Thoughts to Words

You teach me the alphabetical order and judge me by my rank order, You teach me the value of money and judge me by my bank balance, You teach me how to look fair and judge me by my complexion, You teach me to compete and judge my potential by comparing my success rate to thy neighbour's children, You teach me to marry someone who is at par with our family's status and judge him by his surname and socioeconomic prominence. Then one fine day during an eclipse, you tell me all of this doesn't matter... doesn't matter really?  You tell me the most important thing is to be a good human being, You tell me and I passively listen because you have been teaching me to function accordingly, but is it not too late to teach me the most valuable lesson? ©songbriti

The malady of a peanut fried in hot sand, blanching her papery voice, ashes redden into blackness and darken, more dawns die out, all the dead are not lucky to live, the guard of honour salutes not to all the martyrs, mute are the seeds of democracy tucked into low blue flames, burning to a cinder  how can fire brigades sniff danger? emergency shouldn't be quiet after all, to be heard helplessness has to shout and loud makeup is the attire. Pardon my interference, I interpret for you an open secret, slow poisoning was never noisy but it brazenly kills in daylight, 'tis one of thirteen murder hacks the phoneix is clueless about. ©songbriti

What is poetry but the art you make out of your pain, our pain, their pain, its pain. You move mountains to Jupiter, you pull out a treehouse from a broken leaf and hide it beneath the sea, you trap a mermaid in an aquarium, you scoop out a wine flavoured cheese from the eyes of demons, you pour the sand from the timer on the roulette wheel and draw a snoozing hen on it. You do the done, you do the undone, you undo the done. A rotational metaphor in the axis of your quill becomes a revolution for the child who could not protest against the infiltration of her safety because she was too young to understand what fight or flight was and therefore she froze that leap year, because the farmer who jumps into death from a tower of debts was denied the very fruits he had sown with his blood and sweat, because the dancer who was a natural is an engineer in a multinational company, because water is drowning in thirst and pollution is not even one third bothered, because the unsung volunteer air

Wraith seasoned on cirrus, like a rhapsody of white frills, swinging in an apple orchard, a pashmina shawl  she dons on her silvery arms, deciduous woodcarvings  shedding blood  in bitterly sweet valleys, falling off maturity even when autumn invites spring, curfews clotting homes, stench gunpowder grafitti art  sprayed in the line of control, shikaras and willows limping in steep gullies, a gleaming telescope sky-watching, faint sounds  heard coming from a lake, 'my moon is red my moon is pale my moon is battered  ahoy religion ahoy religion ahoy religion crossfires are offered to preach thy eminence and my prayers deafened.' ©songbriti

Dear Aman, When your heart was secretly hoping that time would not race against it but hold your hands like a friend who is true, I cried and felt helpless as you battled the terminal illness feeding on your health, the helplessness was making me angry. When you asked me to give love another chance I promised you I would but I kept my fingers crossed at first. Love was not the problem you see, losing the one you love was. Then when I saw you seizing your days even before the sun could rise and walking through life with so much love that sunsets were more hopeful than they could ever be, you somehow persuaded me to keep my promise. I still have my fears but my hopes are stronger and can win over them. Your translation of Carpe diem will always be my favourite and no one can replace it. I could have written this letter to you over the weekend but I pulled out a pen and paper right away because I am not sure if... Kal ho na ho. Lots of love, Songbriti

Amuse me dear muse, craft the spearmint muddled in my mojito, lure my quill mermaiding in Collins reef highball castles, serve cetacean cubes, a chilled classic open mic on the rocks, the rendition is on poetry. ©songbriti

Gracious Aquamarine in a sapphire gown, doing her grand jeté for a tropical concert, leaping in confidence, gliding theatrically, sweeping sailors off their feet. A canoe of wild roses perfumes the Pacific, a shaft of lunar light placed on it, an instrumental fusion by a harp and a piano, a ganache on the mise en scène. El Arco cheering for his soulmate, a young canary reads the narrative and romantic idioms in crests and troughs, a beach lover comes running home. ©songbriti

Skylines a bracelet of fairy lights. Skylines a ribbon of satin nooses. Skylines a pond of winking weekends. Skylines a diary of salary slips. Skylines a matchmaker of crony capitalism. Skylines a sanctuary of groomed rats. Skylines a firework of dwindling dreams. ©songbriti

The notes and letters you wrote to me, I still have them. I could never seem to question them because in those minutes of truth I knew you were not a lie. You are busy and busy is a tranquilizer that has been fooling me with a seductive rationalism and keeping all my logically stirred doubts in the closet. Then I spot you crossing a road on a Friday afternoon in this funny small world. You wave at me and call out my name. The smile you have is flushed with a face value of excitement. A bus arrives, I get into it before I forget where I am headed to. In between the notes and letters you wrote there is a chit about benefit of the doubt and I want you keep it. ©songbriti

Crammed messages on my fingertips, loitering in the steel railings. Patches of asynchronous music by trees freewheeling to please the stormy winter, insinuating midnight's solo gig. When two rough surfaces meet and greet, the settlement is amicable. A handpicked ambience to barbecue the excreta. Un-effing the eff ups after the fire is put out. A pact having conspicuous weightage but the heated leftover is a pokerface and can launch an asteroid to pay homage to the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park. Inadvertent disclosures auctioning the queerness of an outrage to craters. Bidders with salt and bidders with freshwater. The highest bid is...? ©songbriti

An incantation she muttered, in the cathedral, the temple, the mosque, the synagogue, the gurudwara and the monastery. World peace around the globe, prayers are answered, but instant messages are a no no in heaven, the Creator has blessed us, to help ourselves, faithfulness has eyes, humanity it practises, blind followers of hate, in religion's name, helping hands of kindness, rescue these prisoners, walk them to light, redemption is at the doorway, nature takes its course, a stream of rainbow, feeds colours of respect and love to tunnels of darkness. ©songbriti

The replica of a collar necklace in red was neatly placed on her slender neck before it rolled down like decadent cherry syrup. Her monologue came to a standstill. The onomatopoeia of her screaming was quitened by a glass with a pointed edge. Edges have a finishing line, her body fell on the floor and those warm palms were getting colder and colder. Her eyes were open in shock and her lips slightly parted. Her last word was "aarghhhh" even though she had the potential of doing much better than that. I closed her eyes and packaged her in a plastic larger than her size. She was ready for delivery, I put her into the freezer and ran to the bathroom. I retched up a thick tributary of vomit. I washed my face, scrubbed my hands...washed my face... repetitively. It was my first murder without a plan. She had done no harm to me. Why did I then kill her? I was guilty but "Sorry cannot make a dead man alive", hence an apology was not required. Guilt is disposable. Satan wa

A friend is home, the golden sunshine during your Monday blues, a friend is home, the pillars holding you, in the cry tucked inside springs of laughter, a friend is home, the warmth giving you a hug, in winters spent on alien lands, a friend is home, the soil empowering the strength in your roots, fallen leaves leave, a friend is home, home travels with you. ©songbriti

Life is too short to be demeaned by toxic positivity, cut me some slack because when there is a real problem with my mental health I take the responsibility to heal myself by addressing the illness first. Optimism is in the rulebook and a part of my routine too but the idea is not to exploit its usage by bombarding one-liners to shoo away the acknowledgement of the wound. Seeking help to lead a healthier life (physically, mentally and spiritually) is a human right. On humanitarian grounds, be kind and patient to LISTEN because off late good listeners are missing in action. ©songbriti

You ever felt out of breath? Multiply this feeling with infinity and that is literally how it feels when I cannot write. Pale, a feeling so colourless. My words are turning pale and the odds are not in my favour. I want to be able to write about the tangerine sky and about the white orchids calling out to me from the hills I grew up in. I want to able to sketch my heartbreak into a poem that dissects my tears into metaphors explaining the anatomy of pain. I want to be able to write the lyrics for the melody in a child's innocent eyes, a farmer's hard work, a soldier's day with her family, a friend's jokes...the list goes on. I can laugh, I can cry, I can do all of that in neat shots distilled like the water in Victoria Falls but the inability to write pushes my universe into a black hole. It does not end there, when I force words on paper it turns into a futile rhetoric with superficial aroma and this artificiality is harmful for my health, I feel sick when I get down

Old Monk is the happiness I would sell my Ferrari for...not in cash but in kind... it is the obvious yeah, revise it. Exchanging my luxury for a responsible addiction. Put your hands together for the liquor that makes love to my trips and sends signals of ecstasy into my blood. Why be anonymous and hide your kind of high? Politically incorrect is the black I comfortably fit into. Flying to Europe or Mars could cost me my kidneys, chugging that rum under a sky where stars couldn't care less about me is slow poisoning my liver but I am on cloud nine, a fair amount to pay for the experience. Stars are 'bling bling' in appearance and the shine they display is moral policing. Granny's is up there as one of them and she would have questioned her parenting skills if I offered to high five my glass with hers over pegs playing piano in my head. Piano, drums, guitar (acoustic) doing a salsa. Group salsa, team assignments... Hdkksssgfjrrllrlsvdbmd. Kskskslaejdsndhkjsksksllsllsl

Stapled between documents, a dissatisfied husband, a tired wife, a confused child being juggled, sacrifices and ego clashes, poorly constructed brickworks bringing down false ceilings, adjustments renovated. The bed is comfortable with roses, extramarital affairs are getaways, look at this truth as finding a home away from home? failed marriages are devastated boats, what can you do with ruins anyway? why be an anchor to drowning? a marriage is a relationship, a relationship is not a noose, seven knots, three trials, what next... fire to pyre? paying a debt for an assumed asset turned liability? ©songbriti

Light up a star for me, burn me in its lap, a wannabe phoenix, a parody of disasters, dimes on my corpse, snowing in acres, acres of space, gaze after gaze, peddling sunny nights, the dead moon, pulls in all of me, in grasses having a darker side. ©songbriti

Echoes of pearls, crab's noose, sharks lined up, a cruise wrecked, iceberg drinks scotch, the seabed swings, unkempt stories, settle on the shores, dispersed dandelions, sing a folklore, thunderbolt jamming, drums of heaven? ©songbriti

Admiration costs a fortune. I stalked her, kidnapped her and when I broke her I arranged a pitcher to keep all of her in frozen cubes. I was better off as a loner. She shouldn't have been a trespasser, bringing out the obsession in my fangs. The sea is my land and the lighthouse is my private jet. Salt water tastes of fire when I throw a part of her into it. I love the winter peeping through her helplessness. She sweats like bold wine and I loot the barrel to make her mine. When a bunch of halfwits came to look for her, my hell trained dog had a good dinner. Their meat was light and healthy. Nutrition is a must for loyalty. A good person, a bad person... binaries were rotting, ergo the trash is in the dump. The sky is a pimp and the offers he puts forth are tempting but her flawless beauty is not for sale. ©songbriti

Left stranded in scarcity, delving deeper, rocks searing, muddy hands, muscles bearing fatigue, regrets bloating, spades calling out acts of ignorance, faucets warning alarmingly, generations at risk. Harvest mindfulness, preserve raindrops, planet Earth in crisis. ©songbriti

The desert’s sunny sky stretched the Monday blues grounding it to the pores of the sand. Sparse vegetation crawling back into the soil in withered avatars folding hands to plead for space in their motherland. A man in his maroon turban, white robe and boots made with crepe rubber soles and leather to protect his feet from the heat paid a visit to this low spirited place. From his left arm hung the handle of his bag that was sack like and a tad bit dusty in nature. Trampling the sand with confusion from head to toe and chewing the nail on his right thumb till the skin beneath reddened he took multiple strides but within a range of few metres. A dandelion appeared as snow in the blazing sun and asked, “What brings you here Sir?” The man shared that he was sent to the desert by his King in search of a cactus. He was tensed because there was no sign of monsoon and feared being punished by the King if he went back empty handed. The man decided not to give up and put his patience to wres

Scalding tea, proceeding apace, mint absorbed evenly. Sparrows chirping in unison, porcelain skies saluting commandos. Black roses bracing candour; veneration an earning negating outworn customs. Cleopatra's handpicked gems, marching on in one direction, sharpened arrowheads reciting the Iliad of anti-war. ©songbriti

"Emotional pain lasts for 10 to 20 minutes, anything longer is actually self inflicted by over thinking, making things worse." This "psychological fact" was posted by a social media page yesterday. You may correct me if the fact is mentioned in any reputed journal related to mental health. I would then happily accept my fault and apologise to you. Talking about Overthinking and its relation to mental illness, is it so hard to understand that no survivor of a mental illness wants to overthink deliberately. Mental illnesses like anxiety disorders have symptoms such as excessive worrying and according to the National Institute of Mental Health (which is a reliable, valid and renowned source) it is a fact that the risk factors of this includes both genetic and environmental factors. It would be great if self proclaimed psychologists/psychiatrists/counsellors on social media understand that mental illnesses like Depression, Anxiety and Phobias are not self-inflicted.

The month of Mental Health Awareness came to an end last week. Putting your alarm on snooze after this? Please don't. This is a movement with a global welfare perspective and it needs your support to grow. The awareness campaigns on mental health and mental illnesses by various organisations both on and off social media reached out to a section of the population which is great but reaching out to every human being is the larger objective. The baby steps we take now are the roots of the foundation for tomorrow. Understanding the person next to you, encouraging emotional hygiene, sharing your awareness with fellow citizens, normalising mental healthcare services is a few starters we need to work on. When winter is the season in town, you wear warm clothes to protect yourself from catching a cold. Agree? Winters will come and go but mental health is not seasonal, it is a permanent part of our lives. The month of May is the ship which will be back next year but...O Captain! My Captain!

Wilful shots fired, highest bid in town, acrimony defending, summer of cold shoulders. Plated trophies, stocking up on consolation; idée fixe— indigestion of chest-thumping. Masterstroke of wisdom, picked to counteract. Silence in a Smile, a creature of choice. Patronizing a victory, nixed by visionary, ad interim— hip hip hooray. ©songbriti

All these social media posts which confidently begin with 'Psychology says...' and then state some directional or non directional hypothetical statements on a wide range of variables like love, relationships, human nature, etc what is up with your ethical consideration? Imagine if Psychology could file a defamation case against you? Social media is gaga over filters then why are you hesitant to filter out the incorrect information before betting for likes and comments? I understand not everything on social media is to be taken seriously but the growing influence of social media is a reason enough to be concerned. What is seen, heard and spoken on this platform has a tremendous impact on young minds. If Psychology really interests you, you must be cognizant of the fact that it is a science. A science, yes you read that right. Creative liberty is the gateway to innovation but misusing the name of a science to make-believe myths and stereotypes is like producing a malicious vi

For a writer, life is an art in the gallery of papers and pens dipped in experiences, spilling inspiration on Earth to peacefully free what has been put to rest, to care about what is worthwhile in the present and to accept the uncertainty of the future but believe in dreams. 'Life is a muse' thinks a writer but she is the muse of life. ©songbriti

"Cold grass blue tea." Disorganisation has its own way of defining things. The floor is having a blast of pastry cream and confetti. It is her birthday, I was ordered to celebrate it. Alexa, my virtual assistant reminds me that I have an appointment at 4pm. A bottle of water is ready on my bedside table and a clozapine. "Whispers of Immortality." Reading books used to be my favourite pastime, not anymore.The last book I read is in the store room, fighting for its life as the worms have begun their coursework. I push myself to the right corner of the bed after she declares she needs more space. Adjusting to her orders is not a choice. "How are you feeling today?" "I am surviving." The session ends after an hour and I leave Dr. Mehta's cabin with a smile. If you think, all the sessions have a happy ending, I must tell you that my battle is not plotted in Fantasyland. There are days when I cry out loud while describing how she scares me

Democracy, Kicked to the right, then to the left, scoring penalties for voicing opinions, before it is thrown off the centre stage, politics has an accidental of humour, and a paradoxical phobia for speech, rallies where speeches have added preservatives, failing to cover up the leaking corruption after the dicey win, what NOTA are you talking about? when all of the above is indulged in booth rigging? scapegoats slaughtered in the name of religion, quotas reserved for violence, even after colonialism was pushed out, the Economist Intelligence Unit headquartered in London, takes the honour to inform the world, the India they ruled for 200 years has successfully carried forward their authentic teachings of divide and rule, to be recognised globally as a flawed democracy.

At granny’s house last summer, she shared how she missed her ancestral home, the tree in her neighbourhood with star apples, where she often met grandpa, he was caught stealing her heart there. Clay models she sculpted, depicted invincibility! the cub on the mother's lap, in the showcase, they belong to mom, it is her birthday gift, but they are my friends and good listeners too. Granny-The Michelangelo of our family. Education in India bunked the classes on renaissance, even after 1947, judge me not you grin of hypocrisy, are Sahifa Banu and Amrita Sher-Gil alive? Artists are supposed to be eternal but do textbooks in school teach gender neutrality? Her almirah had pure white sarees, red and purple were her favourites. Regressive mentality, kept in Pandora's box during Dussehra and Holika Dahan? Granny would sit by my side; a cup of ginger tea, the setting sun, all her attention on my stories. I would tell her… how efficiently I enacted the rol

I can't bring the moon for you, but I can be your northern star, whenever you feel lost, I promise to stand by you, and light the way, you decide to walk on. ©songbriti

Words are interesting. I place them one after the other in the most convincing way to make you fall for them. A creature tucked inside a comforting blanket, a cup of bed tea will suffice as a bribe for you. I play my instrument of truth effortlessly and I make you the flag bearer of it. While you scream slogans of my bravery, I laugh at your half-grown sensibility. Pawns don't verify the lie because the luxury of truth can cost them their lives. ©songbriti

* I am not a machine which can generate motivation 24X7. I have my own share of emotional breakdowns. Please understand that this however does not affect my responsibilities towards my clients because as a part of my training process I do learn how to deal with my professional life without letting my personal life step into its shoes. * I am not Google. I do not have the solutions to your problems and even if I do have an opinion in my mind, I will never impose my thoughts or opinions on you. As a psychologist, I will always help you help yourself but not spoon feed you with answers. * It takes me by surprise when people say that mental illnesses are a luxury! Are you even listening to yourself? You are calling an illness a luxury? Should I empathize with your ignorance? Actually do me a favour, drop in a message about your ignorance, I will help you gain some awareness and don't worry I won't charge you a penny for it. * It takes years of hardwork to become a psychologist l

The crows were my alarm clock that morning. Not to wake me up but to tuck my mind under high amplitude delta waves as my body turned to the left side of the bed and then to the right and it didn't end there. The night had slyly escaped without being answerable to Karma for sedating my room with darkness. She dropped in through the window which was slightly open to let the toxicity pour out of the room. Cigarettes don't smell good but they lure you to spend dim nights with them anyway. She flew in with her glass like wings, wings which had a legacy of 300 million years. I was bewildered by the way she remained so poised. Could I possibly tell her about how the cat in the neighborhood carried the dead meat in his mouth and then hurried to a corner with an intention of self-preservation? It wasn't a murder, it was survival of the fittest. While coming here did she notice the barbed wire where the pink flowers were held hostage? Did she care to understand how they have been pr

Making a conscious choice and calling it a mistake does not justify disloyalty. When you ask for forgiveness, it is a responsibility you willingly take because you regret what you did. You could be forgiven, you could be forgotten or you could be both forgiven and forgotten. The want in you to be given a second chance to set things right is a part of the process. You say you have been trying hard for years and now you are tired of being sorry. Tired of being sorry, really? The apology is not a favour you are doing, it is again a conscious choice you made but the tiredness you claim to have has drained out all the efforts you made to be forgiven. ©songbriti

Welding conflicts but failing, Repeating actions, Irritable bowel movements, Tattered storyline, Err at the cost of being human, Resurrection an option considered, Supper with bites of crumbs. Bruised latches, Lackadaisical eyehole, Old wood in dampness, Confetti and ointments, Keyless and shifting heavens. ©songbriti

Type type type, Type to get away, Type to reflect, Type to confess sins, Type to bathe in solace, Type to kiss individuality, Type to build an empire, Type to fall down, Type to grow up, Type to gamble, Type to question, Type to undo, Ctrl...alt...delete... Type type type, Endgame still loading. ©songbriti

You gift me chocolates, not always, it's only once in a month and sometimes twice. How humble are you? "May I?" You ask me and command chivalry, as if my consent really matters. The walls in the room have turned colourless, the bedsheet hasn't been changed for days, sleeping on dirt is a part of the business. I vomit the chocolate and wash off your sweat from my body. It has been a long day. The last man enters my room, he does not bother to pretend, he pulls my hair, throws himself upon my flesh, "Fucking whore. Be my slave." Biting every inch of my self-esteem, he smokes a cigarette after his erection is put to rest, he picks up his phone, "I'll be there in an hour darling." I talk no more, I hear no more, I see no more, the unfinished bottle of alcohol, a tip for my satisfactory service. ©songbriti

A beam of passion, shines through demure clouds between your lips, in a cherry blossom lusciously tied to spring. A petrichor of desires walk down my heart, resembling the sun blushing in his golden tuxedo, when the moon smiles on a crescent night. The aura of your touch owned by insatiable wanderlust, reaches the periphery of my eyelashes; in a blink it is at the centre of my being, making love to me in the mystic gravity. A thunder is heard, lust laughs hysterically on its throne, all moments undone, a paradox lives to surprise. ©songbriti

Dear Temporary, I see you standing on a pedestal with an hourglass covering the nudity of your inconsistency. The sand is smudged all over you with fine particles giving out miniature forms of what is apparently perceived to be in control and how it will dissolve into the sphere of nothingness as the Earth orbits the Sun complaining about the loss of equilibrium humans have in their lives due to their probable stupidity of leaning on expectations that will collapse sooner than a rainbow is lost to sight. I hate to admit that although you come with a cautionary tattoo on your forehead, I cannot accept you for who you are. Why do you have to be so despicable by reminding me of your iffy trait? Whenever I sense your touch upon my relationships I run away without giving closure to any of them. I run so fast that when I stop I do not even feel that anything ever existed in the first place. “Out of sight is out of mind.” Is it really so? The fear of loss terrifies me so bad that I push re

I tremble when I see you around me. How do I control my bodily reactions? The language it speaks is louder than any metaphor present in my poetry. I offer you a glass of juice with two cubes of ice melting like a glacier into an ocean where the setting sun consumes some transparency to fill in the spaces of deficiency. My palms need to stop fidgeting, but they continue to play some kind of a weird game with a fork. The fingers on my toes are seemingly mocking a parade by moving back and forth. Fifteen minutes later... I keep the fork back in its place and lift up a knife instead. Without a second thought, I thrust the knife through the Adam's apple in your neck and push it furthermore with the strength accumulated in my mind and my fist. A tributary of ichor spurts out of its redness all over the white shirt you are wearing. Bloodied and dead, your eyes are wide open and I see a creature with eight legs approaching towards your face. "Thank you for the juice." I sm

"Am I normal?" Mmmm..."Are you normal?" Validation, yeah? In a world where the number of fucks traded between two or more individuals is directly proportional to the profits obtained by them, what are you searching for again? Just a second, I have a burning sensation in my throat which is running a marathon till my gut. Munched on some homegrown chillies before I got here, a form of rawness and amateurish language flows out of my tongue and damn, I have not been taking those pills of euphemism. Anyway, you were asking… "Am I normal?" Mmmm…"Are you normal?" Fighting a battle in silence for years, switching between laughter in the daylight and sleeping on tear stained pillows with eyes staring at the ceiling blankly till the sun says "knock knock"… In a society where stigmatizing mental illness and chanting slogans of "Oh it is all in your mind" is not questioned and left to brew ignorance and insensitivity, You

Because you wipe the tears behind the jargon of my smile. Because you bring down the walls of detachment around me. Because you feed my soul with motivation when I have an emotional breakdown. Because you effortlessly join the pieces I have broken. Because you organically stand by my side even when the universe goes upside down. Because you are the eternity fireflies whisper about. Because I believe God lives in humans. Because I need not search for a 'because' to let you know I feel blessed to have you in my life. ©songbriti

The last drop of ink, nipped in the cliffhangers, moored is a barque, flummoxed by knots, longing to sail, and tap its feet, perform a ballet, on the rendezvous of winds and waves counting pearls of possibilities, cocooned in shells, counting stars nested on the seabed. ©songbriti

A static larval, dehydrated with arguments: heated and baseless, considering progress? not even under-construction. Period. A prude ornamented, with objections and opinions, leaning on dual standards, creeping out of a narrow sewage. Sewage: a tribute to intolerance, not a hyperbolic statement. Period. The clock of your intellect, missed out on great deals, shutting doors, of open-mindedness, experiences and experiments. Slamming you with poetry? your majesty (your imagination), how will I survive those brawny stares? did I offend you? I would offer you some tissue paper, to wipe the sweaty ego, gentle reminders: 'contribute to sustainable development.' In a democratic country, with a constitution, apparently guaranteeing:  “All citizens shall have the right to freedom of speech and expression." I plead not guilty. Period. ©songbriti

The cologne in the attic: a nugatory appeal it carries; nights of enchantment, work no more. I lie down on the torn couch, intending to mellow out, gruelling questions, rest, pause, rest: run no more. Composing the lost, must I not? collect, integrate, dislocate. A chimeric stream, pushes itself heavily, down the pulsating beats, involuntary much? shaping up to your expectations, by gones, infernal, breaking free. Vanity of rotten wishes, extracted, defeated, thrown: tamed no more. ©songbriti

Treat me not like a princess, who is held by her corset, struggling to let her hips dance freely, without being bothered about societal norms of a perfect body shape. Treat me not like an object of pleasure, eyeing my cleavage, and commenting on my legs; keep those hands to yourself, because you would not like it if I cut them without your consent. Treat me not like a feminazi, who is waiting to claim the "ladies seat", I can stand steadily on my feet by God's grace, I know when I carry a life within me, and years later when my feet turn frail and weak with freckles all over my cheeks, youngsters would offer me their seats, it could be a girl in a blue jeans or a boy in a pink shirt, the point is they would have values of love and generosity. Treat me not like a puppet, whose voice is unheard beyond the glass ceiling, suffocated in a cubicle of misogyny. Treat me not with respect because I am a woman, I will earn your respect without playing the trump

A broken promise, denuded of integrity, submerged in the inverted dome; two calloused palms, crestfallen underneath synaptic transmissions, obsessing over burnt bridges, giving credence to fallacies, pathetic as ever; attributing emotions to an indifferent body, drawing inferences, dipped in faulty syllogisms, where are you headed? towards a conclusion, a one with an end— you can die to conceal. ©songbriti

Dear Deemed to be University, You are the founder of excellence and service. You have been carrying forward a legacy of unity in diversity amidst the mighty buildings of your campus. The greenery around you reminds me of how I owe my safe and secured future to you. Your management is so distinguished that discipline bows down to your command.  You have taught the growing buds on your premises to develop themselves holistically both through theory and  practice. Even today, I stood in the queue of rules and regulations with an energetic mind, waiting to see what spirituality would sound like when an esteemed soul with years of experience in it would explain it to me through an unplugged conversation. I waited in the queue for an hour because I strongly believed that patience is an integral part of spirituality. However, I think the fruits of patience were on a leave today. Waiting in the queue patiently and hoping that discipline would take me to my destiny, I learnt how the defini

In anonymity I abide— the quotes of motivation, you ponder over; tales of heroic deeds, you are inspired by; folklores and epitaphs, lyrics of rhythmic songs, histories held in abeyance, and poetry harvested, with lofty rapture. Hearts free-fall into my creation, to float in a galaxy with dancing planets formed of abstract emotions. You feel my presence around you, but ne'er shall thee be successful in figuring out, who I am. Try, if you must! When worn to a frazzle, shed no tears on failed attempts. Hast thou not known, the Bard of Avon? Hast thou not heard, "What's in a name?" ©songbriti

If I stop by your home one evening to ask you how you have been all this while, would you tell me the truth or would you lie to me? I'd take a box of customised dark chocolates for you because...I think I know your sweet tooth never says "No" to them. Your eyes would widen on seeing me after years, I am a little worried that they would sneak a look at the bodily expressions I planned to hide. I guess that is how it is supposed to be...a little nervousness on my mind and a bit of your inquisitiveness to normalise the situation. Thankfully, I am good at covering up a lot of the ongoing mess inside my head with some self-deprecating humour. I would unapologetically exploit my sense of humour and push it beyond a boundary where I would secretly hope that it breaks the iceberg between us from the tip to the crux. The skyline would bask in the glory of the orange hues. The sun might gobble the melted ice and pour its heart out emotionally on seeing us sipping on a cup of espr

Aggressive winds, banging on the panes made of frosted satin, pellucid moistness within closed doors, dripping down the glass, with heavy steps. The closet— a home to piranhas with gills of frozen and bloodied secrets; curtained off from the world. How many more self-immolations? to let live in peace, the freedom of choice held captive; in a society enshrouded in the darkness of stigma and discrimination. ©songbriti

A mirage of a mercurial closet, gnawing pain piercing like needles; smiles on facets, fine-tuning the tricks of survival; figments of imagination throwing conundrums, with an uncanny resemblance to truth, putting all judgements off the stage, a placebo of sleep to dodge fear, in a bed of dead wood and a few petals of lilies and roses. ©songbriti

Clenched by confusion, you stood there in between commas that surfeited on the discarded shards of full stops. The thread-like blue rivulet cluelessly flowed in all directions of the ivory white bank and besmirched it. What led to your failed condition? My dwindling interest in you which blew out in the dead of the night or my growing temptation to explore the next marvelous beauty I've been trying to understand for months? Just as I couldn't take my mind off you, I feel drawn to it too. The only difference is I left you without giving you a closure and I have nearly been ungrateful. The silver nib dragged you to the edge of the cliff and pushed you to a baffling end on my command. To make you feel slightly better, I choose to disclose to you that I put many before you at rest to make space for the new ones. I run out of peace by some deaths because they were dear to me and I also cold-heartedly leave many like you to decay. I shall pay you a visit sometime if you wish. Afte

I braced myself, put on the speed, to run past time's rage. Tending to wounds of yesteryears, and caressing the wilted skin on your forehead. Through the woods humming a lullaby from your childhood, syncing its tunes to a classic ballet of flowers and leaves. I plant a kiss of life on your heart as the sun sets in. All fears dismantled by the fierce storm, who gave up on rage to rekindle a zephyr of smiles yearning to make you feel alive. ©songbriti

Pendulum of perfectionism, glued to obsession, fuelling procrastination, raising suspicion. “Am I good enough?” transfixed to conformity; and societal prescriptions fermenting stress into distress. Piles of perceived failures, inflating alleys of comparison; a black lining of self-reproach on clouds of depression. Wings of mindfulness, flying believably, smiling in contentment, riveted on carpe diem. ©songbriti

Dear 2019, Thank you for gracing my breath with your presence. A few hours ago, just before you came into being; life and death played the last over of 2018 on some unrepaired roads, in hospitals and in cities devastated by terror attacks or calamities. All this, to leave an aged couple helplessly waiting for their child to return home, a husband mourning for the demise of his better half, a five-month old baby crying for his mother and the list goes on. Yesterday, on the eve of your arrival, an orphan celebrated his birthday with gratitude and love for his God-gifted family in a shelter home. The words "Friends are family" couldn't be more true. A daughter who is being raised by a single mother hid her worries beneath a smile as she was focused on her responsibility of keeping her mother happy through thick and thin because that was the last wish of her late father who lost his life for his motherland at the Wagah border in the end of autumn. In Caesar's way of