Scrambled

Scrambled

The fertile one has been broken,
its remnants lie splattered-
like the broken morale of a defeated
team and lying in ruins like
the spirit of a broken dream.

The shield, the protective white
has been stripped of its nobility
while the yolk of potential
has been spilled for all to see, to ridicule,
to mourn.

Together, the broken ones have
been mixed into one
indecipherable blob- potential,
youth, fertility all lost in
the heat of a hurried breakfast
pan.

The complexities of
wasted youth, lost potential,
mistaken worth all rendered
helpless in the simple plate
of a hungry man.

 

by Shiksha Dhedha

A Promise, A wish almost.

Sometimes we think we have outgrown something. Sometimes we don't realise how misguided our minds are. Sometimes, we don't realise that our younger selves may have been wiser than our current selves. And so, within those ambiguous statements, I promise to revive the budding dream that was this blog. And hopefully, a small little person I so dearly love, will return as well.

So this is a promise to blog regularly. A promise to myself more than anything. A wish almost.

The Problem is Staying Alive

A hidden gem on campus.

Orange on the Table.

 

They say it exists.

 

 

 

I was on a date with myself.

 

 

 

And then I wasn't any more.

 

Wondering About You

Wondering About You

 

I wondered if I would ever see you again

If your sad eyes would make the same folly

of locking glances with me.

If the wind would caress the darkness

of my gashed face and send messages

of pleading toward your carefree smile.

 

I wondered if all the rhythm in my unsung song

and the beat of my unmoving dance

would still amaze you, even now,

after all this time.

 

I wondered if the white canvas of my heart

would be cleansed of the gold stains

of your dancing emotion. If your tragedy

would illuminate my music ever again.

 

I wondered, under a tree, in the shade of

thought 

sheltered from the brightness of youth, if

I should ever meet you and if I ever will

write poetry about wondering about you

when I wonder about you.

 

By Shiksha Dheda

From my perspective

Yes, I am a romantic.

However much I would like to deny it, I can't.
Which leads me to saying that I'm an optimist.
And as an optimist, I find myself being a photographer( let's use the less professional...I'm a person who takes photographs).

I find myself wondering these days if one can be a photographer without being an optimist, or atleast having an optimistic gene in your body. Essentially, a photographer's job is to find value where others don't. If they don't then there is no point to their job because they wouldn't be documenting a fresh perspective of someone, something and some place.

And I wonder, how is it possible for my bones to be optimistic when my flesh is cynical. I guess it's just a shield. Maybe I find optimists weak. Perhaps my cynical flesh is serving the purpose of protecting my fragile bones. Life stomps on Optimists. I don't like being weak.

I'll leave it there for now. I promise myself to finish it,

He once said...

" The tongue doesn't do much justice to what the heart feels"

We can't forget, We won't forget.

Dear Person ( most likely judgemental or not)

If you see us, women, looking for the answer at the bottom of the bottle or looking for it at the base of the ice cream tub or anything seemingly indulgent; do not judge us. Do not accuse us of trying to forget our problems. Do not accuse us of not dealing with them. I am. I'm dealing; She is dealing; Her problems are being dealt with, okay?

 

the stories, the problems, the arguments, the disappointments

they are etched in our wombs, already

unfortuantely

it is impossible to forget

even if we try to do so

without dealing

the Forgetten Stories will attach themselves

to the belly buttons of our blessed babies

 

I'm not trying to forget; She isn't either.

 

We are merely looking for silent companions as we absorb the true gravity of the matter at hand. And then we shall take up the task of dealing. Well, I can vouch for myself, atleast.

 

So, why won't you become my box of hotwings or tub of ice cream? Why won't you be her bottle of wine or vodka? Why don't you become our comfort _? Why don't you just sit next to her as she digests..cries...as I cry? Why don't you just sit next to me and breathe with me? Perhaps then, I'll show you how I deal.