My fingers tasted the kerosene
The smell dripped inside the head, my mouth,
Silent as the evening sound knocked my ears
Whispers, voices, noises,
From houses and forests
Grandma’s wrinkles smiles
Her every breath,
Slowly vaporizes the glass
A piece of cloth, my little hands to wipe,
The evening pushed
the sun beneath the horizon
And Mumma pulled
the metal hook to fit the glass in its frame,
A match she striked on the surface
And ignited each wick,
In each room she placed them
5,6,..8,9… we assisted…
Time’s smooth waves has surfaced us
To-a-day of artificiality, electricity
Even the walls of our home or the air outside is chained up in wires,
Still the crinkling sound is heard
Sometimes from antiquity,
9,8…6,5 erased and left with 2 or 1
May be only one
Only one lantern old and anchored in my grandma’s room.
It is impossible to tell how my journey or your journey was starting from the 1st January 2018. It was an incredible journey of love, happiness, loss and sorrow. And when someone asks you. How was your 2018? We end up saying, “It was good”. We hardly describe the tumultuous ride we had for 365 1/4th days. The long hours we spent sleeping, working, eating, running, laughing and even crying. But we are the same person yet changed in so many ways. Shed are those shells we wore in that old year. And today standing on the threshold, we all are about to do the same. Who would have thought that my year would be like this or like that. And so many hopes and aspirations are seeded on the floor and we wait for their germination. Patience……
I have learnt so many things. Yes so many things. New experiences, new faces, new phases to become history and in my case his-story to her-story, my story.
The experience of teaching was by far the best. For the whole year I mothered myself. I became my mother for the whole year. And I certainly think I passed….
From waking up early in the morning, preparing breakfast and lunch; washing clothes to doing dishes, taking medicines at home to visiting doctors in the clinic; Carrying myself dressed as a teacher, helping myself sometimes with Kohl pencil or with some coloured lipstick to look mature. Getting on the school bus that took a long ride of like 45 mins to reach the school which now was my workplace and second home to the students, learning new things every single day.
The most tough part was when I was given the responsibility of class 8. The first time I entered the class, every one was silent even the wall. I could see few girls and boys all at around the age of 13-14. It was a tough task to be dealing with adolescents, I knew. I then began with my introduction and asked them to follow the same. Everyone looked shy and awkward, except the fact that they smiled looking at my face. Residing in North Bengal, with different features and colours than the majority of people in this region, students even asked me if I was a Chinese. I smiled and said, “I am from Darjeeling” and they understood immediately. It didn’t take much time to adjust their language with mine. They smiled till the class ended, even uttered some Nepali words.
Time passes and it passed, who can held Time’s running hand. Who can chase her everyday, who can meet her everyday. And Time yes it flies changing every constant thing.
With Time we became comfortable in the presence of each other in one single room. Change was constant except the walls that stared at us. I teaching, them listening, I scolding, them laughing, I uttering, them silent yet thinking. Sometimes they created nonsensical jokes, sometimes the same faces looked dull, something untold. I was strict especially with the boys. Still I opened the doors of my ears to listen to their unsung, unheard stories, giving suggestions when necessary.
They learned from me and I learnt from them. I noticed that the world was a galaxy of storytellers. I noticed the world was a little I and a big them. I noticed that I was just a small tiny fish with flesh and net caging around me, with big and large ‘Whale’ of stories swirling and waving around me, many of them decaying under the weight of brown dry mud, pebbles, bushes and trees, departing from the connections they built so far when the breathed. I wish if this snowy winter could freeze the year forever or even the infinite time, but no, it can’t… And surely we do not want the same season to cast it’s magic forever, because our genes are accustomed to the constant change, mutability, mortality, so on and so forth.
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind”. So with stream of memories knitted beautifully, not only me but everyone will be bidding FAREWELL to the year 2018 whose FAIR- WHALE of stories and storytellers somewhat modified and mutated our growth.
It was like the same old days repeating it’s same usual speed, and I woke up tired to cross a path inch to reach the door leading to my bathroom. The sun slowly began to smile, as if she was playing a game of hide and seek, 12 hours a day and 12 hours a night. She blushed and turned the clouds nearby her, all red and scarlet, slowly trying to open her eyes, still filled with the softness she had left with….
Every eye is a mystery
Every eye has a creative fantasy
Every eye has created its journey
Sometimes fictional, sometimes a liar
Every eye has its deleted story
To walk, to work,
To talk, to learn,
Mobile and laptops
Tablets or iphones
Eyes, poor little eyes
Spectacles or lens
Until it reaches its expiry date
She remains blinded
“Beware of Dogs”
No, I am not afraid of them
Nor with the barking dogs
In the street
I am afraid
For the flowers
Blooming in every house
Flowers still inside that
So today I throw out the board
Hanging outside my house
Where it’s written
“Beware of Dogs”…
Instead I put another one
And I write with my blood
Beware of the Mask they wear because
They do not say, “you are such a sweet little girl when they Rape.”
They do not care about your age or your sweet innocent smile
Because they are a carnivore with a human dress
All they want is
To feed upon your flesh
So I shout
Just be Aware
Less of animals
More of the humans
Walking by your way.
“I just want to end this write up with a short prayer. Dear God don’t put away your eyes from the little gems on the earth. Please, keep them under your safe shadow. May they always bloom safely in each home….”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/bestow/
A bra that tortures and imprison my chest
A bra necessary to provide a shape.
I wear a bra that focuses my feminity ,my cleavage
A bra that locks the first layer of a female skin
A bra that channelises a mother’s love to every child after birth…..
But I wear a bra that has suffered every dark roads, sometimes inside the safe home
Yes! We wear a bra that they wish to unlock.
A bra that dresses but undress their lustful thoughts
A a bra that is critical
A bra that is censorious
I had once thought
Of giving farewell to my bra
That asked me not to step outside the women’s room….
Today the same body accepts my bra affectionately
A bra that is well experience, understanding patriarchy and the female strength,
A bra that confirms the vital difference
A bra that affirms the existence of a womb, its significance
A bra that defines our sexuality
A bra that illustrates our individuality
Do you know?
That inside me rests a chaos
Like a galaxy in the space
Like the diverse species of plants on earth
Co-existing without a battle for soil, religion or race..
It is there like the varied words weaving to produce a melody
The chaos rests deep down inside my skin
Like the million atoms present but invisible
to the sinful eyes….
But do not panic
They are at rest
And at perfect peace.
Thank you all for taking time to read my poetry.
The clay in me
Is still soft
The air so easily
Gently whispers through it
I am still inside that grindle and pestle
small pebbles are on their way to be fine…
The morning breeze
Or that morning dew
Has their big or small task to do
They still have a little more to give
To me and to the rest of humanity…
I am a plant
I am a species
I am an animal
I am a human,
still more to work
I am an unshaped pottery
I am an unshaped poetry
still in an artist’s hand,
Young and dwelling outside
my mother’s womb
With the composition of colours
Yes, I am
still an unborn art
I am yet to be born
The dawn is yet to come.
Took me half an hour, to compose this one. And this becomes one of my favourite. I don’t know why but I just loved my own poem. Please comment and share your thoughts. Thank you for reading my works.
I have locked my
Arms in your arms
My hands in your hand
My eyes in your eyes
My heart in your heart
I have chained
Myself into you
What was lost inside me
I have locked
Even my soul
We are but one
We give out
The same fragrance
And with you
I find my freedom……. ©lil_timeandreflections