d4rshii

[d4rshii]

i felt the touch and swirl of air on me,

your voice sounds like a strumming melody,

it's as if a tattoo long due has its ink etched on my skin

it keeps echoing like a prayer or a hymn.

to lay by the balcony a little while longer in the anticipation of seeing the sun, and the sun oh the sun has never ever looked, as bright and radiant as your face, as you,

the sky is setting in blue and hue

and so are you,

the scent of your breath

still lingers like a slow poisonous death.

[d4rshii]

"God?: A Crux"

His father told him the prophecy.

The prophecy that shined of affluence and gold,

And how everything he wanted he'd get once old.

His father planted all the riches,

Told there'll be no life with stitches,

The boy, the small, little boy,

A bundle of joy.

He knew he didnt have to ploy,

His father taught him better,

Sat him down- read him a letter,

All it said was that there's a god

And he will embellish his life anew,

Anything he'd ask

He'd get within a few,

Why to stand in a queue

When God was in his lieu?

The boy so sure fell into the faith,

Constantly in an ecstatic state,

But 13th of April he still remembers the date,

When his father walked towards the heaven's gate.

Shattered, tattered and broken

Where does the lost boy go?

First goes the father and all love

Up next goes his sack of gold to shove,

All his house and surroundings to be sold.

If there was a god, would he be this cold?

Ask the boy to have all his life fold?

This story narrates itself, never left untold.

Where do i go the boy asks and wanders like it's some game.

Whom to blame

the god, himself?

Or the father who made him believe that there ever was one?

[d4rshii]

Presuming hypothetically that the first man to ever exist was Adam, and there was a woman, (Eve) they were created by god. Who's to say god is not a woman? it could also mean that the first man to ever exist was because of a woman , he owes his existence to that same woman who brought him into this world? all tribute to the god or the goddess? Condoning to that could we also for once believe that Eve wasn't naive to be enticed to bite the forbidden fruit? What if, once upon a time, Eve was the only one sensible enough to understand there exists more dimensions to the paradise than where she existed with her lover. It would also mean that a woman was smarter than a man? Could it mean she was not credulous but rather succumbed to a lil wisdom despite the contrary history beliefs of being shown like an angelic symbol of purity and nothing else.

(instance1)

"What are you afraid of my dear?" echoes in the minds of women who've been wronged."Maybe i'm the reason why he is unhappy"says the woman who's been called out for being more powerful than her husband.The fault of Medusa wasn't that Poseidon marked her but rather that she had the capacity to break all the shackles with her truth. Yet history marked Perseus as a hero.When will they learn? whether a witch or a goddess both of them, burn. How long does she have to yearn? for the entire world to learn? that she is a woman first and that's itself is an approbation. There's No doubt, no fear, no apprehension.

(instance2)

Since we've been birthed we've been taught that the most feral qualities exist in us. we're capable of relinquishing wonders. if love, wealth and contentment can be brought by a woman? how's she feeble? the day since i've existed here, i've been taught i am someone who can tame a man, a beast or even a monster, that the divine capacity of being a woman is more than just being poised and strutted, with lips of honey and eyes of submissiveness- [he walks towards her in a dull room and we see the starvation in his eyes as if she's a mural or this divinity he can do nothing but beg to hold. to touch. to desire.]

and in bright sight or moon night she is,

the light.

(instance3)

[d4rshii]

"am i fate?"

a hidden carcass buried into me leaks out like sapphire water out of a vase with cracks. to pretend & pretend & pretend to be this icon while in reality there's hollow skin pores oozing out quite like the black rotten clementines. yes, like every other girl i too cut fresh vegetables till the knife touches a splinter amount of skin only to feel the burn. when you feel the burn you're deafening the cries lunging from your soul.

(scratch that)

constant want to not eat or to eat everything at once. am i anorexic? am i nervosik? like dozens of girls i also bleed out dry of all that the body has consumed or seize every emotion with intensity as if it's a treasured box, waiting to be opened, to be asked, about anything, everything, was the coffee that i had nice? was it me only who sat in the garden at 3am on a random Wednesday? was i loved as a child?

(scratch that)

[internal soliloquy of 2 girls]

am i as pretty as her?

(girl1) why do my bones show?

(girl2) why do my curves show?

why's she so petite why am i what i am? i wish i had an hourglass figure.

why's she so perfectly moulded why am i what i am? i wish i had more definite lines.

(incoherent whisper in unison)-

"i wish i was her, she's flawless."

(scratch that)

[internal soliloquy]

since the age of 3 i think i was fated,

at 6 i was told to be subtle.

at 8 i was taught not to go out after 8.

at 12 i was introduced to cooking 101s.

at 14 i was taught how blood could flow through me and i'd have to be pretend to be okay.

at 16 i was told my angst is just a way to seek attention.

at 18, to be the perfect poised daughter to be put on as a family show piece.

at 20 to just say yes to a guy who seems to be into me.

(scratch that)

(back to now).

i saw her glossy tinted lips, they shone like a jewel, questioning the bitten ,torn, tattered, bruised lips i saw yesterday night?

are you okay? i ask her in my head.

then i look myself in the mirror with the same shiner on my collarbone. and so i refrained.

probably because she's me and i'm her.

or probably because i'm like every other girl in a plethora of hundreds,

waiting to be-

found. sought. touched.

am i destined?

am i destined to conform?

am i fate?

(fated to ache?)

(scratch that)

[d4rshii]

"am i karma?"

i say karma will hit them and wait till the clock strikes midnight. it's the 90th day and things still are how they were left, all the hopes crumpled like an old newspaper. it's late and dark and the clock like every other day strikes 12, all i do is put on a red lipstick,tie my hair into a slick bun, and wear black heels as if they're collars of satan. i plot and plot and plot till i'm exhausted. i pluck the wings that make me this "nirvana" of their perfect kalopsic world.

they compare me to naive little thing like an "innocent lamb" being slaughtered by a bunch of wolves, as much as i agree that's how the world works, i'm not just a novice lil lamb, i'm an alpha dressed in the lamb's clothing. i'm the result of their sins. i exist only to seek probity. even if it's via crooked, wicked means, and so, i pierce their hearts looking them in the eyes because i'm not a senile cicada hating everyone, everything, even their own skin? i'm "kismet" as some call, and from ashes of lost hopes, i rise.

i couldn't take it anymore, like millions out there, all we need is justice and fair-play. so, i dressed up, and became karma because darling atleast one of us HAS TO, and whenever you cannot, don't give up. call out to me with all the dust that lies in you don't let it perish and like a burning fire i shall return. revolution isn't born on days when there's only shades of porcelain and tuscan sun, it is born that one day a girl decides not to lick the salt poured in her wounds and to embark on the tusks of liquorice and carmine, like the fiery orbits of zealots.

[d4rshii]

A letter💌:

I'd like to be a letter someday,

Encapsulated with a lover's, feeling of faith and dismay

I'd like to be a letter someday

Holding the worry of a mother, asking of her son whereabouts who is distant and array.

I'd like to be a letter, someday

Filled with a soldier's wife writing from a distant village, full of sun and hay.

I'd like to be a letter, someday

In me i'd hold the love of a cousin who is distant and astray

I'd like to be a letter someday

A letter that holds the grief of the writer who lost a dear friend and wished he'd stay.

I'd like to be a letter someday

Of a father who longs for his son who turns 12, this May.

I'd like to be a letter someday,

One that he writes to himself to remember who he was when old and grey,

I'd like to be a letter someday,

Oh I'd be in the garden and along wind i'd sway.

[d4rshii]

"war?"

i'm his wife.

i'm pierced, i said,

he threw the glass at me.

yes. he's my husband.

oh- well,

he's scarred too,

yes i threw the vase at him in defiance.

[god, such wasted potential-]

because we're lovers

and we're at war.

but also in love.

but love is war.

[d4rshii]

"what if?"?

what if we were made to love what we hate?

would we be able to seek justice then? what if you were told your whole life was a lie? that,

the filth you despise is actually one of the most beautiful things ever.?

the broken doors,

the muddy roads,

the weed that grows,

or the direction

in which ganga flows?

- how the temples didnt have god in them, but rather in the humans we called "dalits"?

- how a man was never the provider but rather the woman who birthed him, provided him the first drops of liquid gold.

- how having fair skin is a false notion and not the beauty standard and is rather perceived to be offensive, as it competes with the complexion of moon.

- how there's no religion, no caste, no creed only one dictator, for all called "god".

- how all Hindus, all Muslims , all Sikhs bow down to one monarch, that is the- "humankind".

hence, i ask you again.

what if we were made to love what we hate?

what if you were told your whole life was a lie? that,

the filth you despise is actually one of the most beautiful things ever.?

the broken doors,

the muddy roads,

the weed that grows,

or the direction

in which ganga flows?

[d4rshii]

'a modern ballad song'

silently putting on the same playlist as that of your lover's,

putting on some yellow candles

and a tinted lip gloss,

u look at the decaying flowers that are kept in a vase

with the anticipation of maybes?

or a plethora of just in cases?

gloss. photo. gloss.

wine. flashlights. wine.

that's what is wholesome to you.

you believe they'll see how you reminisce over them w one photo of yours.

that's what a modern ballad is.

to put on pictures with the coherent thoughts of them in the presumption of the love that's there in today's time.

"love"?

[d4rshii]

An elegy to “us”

the rain is here.

i wish you were too.

the novel that you left with me,

still smells like you.

the pressed flowers,

reminisce over the elegy of “us”.

your sweater,

reminds me the warmth of your skin on mine.

the yellow radiance by the windowsill

that marked your presence

now just brings me ominous despair.

how my heart stumbled

whispering your name

yet you ran away

as always

just the same.

the letters you wrote;

are damp and moist,

of the longing, the yearning, the aching.

the rain is here

and it’s been here since quite a while.

yet, there’s no sign of you.

[d4rshii]

"just another daughter",

there lived a girl , happily.

the beloved princess,

her father,

the king loved her dearly,

she had

charm, beauty, the perfect curves,

one day,

her father taught her horse riding ,

she balanced wonderfully

her attire, her charm ,her looks, her stature,

until she couldn't.

disasters & scandals happen,

and there was one,

she fell.

she fell,

down from the horse,

and all she could do was

pick herself up and dust herself off

as she bled.

with a huge scar on her face

she bled bad.

her father, the king, helped her be still

did'nt bother asking if she was okay?

rather called for a doctor because princesses don't have scars!

they're "divine beings"

devoid of any spot on their faces

yes,

that's what

princesses are.

[d4rshii]

A body:

tread with yours ,lightly.

compare it to that of a fresh paper,

no piece of paper can always be in the perfect shape.

can it?

it's fresh, it's new and it's mortal.

so is your body.

hence,tread with it lightly

the more you crumple the paper,

the more the chances are that it'll tear,

don't strain your body,

the more you do ,the more it'll break

give it time,

give it space.

let it hurt.

let it breathe.

let it heal.

[d4rshii]

"The prodigal son":

the return of the prodigal son.

in that same lousy little shack shire

all eyes on him.

the town whispers-

"who’d he save?"

his mother with swollen, purple eyes?

or her husband ,the brute who likes the stench of blood?

would he become just another prophecy and walk on his father’s footsteps?and paint the town red.

or

become his own tragedy?

and kill the tiniest morsel of his mother that resides in him.

he hears people talk,

everywhere he goes he can see them stalk.

i see him escape.

he said he's never wearing a cape,

hence all he does is RUN ,

keeping the damage unDONE.

and there, he dissipates all over again.

"gone with the wind"

is what the town and i say.

[d4rshii]

One should take pride in being able to give voice to his own thoughts.

i was 17 ,

broken and shattered

figuring out the world i have to live in.

despair and confusion were the prime forces that -

snatched my voice and wrecked it.

the world is pure when you’re naive

but when the rose tinted lenses are taken away ,you see the moral grays you realise how wretched the world is.

my voices felt more like demons in my head.

that was the beginning,

till anxiety and panic spread.

Is this where my life is to be lead?

To live in constant dread?

Littlest amounts of work take a toll

That’s how days seem to roll

Heart that constantly palpitates

Incessant whisper that never dissipates.

Dozens of thoughts that run my mind

one supreme that,

I’ll run out of time.

The plague, had begun then.

and it’s still not gone .

Maybe that’s why my voice hasn’t yet come back.

Neither has my courage.

Nor has the feeling of being 10 and silly again.

but it’s alright.

maybe in a year the meek sound that comes out of my throat will grow.

The trembling hands will stand still.

And there’ll be a voice very shrill.

[d4rshii]

father?

i call out.

i search everywhere. i scream, into oblivion

i break the wine glass that's held in my hand with a diamond ring attached to my left hand that i throw to the ground. because infidelity, does nothing but break faith.

i cuss,

i break all the fancy china dishes and throw my heels and smudge the red lipstick off my face. because one red bruise

does nothing but break and cut a woman.

i say it in my head. i search for you.

over and over again i try to find you.

yet i never do.

the only thing i can hear is, that ECHO. i try to find my mother..asking if everything's alright? to later realise the echo was nobody else's but my mother's.

there again, clenching my fists

i sit on the basement floor while blood pours down my thighs.

in that moment,

i’m numb yet, alive.

[d4rshii]

it must be 4 there.

it’s just midnoon whilst i think of you

the sun is out and all i want,

is to smoke a cigarette on the terrace and think of you.

i ache for you how Portia pined for Bassanio,

i think of how the tip of your hands would linger on my skin when i’d show you the inkling i’d gotten. how you’d ask me if the needle hurt me?

i worry how the new city, the new country, will make you drift further apart, it took you 5 months as is, to let me know my heart isn’t unrequited.

i long for you the way Kafka craved Milena.

i ask you today, w what’s left in me.

why didn’t you choose both? why reach out now?

after all the hope’s gone and how?

“A promise to return in time to find”- said you.

all these years that I kept loosing my mind 4 you.

[d4rshii]

just another small town girl.

belittled little girl,

tamed in the same horror town.

she'll always, always, spite the filth she had been brought up.

abandoning everything and building an empire? HOW, i ask?

doesn't realise if she did leave. who'll she be?

who she is, what she's to become, what she's to offer are all perfunctory thoughts.

she says she's better

she says she's got a sparkle the other girls in her town didn't.

all's well

all's okay

until she defies her religion. she thinks she's the god and

that she's been writing her fate all along.

yet it takes just a second a minor second,

for god to bring her back to reality and think of the mansions she saw as the dream she'd been longing all her life.

and.

there she is,

waking up in the same sloppy town.

her fate being written.

by our messiah.