Mar 30, 2022
saanjh ab bhayi nahi aaye / tum bin mora jiya ghabaraye.
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from Sweden
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from South Africa
seen from Türkiye
seen from Spain
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
saanjh ab bhayi nahi aaye / tum bin mora jiya ghabaraye.
“there there darling girl, this bed of flowers is made of candied bullets, and porcelain hearts, but no thorn draws as much blood as the tear of a paper cuts.”
as i fall down. // an excerpt
excerpts from my notes.
Your mirror screams at your name before it shows you yourself. It shows you a world of green. Green the shade of the tender leaves, like ones in the garden your mother has planted. She planted seeds in yours too. They are yours to look after, she tells you.
You ask her if she thinks you are responsible enough, old enough to take care of them. She smiles, a little tired perhaps. And you smile, a little giddy at the soil, the leaves blooming. It feels comforting, to touch, to watch.
(The plants died three weeks later. That was your first failure.)
mothers and gardens –an extract from “creation and victory”
We picked mangoes from the backyard today, my sister and I. Summer tang and shaded trees. a basket, empty, waiting to be filled.
It was my grandfather's orchard once. it grew like the ones in wilderness. a magic touch, perhaps one of a fae. He had loved it once. but once so did I. swinging on the wheel. touching those flowers I helped water. bright and blooming.
I arrived at a crossroad today and realised everything had lost its colour.
fading into dull greys. not even the dark embraces me as it would. the sun rises in hues of blue.
When I arrived, voices that once tinkled in the house, they are silent now. the beat of a tabla. the string of a tanpura. my voice rising in decibels as I practice. Dadu's fingers dexterously dance over the harmonium.
The crackle of a fire, as my grandmother lights the lamp and dadu smiles from his evening tea. the gentle humming of a song as I drag a beat of the evening prayer. the humming of mogras and bees. the toiling of the bells. the sizzle of the pakoras my mother fries. the little screams of my cousins caught in mischief, as their mothers run after them. their voices. mine.
The lit lamp has extinguished now.
It feels numb. empty.
Lost.
The garden has now turned a mixture of grey and brown. The orchard with its gentle vines of moss and fruit, the smell of lemons and oranges, still lives, as one does when they fall in ruin. they grow into the wilderness.
I once noticed dadu's hair turning grey. when mumma told me people grew old, I refused to accept them gone. that dadu would be there forever as I grew. I never realised how many of those flames she had seen vanishing.
We picked mangoes, my sister and I. underneath a bright blue sky. the mangoes that fall into the basket - they are shades of the sun. The leaves are turning green. My sister swings on the swing that was once mine.
Colours fade, people change. Changing like the seasons, perhaps even more transient.
But love?
Love remains.
The remainder of this garden is mine to keep. each crack in the wall, mine to taper with fae magic and moss. smell the lemons that have ripened too, help my sister water the plants.
When we walked back inside today, at the roll of thunder as the skies lit up, I saw the colors fade back in. The sound of melodies, of family, of magic, lofty in the air.
My grandmother lit a lamp in the evening again, and I sang for her, as the bells rang. I hope there was a crack of a smile somewhere.
a spark of light
within a colourless storm
we used live in blue rhapsodies
then winter bore us down,
when the spark came back
crumbling a town
filling crevices with horror and
gentle tears
if you'd look for me
you'd find me
in coloured pictures of the sun.
- themistypoet. srus.
Winter Miracles // Happy Birthday Taehyung 💜
an excerpt // it is from ‘creation & victory’, a piece I have recently started working on
Jealousy bubbles like a dangerous thing. A ticking time bomb. How long do you burn until the ashes start falling? Between the toxicity of obsession and love, people get lost in the emotion, and that never leaves for the rest of time. You will regret the way you’ve felt, they will leave and you will be alone. Losing them and the friendship you’ve shared isn’t the worst of what comes, it’s that you’ve never lost it in the first place. Fatality pays its price in hell, and you greet it there with a smile.
You fall in love with that boy like he is the only love you’ve known.
(He isn’t and you know it.)