The Writer's Brew @expressions-lsr - Tumblr Blog

“Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.” — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Expressions, The English Creative Writing Society of Lady Shri Ram College for Women, is home to aspiring writers, poets, avid readers and people who enjoy tuning in to their creative sides. In our society, there are no limits in the realms of inks, thoughts, words and dreams. There is a smorgasbord of emotions that we hone and nurture in our society, creating a safe space for all writers to express themselves.

Our society is committed to providing a range of opportunities to explore and experiment with a vast multitude of literature genres, writing styles and means of artistic expressions. Our monthly initiatives include Living Poets’ Society (contrary to the famous Dead Poets’ Society), Writer of the Month, Slam Poetry, Writing sessions and Guest Lectures. Each of these initiatives are crafted with care to provide a haven to the wordsmiths of our college, filled with ardent appreciation and love for their literary pursuits.

We also publish the work of our core team and open society members monthly and annually in our newsletters named ‘Brewed Beans’ and ‘Expresso’ respectively. Both our newsletters are inspired from the poet's love for coffee and poignance emanating from the freshly brewed cup.

Brewed Beans is a newly launched newsletter consisting of both theme based and non-theme based entries with unique, innovative and interactive components to increase engagement with the student body and to challenge their ‘comfort writing zones.’ On the other hand, Expresso is the cherished legacy of our society, reflecting the year long compilation of our creative pieces based on strong and empowering themes.

Like Sylvia Plath, in her famous book The Bell Jar writes about the hum of the heart ‘I am, I am, I am’, at the very core of our society, the ‘hum of the heart’ is given utmost importance. We too are committed to create an environment where writers and readers from all backgrounds are welcome without any judgment or preconceived notions about a particular writing style or genre.

Our society is based on exchanging ideas, refining thoughts and providing constructive feedback in order to help the writer reach their full potential. With a myriad opportunities for growth and exploration, Expressions is not just a creative outlet but also a place where writers bond and help each other get over their writing and/or reading blocks. Creativity has no bounds or a set timeline and inspiration can strike any time. Being fully cognizant of this fact, we respect our writers’ creative cycles and find ways to make them feel fearless in their own voices by making them feel supported and loved.

Expressions is more than just a society. It is the epitome of diversity, art and literature. It is the go-to-place for feeling seen, heard, safe and finding what lies beyond what the eyes can see.

Masterlist: Team Introduction

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #expressionslsr #fiction #prose #literature #lady shri ram college for women

First Love Shreya (BAP, 1st Year) (I want you, I want you always, I want you. Your eyes set me on fire.) I want you Like I did when you were fourteen to my thirteen, Our feet hanging off swing sets, skimming dirt and sky. Like when I was listening, listening, Your ode to self-control, the damn sand pit, the tall trees swayed, the ugliest thing in the world – That you wanted to die, that you had almost watched yourself Jump from some tourist-torn corner of the world. A sickening, uneasy nausea swept through me – you'd been so far away. You'd never said anything about this. How could you leave me and go to die alone When we were meant to be alive together? But then you said, I won't die. You said that You can't, That you have to stay alive to taunt, to prove that you need nothing And no one, to prove that you can tangle up death in your unrelenting fingers and laugh; Have to stay alive just because. _____________________________________________________ Field Notes from a Well-Adjusted World Ananya Shah (Psychology, 2nd Year) In this city, everything has been solved. Even the questions have been simplified for ease of use. They measure the morning before anyone is fully inside it. Sleep is converted into percentages. Dreams are marked unreliable and removed from the study. _____________________________________________________

ANARKALI: AN ODE TO SALIM

Kumud Purohit (Political Science, 2nd Year)

Chief Dancer, they say bestowing the title, A hundred gold coins and a few hollow words of praise. “I come before you, O Shehenshah, Adorned with pearls to present my art. For now it ceases to be my identity, But an ignoble gift submitted to your pride.”But now that these thoughts have become the talk of the past, The saga of Nadira ends — becoming Anar. _____________________________________________________ Oh Mother! What about you ? Shriya Dwivedi (History, 2nd Year) I have seen you cradle me in this cage. I have seen you build a fortress around me with your bare hands, one that stood invincible to all their shooting arrows. I have played peacefully in this fort for so long, running through the gardens you grew me, In the rays of sunshine you stole for me. To my innocent eyes, red had only ever been love- never blood, never pain.

_____________________________________________________ Read their full pieces here

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #prose #expressionslsr #fiction #literature #lit

Purple Shreya Anil (Economics, 3rd Year) It seems there are different shades of purple, though not so many of yellow and green, for the flowering plant in the balcony of my house claimed to be purple. The flower shop owner who sold it months ago, would describe her as indigo, to which, she would droop her leaves in an open act of disapproval. A colourblind friend passing by the veranda would call her red. This would make her tremble with an air of arrogance. The sophisticated neighbour who comes to visit would say that she loved her lavender tint and the plant would bow and brood for the remnant of the day. The comment that would hurt her the most would come from me when I would call her flowers violet and she would sway away at the supreme insult. On another day, I would comment that her shine resembles that of an orchid, and a boom would befall her elegant grace... Read the rest of her piece here

_______________________________________________________________

#creative writing #lsr #expressions #writing #poetry #lit #literature #expressionslsr #prose #fiction

I wrote you a eulogy -Deborpita Das (Sociology, 1st Year) (Trigger warning- themes of anticipatory grief, mental health issues, and imagery related to death.) I wrote you a eulogy Moisture creeps into my walls-- I rot in the damp as my bones come undone. Soil has packed itself into my ribs Dirt has learnt the shape of my spine. Roots have grown through me, unwilling to move. yet one careless tug is all it takes and I snap, a vine’s thin tendril climbing the legs of my house. The wind strikes my face and I draw my shawl closer. I cannot tell whether it is the frost --that makes me tremble or the heat of being frozen in place. December ends me in ways that matter. It tries to find roots in my arid soul, digging at the grains of sand-- the sun burned into glass. _____________________________________________________ Baptism -Varenya Iyengar (BAP, 1st Year) Grabbed moundfuls of dust and recreated me, Iota by iota of dirt I saw the lived evidence of it in fingernails, They were sodden, and grimy and embedded with me Spewed violence and life into me all at once, Knot after knot, weaved strands onto my scalp and weaved apart Erected each Wanton tooth And thus I was and thus I shall remain Until I crumble into particles again, Particles that do not know my name, or who I love From perishable rib to perishable rib And I will be a stranger to my own dirt. _____________________________________________________ Stars apart -Kavya Dhodapkar (Economics, 1st Year) I dream of the sun See it for more than a star, Dream of the burn, And see how it scars, (gentle) my silken tissue, behind each lid, Till I weep from an eye, gone. Blinded, with no light, A little sparkle from a star, Left with a remnant for a heart, and a tiny grain of salt All washed pale, in memoir Of a love cherished far (too much) In the dream of a sun, Seen, as more than just a star. _____________________________________________________ Fair and Just Stream -Anvi Gupta (Political Science) Stream flowing with full rage, carrying with it pebbles— small and big, dense and slight. The small are rushed ahead, the big are left behind. But what if the big ones carried the dream to be what they have never been? Ah—nature’s quiet hierarchy had already drawn an unfair symmetry, difficult to break. _____________________________________________________ Read their full pieces here

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #expressionslsr #lit #fiction #prose #lsr #literature

The Commoner’s Hymn - Zainab Shah (English, 2nd Year) The forlorn lover with his holy rhyme, Brings back memories of distant shrines. Of ancient texts; Forgotten lands; He sings of Belinda's stolen strand. We hear its song, both sweet and old, Yet long for our own stories to be told. We say, we say: Sir sing anew! A song that tells of us and new. Perplexed he looks, Says not a word, Goes on to sing his merry praise Of old and of the grumpy kings; Of decrees passed castles within; I sing not the weary song- Of nameless folks, and common mass. Forlorn forlorn! So we cry- Begone you too like those days went by. We sing to ourselves our merry praise, Of us and of our merry days. The kings shall come and they shall die, The common song lives by and by. _____________________________________________________

#poetry #writing #creative writing #lsr #expressions #expressionslsr #fiction #literature #lit

What If’s? -Anshika Sonker (3rd year, Sociology) It’s 4:21 a.m., A December Wednesday night. I’m lying under my red, comfortable blanket, Filled with colourful stars. A cute, soft pink toy by my side- Childish, yeah, alright. My blanket is warm enough to fight the cold outside. A comfy inn, yet persistent chaos keeps rebuilding in my head. Maybe I am resting, But it doesn’t feel like it. Another sleepless night; My routine, my rebound- Questioning the very existence of what this world is.... Read her full piece here

_____________________________________________________________

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #prose #expressionslsr #fiction #literature #lsr #lit

Nischay No. 8: Intezaar “An Initiative Towards Continuous Development”

-Ananya Shah (2nd year, Psychology Department)

They said it would be finished this year. The minister stood where the dust met the river, a ribbon trembling between two poles. I watched the scissors hesitate once for the cameras, once for luck. The sun behaved like a witness, recording the speeches in sweat. Someone brought flowers, someone adjusted the microphone, someone began to clap before the promise was made...

Read her full piece here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ:

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #prose #expressionslsr #fiction #literature #lit

It Doesn’t Concern Me Angira Gupta (Sociology, 2nd year) It astonishes me how easy it is to look away, a shrug, a phrase—“it doesn’t concern me.” Someone else’s hunger, humiliation, or pain is dismissed as though it belongs to another world. How people yell and shove a harmless stray, begging for mere food, whilst knowing how gnawing the ache of hunger is. How they simply drive away an injured, dismissing the broken body on the road, despite knowing how their own souls would rip apart if their loved ones went through the same pain.

___________________________________________________________

Pyada: The First to Fall Anvi Gupta (Political Science, 2nd year) Who is the one who always stands at the front, but remains at the footnotes? A pyada. On the chessboard of power, he is the first to move. The first to fall. Kings hide behind strategy. Queens sweep across diagonals. Bishops and knights earn titles. But the pyada Does not ask why. Does not choose when. Orders come and he walks, runs, fires, falls. Living miles away from his own home, just to guard the walls of homes he has never seen.

_____________________________________________________________

It is still a moon in all of its phases. (Inspired by the lines of Isra Al-Thibeh) Sivaranjani Iyer (History, 4th year) The moon is a moon in all its phases, waxing, waning, disappearing into the silence of a dark night, returning in tender crescents bringing hope, yet never ceasing to be what it is, the same old witness to our stories. In every shimmer of light and every shadow, there is a reminder that life is beyond definitions. Perhaps that is why the poets have forever looked up at the moon with a kind of awe and ache in its changing form; they saw in it the mirror of their becoming. We are like the moon, too, moving in invisible orbits of various experiences. There are nights when we glow with confidence, radiant and unafraid, and nights when we recede into darkness, finding our very presence in question. But whether visible or obscured, we are still ourselves, tenderly piecing our fragments together.

_____________________________________________________________

A Tale of Dream Anshika Sonker (Sociology, 3rd year) Once, a kite dreamt of becoming a bird - meant to fly. The sky, their reality; landscapes, their routine. But a kite? What about the kite? A kite, who after tribulations, is given the chance to fly - yet her fate rests in others’ hands. Her destiny, tied to the string of her highs and lows. ---------------------------------------------------- READ THEIR FULL PIECES HERE

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #prose #expressionslsr #fiction #literature #lit

November says I change. Diksha Ohlyan (History, 2nd year) Again, November marks the days, etching numbers in its quiet ways. Eighteen rises, tall and slight a crooked candle learning how to light. And still the hours rearrange, again, November says I change. My friends speak softly, out of tune, their shadows drifting past the moon. I walk beside them, step for step, yet feel the distance tightly kept. Their warmth feels close yet out of range- again, November says I change. There are moments when my chest feels tight, like something’s knocking from inside-too light for anyone else to hear or name, But too loud for me to treat the same. I swallow it whole, though feelings rage- again, November says I change. Old notebooks curl along the spine, dates collapsing into twine. All the years peeks through the seams, still wearing childhood like a dream. I find old versions of myself tucked quietly on every shelf, in folded notes, in scattered dust, in promises I meant to trust. They watch me with a held-back ache, as if they know the move I’ll make. I'd tell the why but the words derange- again, November says I change. Some days I feel I’ve grown too fast, as if my body knew the past was something that would soon decay yet didn’t know how to walk away. The mirror tilts, the edges blur- it keeps reflecting someone else in her. A shape that answers to my name but nothing in me feels the same. The room is still, the air is strange- again, November says I change. I do not argue, do not speak, the month is patient, cold and oblique. It watches me as numbers climb, as footsteps shift out of their rhyme. I trace the lines but none arrange; again, November says I change. And when the clock repeats its chime, I realize I’ve run out of time. November writes me line by line with ink too sharp to define. The dawn begins its slow unhinge, I watch the light crawl past the fringe of who I was and who remains- again, November says I change.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ:

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #expressionslsr #prose #fiction #literature #lit

BEST ENTRIES: WRITER OF THE MONTH(OCTOBER) I. Infi-delhi-ty -By Gowri S (English, second year) delhi, you are a cruel mistress, with lungs of smoke, veins choked of fervour, built of an emptiness, though you only devour. you pant and retch, never still, never lulled, yet losses leave your skin mottled blue, and finding joy in you, feels illicit, untrue. delhi, you are a treacherous lover, your love, leeching, malignant. and i feel the burden of betrayal, squirming in your caress, as i lie on my bed, listening to the uncanny late-winter showers, i pretend i’m elsewhere, anywhere, but here.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ:

II. INKED IN GRIEF -Toosti Kalita (BAP, first year) Even after all those affirmations of life, Why do I still live beneath the weight of maybe, I wonder? Even after all those answered prayers, Why am I still aching for more, I wonder? Even after gaining the version of myself I once knelt for, Why do I still mourn the past I lost, I wonder? Even after painting the walls of my dreams red, Why did they fade to grey, I wonder? Even with so much to resent, why do I still swallow every word, I wonder? Even after counting every blessing, Why does it still feel like I’m living a life of curses, I wonder? Even after healing in silence, why does the grief still return so loud, I wonder? :･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ III. The strange weight of remembering too much -by Amanya Mathur (English, first year) On the quiet grief of watching your own life slip into nostalgia in real time

Sometimes I think I was born with a memory heavier than my body. I scroll through my phone and see a photo from two years ago — and it feels like a lifetime, like a country I once visited but can never return to. I’m only a teenager. Eighteen. But already it feels like my life is a series of afters. After childhood. After middle school. After friendships that only exist in old group chats. After the version of me who didn’t overthink everything.

Read her full piece here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ:

IV. Unravel the Facade -Anshika Sonker (Sociology, third year) A conjunction of borrowed identity, Spun into a web of lies and deceit. Living in pretense, Always a subtext. No one ever penetrates the façade - Always being interpreted. Misleading, miscommunication, and the missing miss. Too distant to be close. Feels shackled in strong metal chains of tolerance. At all costs, avoid confrontation. Carefully built, the castle of her identity crumbles. But who is she really? A façade. A mystery. Or some suspecting criminal? Unravel - a marvel to be understood. Claims to be a hater of politics, Yet deeply ingrained in the policies of livelihood. A living paradox? Who is she? A conjunction of borrowed identity, Spun into a web of lies and deceit. Or A mosaic of music, senses, and visual experiences. A compilation of nostalgia. A beholder of stories. An individual - a museum of fragments Of everyone’s identity Whoever crosses her path. Who is she really? What is her façade? A pretext, a pretentious person - Or, worse or best, A muse. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #prose #expressionslsr #fiction #lit #literature

“Laments of a Daughter” - Naisha Manchanda, Psychology (first year) Tell me mother, have I made you proud? Tell me father, have I erased all your doubts? And after you have answered to your heart's content Ask me a question, soft and faint "Tell me daughter, are you fulfilled? Is there any dream that you have killed?" Hold me in your arms, an eternal embrace And please wash away the anger from your face Perhaps I will answer then A rendition of my life, every how and when Perhaps then I will narrate The tales I have managed to create That I have carefully concealed from your searching eyes Weaving a web of illusions and lies Perhaps then I will shatter the image of contentment Revealing the stains of contempt and resentment Dearest mother, I blame you not Dearest father, I can understand how you thought But anyway time has passed Diluting happiness that never seemed to last I can no longer conjure the memories repressed Or the nightmares that followed, sharply dressed There is a ghost of grief in my veins Living in conjugation with every inherited ache Dearest mother, can you siphon out the sadness from my blood? Dearest father, can you tend to me like a flower bud? I am yet to look to you with hopeful eyes I already know the answer lying behind your malingering smiles I have spent nights learning and unlearning your love A mystery I have been trying to unravel since birth But mother, you are grieving like the Earth And Father, you are capricious like the sky And I am not a bird, I don't how to fly I vow to listen- yielding and exorable Sitting patiently at the dinner table Perhaps you will preach to your soul's delight And finally end this sempiternal fight Perhaps then you will lend an ear To festering truths you never wanted to hear *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ

#poetry #lsr #writing #prose #fiction #literature #expressions #creative writing #expressionslsr #lit

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

TUMBLRINA-IN-CHARGE

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ VARENYA

*✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

My acerbic small intestine When the dread creeps in slow, it's like the poison is stuck in my esophagus. Halfway there, Halfway dead Like ink seeps into my pudgy fingers, like the music I cannot wrap my head around, like the reference I am behind on, like the TV show I never subscribed to. Why does soothing music never fail to scare me? Like the times I sometimes worry the staples I stapled onto my skin haven't quite dug their way out, would I even feel them at this point? Or would it feel like another Saturday. I fear rejection and I know myself the most, bruised and battered, flight and glory, I've been here. So when I leave my side, The betrayal will sting. Sometimes, I dig my nails into my scalp but I never reach deep enough to dislodge my malady of a brain off of me. Like poison you've only half swallowed, you live with the thought of it possibly making its way onto your bulging stomach, contracting its expansion, festering until it dies. An insipid ending.

-VARENYA

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

BLOGSMITH-IN-CHIEF

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

ANANTINEE

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

Ashokan Soliloquy

In the immediate aftermath of the Kalinga war, the Chakravartin paces his palatial rooms, unable to sleep: “The rivulets of red, running through my hearth, Thousands, lakhs slumbering peacefully outside my doors, Where is the howl of conquest, I wonder- So cruel, so merciless to have deserted me. I look skywards, day after day, waiting for Indra’s approval, Rituals after rituals, as the vedas say, Yet, it remains barren- not unlike the courtyards of my soldiers. I see the crates of treasure- hollow jewels and half earrings of fallen women, The very earth of Kalinga shuns me, crumbling in my fists and weeping for the sons it has lost, I turn away from the throne if the world, eyes shut- for where victory should have been crowned, a kernel of shame has uprooted its place.” (Following one of the bloodiest battles of history, the Kalinga war waged by Mauryan Emperor Ashoka. Devastated by the loss and pain he had inflicted, he adopted spirituality as his haven).

-ANANTINEE

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #prose #literature #lsr

Fresher's Competition Best Entries First position: Anya Lal, Economics Prompt: A forgotten wedding dress Most of my day is spent upstairs in the attic. You aren’t there to scold me for getting my knees dirty on the dusty floor, or for dirtying my fingers from the cobwebs weaving intricate patterns on the wallpaper-covered pine wood. It’s been more than a decade since I last played in here, wearing my pirate hat and searching for treasures lost somewhere under the floorboards. The one time you decided to play along, you drew me a map of clues and crosses and gold....

______________________________________________________________

Second position: Ria Khandelwal, Psychology Prompt: A forgotten wedding dress Our Village Has A Wedding Today Our village has a wedding today, And my mom held my hand as we watched it She told me the meaning of my life And what would become of it She said that— Children will cry and scream for attention That's how it is, and that's how it's been, In their cradle with the image of innocence and perfection And at their wedding, as they mature into "women" Why, what strangeness, I said as I held her hand Why cry at a festival created for love? A mark of devotion and passion and care A declaration of tenderness to the bright heavens above?...

______________________________________________________________

Third Position: Chetana Jaiswal, Political Science Prompt: A voice borrowed from grief In the dim corner she sat, a young bride her tears etching rivers of sorrow for the husband who slept breathless Her mind wandered back to her wedding days for it was only two months ago full of henna and red dress...

______________________________________________________________

Third position: Deborpita Das, Sociology Prompt: A voice borrowed from grief The Moon This queasiness as my guts twist and turn in place-- it is such that I shake a little harder Why do you lament so, my love? why do you mourn so, when you bend your bruised knees, Your head too heavy for your neck to hold up-- and as it lolls to the side your voice shakes with emotion I cannot begin to carry... ____________________________________________________ Fourth position: Aarushi Thakur, Commerce Prompt: A forgotten wedding dress I hear the heels come first. Clicking-some sharp,some hesitant. A weird little symphony of calm pretending that it isn't trembling underneath. Boots follow-heavier, dragging... something. Excitement?Nerves?Both maybe. Behind them motherly shoes glide softer, gentle taps like whispers of love. They echo through the aisle of white, bouncing off mirrors that catch more than reflections, overlapping a language I understand but still far from... ____________________________________________________

Read their full pieces here

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #literature #prose #lsr

MEET THE HEADS: COORDINATORS

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

ZUBIYA

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

All the letters burned there Had long turned to ash, Yet the air reeked bitter As if a heart had ripened alive within the flames. I knelt to sift through the ashes, Only to find memories Laughter transfigured into fleeting joy, Moments woven into a haunting carousel. What was once christened nostalgia Now lies entombed A necropolis of memory, Where echoes of home decay in silence. No pilgrim treads its ruins, No mourner recalls its hymns. Yet should a wanderer stray too near, The dead arise Pirouetting in delirious remembrance, Laughter resurrected, Joy grotesquely reborn. And the soul, trembling at its own undoing, Kindles the pyre once more, Immolating its letters To remain if nothing else-sane.

-ZUBIYA

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

ANEESHA

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

The Jar of Brownies Once a casket of memories, Now a coffin for my fondly regard. I buried my tenderness deep, Celebrating the death of my art. The boxes inside my bed keep it safe, Books, notes, some of my feelings and lots of pain. I keep it away from my eyes, far away from my fixated gaze, It is the anchor of my past- the face of my mistakes. A testament of my withered fondness, A testimonial of my sorrow. A remainder of my wildness, A reminder of my deceased tomorrow. Something that landed me into despair, Perhaps it's the time that I should declare, You were my illicit love affair. The jar of brownie Now a culmination of my condolences, Holding it close can lead to catastrophic consequence. But I'll mourn and I'll grieve through my metaphors, A loss so grave, but unexplained. Perhaps the jar is my hollow self, Kept somewhere on the hard to reach shelf. I grow dusty by each passing day, An antique pot just kept for display. Maybe I was just here to fill the emptiness, And yes I am envious! Because it was easy for you to forget me, Like I was not letting you breathe! I know it's time to let go of the idea, but I am not ready yet. I wait for you in the day and spend my nights in regret. But the jar of brownie is all that I have left, And I hope someday it will get misplaced. -Aneesha Malu

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *: ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

#poetry #creative writing #writing #expressions #lsr #prose #literature

Yoganjana Singh - Roses and Fireflies I clench my fists tightly, but the fireflies still crawl out. Gossamer, the flickers cease, consumed by tenuous clouds. I’m left with cobwebs floating about. Pastel-hued corpses Of vivid sights and sounds. Caught in the unyielding lines of my brother’s palm, fists that can no longer be enclosed in mine. I lift the cup, a few sips of tea still remain, Acrid residue; lacks in hue. The remembrance of our laughs has been suffused with all the times I’ve cried Each breath I can count tastes of a woebegone tear I sighed. Hear! Hear! Inhere? Sibling ties stand on lasting presence. So, do they cease when one stops being around? My absence must be of little consequence, when damp cheeks quiver in the silence abound. The briers grazed my arms first, so I could teach him how to look for roses. Yet I stand and reconcile, forced to inhale incense that reeks of blood. He would not let me near. I’ve tried. Day by day, I’m forgetting the maps of my threshold. Fireflies are finding skies anew. Where will I find him when he leaves too? I’ve already seen my half of rare roses. I hope he comes across the orange ones my fireflies have left behind. —for him to find. —for him ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Disha Dahiya - A grocery list,6:44,9 May,2025 Every once in a while, Ma, I find myself sitting where you used to sit. On the veranda, by the cracked window, holding the same silence you held like it was holy. I think growing up is just becoming the version of you you were before the world bent you. And when I do the things you did: when I ache the way you ached: I don't call it wrong. I just call it blood. I call it inheritance. The burden of growing up with so many sisters is that one leaves every couple of years, and the next takes her place. We pass grief down like clothing. One year, it’s her turn to weep on the steps. Next year, it’s mine.

-Read the rest of her piece here

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙

#poetry #creative writing #expressions #writing #lsr #prose #literature

MEET THE HEADS: SOCIAL MEDIA

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ NAVYA JAIN

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

When I became my own home

Through the corridors of college I wandered, bag heavy with books and beginnings. Delhi breathed around me, loud, alive, forgiving. Between lectures and nescafe and canteen, we stitched a family from laughter, our words spilling past deadlines, turning the city into a secret that’ll live happily ever after. Somewhere between Austen and the metro’s hum, I stopped waiting to arrive. I was already here, in walls made of literature, in windows of stories, and a heart lit softly from within.

-NAVYA JAIN

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

NAVYA JUSTA

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

"You do realise I’m not human, right? Not anymore. I was one, back then. Decades ago. Sometimes I am afraid I will forget my mother’s face. When dew collects on the window panes of that flower shop, I use the fingers that I cannot see now, to trace the silhouette of her face on the glass. I look at the cat next to me. He cannot answer my questions, but he still listens. When the moon comes up, he will leave, but he comes back. Just like the sun. Recurring with no answers." [Untitled, Ghost speaks Cat listens] I treasure the colour of my cat’s purrs, little illusive sparks emerging from his frame daubed in cinnamon, inviting me to stroke his fur. Grey is not the absence of colour, it seizes the patches devoid of any, in a desperate pursuit to not let us fall into an inescapable void.” [Sinking into a Muted Abyss]

-NAVYA JUSTA

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

SOCIAL MEDIA SUB HEAD

‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ‧͙✧･ﾟ

JANHAVI GAUTUM

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:

I have always believed this life to be a waking dream of wish fulfilment, a prestigious chamber of past lives vividly wrapped in the enigma of present modalities. Expressions is my refuge on this benevolent quest for a whimsical truth, ripening in the subconscious layers of my being. As I step into my role as Social Media Sub Head, I cannot help but reminisce on where I began and where I have come, not for the first time, of course, but as a symphony of déjà vu, played like a September dream. Carpe diem, as Mr. Keating whispers in Dead Poets Society, seize the day. Yet for me, it is not a command but an incantation: to seize the trembling now with everything it has to offer, to drink from the chalice of each moment as if I have already tasted it in another life. Threads of magic are being woven in reverse. Each post, each word, each image is not merely content but a key, a door, a mask at the grand masquerade of souls. Through this space, I yearn to invoke the elixir that sleeps within every being, the memory of a forgotten waltz, the shimmer of a lost cathedral, the echo of a life already lived. Step closer, if you dare. Let the half light swallow you. Let words brush your spine, let music thread through your veins. Some doors, once opened, never close. Some dreams, once entered, follow you home. And when you leave, you may carry a tremor, a shimmer, a fragment of noor you cannot name, a memory that belongs not to now, but to eternity

-JANHAVI GAUTUM

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *: ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

#poetry #creative writing #writing #lsr #prose #literature #expressions

‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Society Introduction‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Coordinators‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* : *✧･ﾟ:* ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Events and Logistics ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Editorial Board ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧‧‧͙✧･ﾟ: * ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Content and Design ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* * ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Public Relations ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Social Media ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ *✧･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Tumblr + Wordpress‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Writer of the month ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* * ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Best Entries: W.O.T.M‧͙✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:･ﾟ: ‧͙✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Freshers competition winners‧͙✧･ﾟ:

#poetry #creative writing #expressions #lsr #writing #literature

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

The Writer's Brew