. But, for now, darling, please go to sleep." She hugs me and places my head on her lap, slowing patting me so that I fall asleep.
I wake up with a bang on the door, 'This is Samreen, open the door, it's safe outside. I think, it's the best time you leave." We collect our things and open the door. My mother hugs her friend like she's never going to see her again. They look at each other with tears in their eyes, and they hold each other's hands, firm. They don't say a word, but it seems like they didn't have the need to say anything. We say our goodbyes to Samreen aunty and her husband, and leave. Outside again, we make our way to some place safe, carefully, cautiously. My parents, aunt and uncle, look like they haven't slept at all, like they were too afraid to blink, even. But what's scaring them so much? I wish I knew. My brother is fast asleep and my father is carrying him. My uncle is trying to walk with the support of my aunt, seems like he is suffering terribly in pain.
We've reached to a railway station now, where there are several people waiting to leave the place for good. So many people, I see, as if the entire city is wanting to go elsewhere, all together, at the same time. The railway station is so crowded that it's hard to even enter the main gate. After, what seemed to be like an eternity, we finally managed to reach the platform. My parents, my brother and I boarded the train, hardly finding a place to stand initially, but we somehow managed to make some place inside. My uncle and aunt were the last ones to get to the train and suddenly, I hear something loud, like a thunder, and I hear it again. I try to look outside, unable to get a complete view. I can only see my uncle and aunt collapsing on the ground, and the train started moving forward. My father screams in anger and my mother is holding him back, she is crying her heart out.
The train is moving away, from a place where I was born, where I played with Meena and other girls, where I learnt how to dance, a place that I call my home. We are also moving away from bloodshed, from hatred and from death. But, should we be running away from death? We have lost everything, is it worth living anymore?
The train stopped, all people leave the train. We have now come to a place that seems like a land of aliens. I have never seen this place before. Where am I? In silence, we stand together, looking at a new place, like we're suddenly given another life without being warned or even asked. In silence, we try to drink this change of reality, that struck us hard.
Today, I complete my sixty fifth year towards the other side of the border, the other side of separation. So much has happened in these sixty five years - I was married at the age of 17, I lost my parents at the age of 23, mg brother got married and chose a different life for himself. I had given birth to 5 children, I lost 4 in different accidents while they were still young.
All of this is painful, but, one such incident that still breaks my heart into tiny pieces, is the separation, the partition. All of these sixty five years, I have just been breathing and not actually living. I have seen my life being turned upside down, and I could do nothing about it.
Today, I live in a rented house, trying to make a living with a job like stitching. But, what I really am doing is that I'm waiting; waiting for death. My soul has always been on the other side of the rope, and my body is here, just breathing, existing.
Even today, I see myself as that fallen, broken doll. Fallen hopes, broken heart, that's how I define myself, that's how I have been existing, and that is how I will continue to exist.

A cup of coffee.

It has been quite a long time that I haven't seen my friend, Zoya; I quickly fetch for my phone, unplug the charger and dial her number. I hear the ring, and in no time, she answers, "Hey, What's up, girl? Long time, no see", I hear her giggle. I smile and respond, " I'm doing good; I was just thinking how long it has been since we met, let's grab a cup of coffee? There's so much we need to talk. " I mutter, and I wait for a 'yes' from her end. After a short pause, she says, "Well,  I'd love that, but, um.. You see, mum isn't really keeping well.. So, you know.." And suddenly she goes from um... to all excited, and says, "oh, why don't you just come over to my place? I can make coffee and we can talk as much as we want to, what say?". Okay, that seems to be a nice idea, so I say, "yes, that will do, I will see you in about thirty minutes."
I get up, grab my scooter keys and head towards the main door. While I climb the stairs down, I quickly leave an SMS to my mum's and dad's number, which reads, "I'm meeting Zoya for coffee, leaving the keys under the mat, I will not take long. Bye." Now, I start my scooter, my Dio.
After twenty-five minutes, I stop outside Zoya's residence, and quickly call her again, she has probably understood that I have reached, so she doesn't answer, instead, she turns up at the door, looks at me with a smile, and tells me, "we have a doorbell, just in case you didn't know!" I smile back at her, lock my scooter and hug her. I've missed this girl so much.
We walk in and sit together, and she tells, "if you know how lazy I really am, you should know that I would prepare instant coffee." She giggles, and I roll my eyes at her. Never mind, I like coffee any way. We talk about random things while we stand in her kitchen. Zoya loves to decorate things and she's ridiculously good at it. I see her decorating coffee as well. She adds one tablespoon of coffee powder, about three tablespoons of sugar and pours milk, finally. I like how it smells and to make it look better and she adds a little more coffee powder as what she calls it to be her 'finishing touch'. We take our coffee mugs and sit together in her bedroom. I rise when I realise we didn't get a spoon to stir the coffee. As she sees me getting up, she asks, "hey, what happened?" Doesn't she want to stir her coffee? I look at her with a raised eyebrow, and with a sarcastic tone, I tell, "I don't know about you, but I like my coffee stirred well, before I drink." She looks at me like I just casually told her I would go murder someone now, and she says, "why do you want to stir your coffee? Don't you see, it looks good like that?" I give her the are-you-kidding-me look, I fail to collect words to express what's in my head and I say, "what?!" With both my eyebrows raised in disbelief.
Isn't that what life is all about? I think to myself. Life is, nothing but a cup of instant coffee, which we 'suppose' would taste good if it 'looks' good. This is a delusion, and we start working towards making our lives 'look good', and we fail to realise that the mixed taste of the sour and sweet together can make our lives taste like a cup of amazing coffee. The mixture of bad and good makes life beautiful, and this simple mantra, which is assumed to be complicated, should be, not just known, but also understood, in order to enjoy a good cup of coffee.

Name it whatever..

[Fiction]
Today, I recall the day when it was time I said: "I do". I was dressed beautifully, and I stood before a man, I had thought, I loved. A voice repeatedly echoed, to know, if I accept this man, standing before me, as my 'lawfully wedded husband', while I was battling feelings with thoughts. Everything seemed still and suddenly, my heart sank, when I realised that I actually love the man, who was away and I thought it was too late to realise this, but was it too later already? My heart, filled with happiness, and my dead lips, broadened suddenly. I brought myself back to reality only to say one word, which was " No!". Clearly my feelings had won the battle of love; my face lit up with joy. I held my gown and rushed towards the exit only to find the man I love, waiting for me, just outside, with hope on his face. As he looked at me, he cried like a baby and embraced me...
Today, I'm beautifully dressed again, standing before this man, I know, I love; and without a second thought, when I was asked, if I accept him as my lawfully wedded husband, I said "Yes, I do!".

This Mother's Day..

My mother is undoubtedly the best person I have in my life. I love her immensely and unconditionally, and she knows that well. Sure, I don't wait for such days to tell her how special she is to me and how much I really love her, for I tell her that several times in a day and she's already sick of all of my I love yous. My mother has always been all that I've wanted her to be - a friend, a guide, a philosopher, and all that she already is. She understands me better than any other person in this entire word, and the best part is that she doesn't even wait until I ask her for something, I already have it way before it even clicks my mind.
I am writing this today, not only to thank my mother, but also to convey this little message to all those teenagers and those in their 20s and even 30s, who think that saying 'I love you' to your mothers is lame and embarrassing; trust me, it is not lame, having such a thought is lame.. I'm 20 myself, and I still crawl up to her, give her a hug and also a peck, and tell her how much she really means to me and that I love her. That is exactly what a mother really needs, your love and your concern.
Use today as your excuse, if not tell her but at least write a letter saying how much you really love her, and that will surely make her happy. Don't wait until it's too late already. You're never too old to tell your mother how you feel, tell her that she's important and that she matters to you!
Happy mother's day to all beautiful mommies!

Fountain Pen Fetish.

There was a time, not so long ago, that I was a sane person, too. Then I met someone, who is my teacher; I cannot tell how much she loves fountain pens. She pulls out her fountain pen with so much pride dripping from her face like it's not just a pen but a sword, her weapon. This lit a small bulb of curiosity in my head and I ended up buying a fountain pen myself. Since I was new to using a fountain pen, I didn't really want to invest much, so I purchased a Flair fountain pen. Initially, I had a tough time, trying to get the pen to write smoothly. Soon, I realised that one has to wait patiently for good things to happen, so I kept using the pen, patiently, and gradually my writing got smoother and smoother; and I fell in love. I wouldn't stop writing my name for that was the only thing that I could think of, so I kept writing my name over and over again. After a month or so, I purchased another fountain pen, a Pierre Cardin; this one came with two free cartridges and I had to seek help from the shopkeeper to help me fix the cartridge to the pen, I was clueless. That kind man helped me with fixing it and it seemed so easy. I fell in love, all over again (PS : I fell in love with the pen, and not with the shopkeeper). I kept writing random things, I just couldn't stop myself. I also ended up writing letters to all my teachers and my classmates. Writing so much with the fountain pen made me feel so good and happy. Not much later afterwards, my teacher also rewarded me with a Fellowship fountain pen. The reason why I use the word 'reward' is because she told me that one cannot simply buy a fountain pen, it has to be earned, and that I'd earned the pen that she had given me. She was also kind to fill the ink tank and smoothen the nib so I can get to write without having to struggle in the beginning. With Fellowship, I fell in love, yet again. I kept writing with these pens in turns so I don't miss out on any pen just because I have a new member in the family. I love all my pens equally. Today, I purchased a Parker fountain pen along with black and ruby red inks. I just had to fix the cartridge and in no time, I found that the ink flow was great and the nib was smooth already. Parker is a new member in the family and it managed to fit in so easily. I have fallen in love, already. Now, I am a proud parent of four fountain pens I love equally and immensely. I cannot wait to have more such members in my family, they are all so lovely. All credit goes to my teacher, had she not helped me light that little bulb of curiosity, how would I then know what it feels like to have a fountain pen!