FINDING FAMILY

Arpitha Jain

It was twenty past eight in the evening. Twisting and turning I lay in my bed, looking at the clock and at the door of my room alternatively hoping to hear a knock. Every time I heard a footstep or the creaking sound of the door I would jump up in my bed hoping it was him, I even skipped my dinner hoping he would care to come up to my room and check if I were okay but he didn’t come. It was rather foolish of me to wait. Five months and twenty seven days since Papa spoke to me. He became indifferent to my presence in the house, like I ceased to exist, like I didn’t matter. The last time he came to my room was in November to take my phone’s charger. Papa being the person he is, went 2 days without charging his phone just to avoid having any sort of conversation with me and finally sneaked in my room while I pretended to sleep. He took the charger and turned to leave when he saw my wall full of pictures of him and the family. He smiled and looked at me for a moment too long, his mouth half open as if he wanted to say something but then he thought of something and walked away. That was the last time. Five months twenty seven days later he still didn’t make an effort.

Having known then that Papa wouldn’t come, I go down to the kitchen to look for food. It was past midnight, everyone fast asleep. It bothered me that no one cared to ask if I were hungry. I saw Maggi in the cupboard and my face lit up. Not because I love it but because Papa doesn’t. And maybe, just maybe, if I made enough noise while cooking it, then probably he would wake up and shout at me. The thought of him finally looking at me made me so happy that I dropped vessels on the floor; I switched on all the lights and kept banging the kitchen platform with a spoon. Then I peeked into my parent’s room, I knew Papa woke up by then but he didn’t even open his eye, mom sleepily yelled at me. I didn’t eat the Maggi. Disappointed, I walked back to my room. What was his problem, I thought. There was no answer to it. So, I put on my earphones, played “Perfect” by SIMPLE PLAN on repeat and lay on my bed, again hiding my face under the sheets, though no one would see it and then I let the dam break, tears came streaming down my cheeks, heart beating at an unusual pace. I thought I wouldn’t make it to morning. We lived under the same roof and still I missed him. I almost forgot what having a father felt like.

I thought of all the times he was there. He called me his pride, of the three children he thought I would be the one who would take forward his legacy. I looked like my mother but my habits were like Papa. Sometimes Mummy would look at the two of us and say in jest, “Tere papa kaafi nahi the jo tu bhi bilkul unki carbon copy bani?” How then would he give up on me so easily? But then hadn’t I done the same thing?

Papa and I shared a very peculiar relationship. We were more like siblings. We never agreed upon the same idea, we never let the other win an argument irrespective of who was right, we never really got along and we would often deliberately disturb each other when the other was involved in something that was clearly more important. I would tell him how I learnt to tie a reef knot or what happened at school only when he would write down the day’s transactions in the office account book and he would always want to eat food cooked by me when I had my end semester exam, the next day. The only thing that pulled us through all these years was the belief that we had each other’s back. We never needed anyone else. I was always the favourite child. Every Sunday we would go for a ride on our Kawasaki and once I learnt how to ride, I would take him around the city on our Activa. I have been to planetarium and ChitraKala Parishat so many times, I know the way to these places like the back of my hand. While he rode, we would talk of books, actors, politics and shared dreams of travelling the world someday. We played antakshari during longer rides and people around us stared at us; some with curiosity, some amused, but most of them in horror because we were terrible singers. Every time he sang you could hear him smile through the words. It was so rare to see the stern face soften that I didn’t mind the embarrassment. He was so passionate about old Bollywood songs that once he started it was almost impossible to stop him. Years later when the guy I dated wouldn’t stop singing I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear, I could never explain it to him. We would watch KAUN BANEGA CROREPATI, BHOOLE BISRE GEET, and CHITRAHAAR and religiously listen to AAPKI FARMAISH on Vividhbharat, every night with him. Nobody ever understood our passion for old songs.

Naturally my older brothers hated me. They never received the attention I did. He never thought anyone was ever good enough, except his father. He was Holden Caulfield trapped in the body of a 40 year old, so when he shared his most cherished memories with you, you were definitely special. He gave me his Hindi text book once; it remains one of my most prized possessions.

We came closer also because we travelled together and he made me do whacky things. Once when we were in Mumbai, Papa suddenly thought of setting out on the quest of finding his friend in a city so huge with no means of contact. We had nothing but his name and Papa’s instinct. It seemed like the most foolish thing to do. He recollected that his friend once mentioned his factory was in Dadar and with that piece of information we set out on our adventure on foot which lasted five hours until we ultimately found him. The Masala Dosa we ate after tasted better than anything I ever ate since.

But we don’t remain kids forever, we grow up and we see everything and everyone around us in better light. Papa wasn’t my hero anymore. He was a terrible husband and an indifferent father. He cared about me (or so I thought) because I validated him by being an extension of his personality. Of the 28 years, he’d been married to mom, he spent about 15 years alternatively without even speaking to her. So much for his ego that he once didn’t speak to her for about a year because she didn’t cook ‘well’, even though she lost her brother and her mother that same year, it didn’t melt Papa’s stone heart. He would smirk at her when she tried to read the newspaper and at Bhaiya when he said he wanted to do animation. For Papa, everyone was hopeless. I hated him more with every passing day. He would find new reasons to tell us we were hopeless and he was stuck with us. I had disagreements with him every alternate day and then one day all hell broke loose when he got me a new phone and said I cannot use it post 10 PM. I retorted, I spoke louder than I intended to, probably due to all the pent up frustration, “Talk sense for once Papa, I am not going to run away. Even if you take my phone I still have the P.C and Wi-Fi router in my room. If I have to do something stupid, I can still do it. If not anything else, at least trust your upbringing. But I would understand if you don’t.” and that is it. That was the last time we spoke.

Five months twenty seven days since he didn’t even look me in the eye. He was everything I detested in a person and yet I longed to talk to him. He may not be the best man but he is the reason I am what I am today. He may not be the most ideal father but I didn’t know life beyond him. He was my truth. He lived my habits. There was no way I could survive without him. I suddenly switched on the fairy lights in my room and gave a faint smile, half sleepy, half exhausted by crying continuously I slowly went into a deep slumber.

It was already past ten in the morning. I didn’t wake up, and I couldn’t. My face was numb and my body became stiff, I couldn’t move my arms or legs, I tried to call for help but words failed me, instead I just shouted. Bhaiya came rushing to the room and not able to comprehend my state called for Papa; he came to my room and somewhat reluctantly lifted me up and gave me a glass of water. No word of love, no hand on my head, he just walked away. I felt orphaned. After a while I managed to move and so I went down to the drawing room and saw him lay there which was unusual. He would usually be in the shop at this time. I was facing his back. I gathered all the courage I had and determined to sort all our issues, I took swift steps towards him. “Papa, can we talk?” I ask and then I notice tears welling up in his eyes. I step back; I don’t know how to react. It is only then that I notice everyone else around me.

Mummy is sitting in corner, giving out occasional sighs, her dreamless eyes, dead like the sky on a no moon day, tearless, looking into the void. Bhabhi continued to cook in the kitchen, she wasn’t up for any drama, I felt sorry, she didn’t wish for a house with broken relationships. My brothers stood next to me sharing the same little hope with me that everything will fall in place. “Papa, can we talk?” I asked again, determined to resolve all our issues. He looked at me, guiltily, defeated. It broke my heart to see the strongest man I knew at his most vulnerable moment. He looked so fragile, so tired, probably from holding the storm within that was struggling to escape him. He broke down. He cried so hard he could barely breathe. I was scared, my hands shivered, I looked at my brother who was already crying, and I wouldn’t lose him for anything. I held him more so to support myself than to console him and in between my sobs, I started, “Papa, I…” He waved at me to stop. He then called out to mom and said, “You and Bahu are important. This house wouldn’t run without you two.” They both stare at him perplexed; Mom looks at him in wonder, probably thinking, “After all these years? Does it matter now?” She took a deep breath, her sad eyes remained sad; she looked away thinking that all this was a mirage.

He looked at us then. He held our hands. My brother cried more profusely. I don’t remember the last time Papa held his hand. “Do I get another chance? I’d be a better father.” I couldn’t believe what had happened. Suddenly everything fell in place; suddenly all that we wished for all these years became a reality. We finally became what we called ourselves: A family. We hugged him for the first time ever in our lives. Just then I felt a tug at my foot, I turned around and saw my nephew calling out for me, “Buaaaa!” he shouted at the top of his voice. Before I could comprehend what was happening I saw a blurred image in front of my eyes, I raised my brow demanding for an explanation. The blurred image became clearer. It was Bhaiya. He said,

“Wake up!”

 

 

Censored Voices in a Dystopian World

Blessy Thomas

A dystopian world often portrays a world so bleak that it instills fear in the reader’s mind about the direction in which we are headed. It is a commentary on the society and its ways, and the eventual crumble of the society as we know it. The characters are often dehumanized and disconnected, and thrive in complete normalcy as though the world around them is perfectly normal. This method is perhaps used to represent the austere future that lay ahead of us. Dystopian fiction often depicts environmental disasters and tyrannical governments and catastrophic disasters that threaten the normal functioning of the society

One such book representing a problem that should be worrying, even in the present society is Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. It portrays a world where books and reading them are forbidden, and the firemen in the futuristic American society are ordered to burn all books. The protagonist, Guy Montag, a fireman, after witnessing a gruesome suicide by a woman in an attempt to save her books from being burnt, steals a book and begins reading it.

Fahrenheit 451 is a take on modern day problems such as censorship by the government and the dissenting of ideas. The government depicted in the book employs a strong hold on the content of ideas that is made available to the public. The robotic dog that keeps check on homes for books could be a symbolism for cyber space spying. There is no real sense of freedom in our worlds anymore, and we’re constantly watched and censored for our actions. We live in a democracy where freedom of speech and expression are constitutional rights, and yet, people are publicly bullied and censored for speaking their mind.

In an interview, Bradbury stated that through the book he wanted to highlight the effect of television and other short span media has on our thoughts and attention span. Everything around us today is condensed to its more core form, limiting experience and knowledge. News appears in bullet points, books are adapted to movies and technology reduces time in doing almost everything. People are now much less interested in world events than ever before. Bradbury called out current media as being “shallow” and “frivolous”; in the book too, the Montag household has a “parlor wall”, a gigantic wall sized TV with mindless shows to keep the public occupied, rather than dealing with important issues. When Guy Montag tries to engage his wife and her friend in conversations about the upcoming war and deaths, they seemed completely uninterested. There is a rapid dumping down of culture that has happened through technology in both the real as well as the dystopian world.

Bradbury portrays a kind of control and hold that the powerful have over the citizens because they are unaware and uneducated. He explores ideas of personal freedom and individuality, and how they can be formed only through the accumulation of knowledge. Our society is formed through the circulation of ideas and the free forum to express them, but hindrances in the way of censorship, claims of political dissent and other methods of exercising control ensure that we have no individuality and free thought. We as a society are consumed by our media—be it the internet and all the accessibility it provides on television. Media, especially the internet gently pushes us into a lull and provides us with a false sense of security that we in reality, do not have. Our thoughts are handed out to us, information is readily projected, there is no actual need for a human to think.

Characters like Guy Montag and the fire chief, Beatty, portray people incapable of their own thoughts. They simply follow what is told to them without any questions. The lack of a proper education renders them incapable of asking questions. On the other hand, Clarisse, a school kid read in secret, that Montag befriended seems to have a more open view about the world. Defenders of free knowledge and education paid the price of being capable of thoughts by giving their lives up.

Dystopian fiction talks mostly about ideologies. It is a comment on insidious institutional agendas and the loss of humanity and morality. The dominant discourse in these novels, like in Fahrenheit 451, is the ideologies of society. Although slightly exaggerated, dystopian fiction comments on societies, and makes us take a hard look at where we are headed.

 

Hakunamaste!

Krithiga M

The alarm goes off exactly at five. I slowly rub my eyes and grudgingly sit on my bed. It’s time for my much awaited Yoga class. I rush through my early morning chores and step out with my yoga mat. My sister yawns beside me, and I resist the urge to yawn myself.
We brave December’s chilly wind and finally reach the Yoga center. It’s empty, except for a couple of people who are adjusting the corners of a red shamiyana, which they have carefully laid out on the ground.

Within minutes, our Yoga master and the rest of the Yoga doers have settled in Vajrasana, the diamond posture.

It’s not easy to concentrate on the prayer when your legs are threatening to break under the pressure of your rear. I slightly open my eyes to peek at my sister fidgeting beside me. I try not to smile. Inhale. I chant the third round of ‘Omkara’.

One of the perks of attending the morning batch of Yoga class is that we get away with mischief as the Yoga master assigned to our batch is quite young, unlike the second batch master whom my sister fondly calls ‘Sotta Motta’.

The first day was the hardest and the funniest. We started off with Suryanamaskara, an ancient yogic practice that involved twelve steps; a form of salutation to the life giving sun or ‘Surya‘. There is a particular shloka with which one has to start, followed by a ‘Bheeja mantra‘. By the time we had reached the fourth cycle, my sister and I were gasping for breath. Our master had enough empathy in him to slow down the practice to suit our pace.
This was followed by a couple of standing exercises. Vriksasana, the tree posture, required us to stand on one leg with the other on bent and placed on our thigh. To a person who has balance problems walking without tumbling on a flat surface, this poses as quite a challenge. True to my butter legs, I could not stand for more than five seconds and started dancing on one leg. Apparently it was hilarious, judging by the enthusiasm with which my sister related the story to my parents.

The real fun was the ‘Rock and Roll’ asana, the mere mention of which makes me and my sister laugh. It requires us to lie down on our stop, bend our legs and hold them with our hands… and rock. Then roll. The first attempt did not involve any movement except that of our neck. We urged our bodies to move and collapsed on the floor giggling when the pot-bellied man in front of me attempted to rock his body. (No offense to pot-bellied people out there.)

Our favourite time during these asanas is the one minute of break between the asanas. We eagerly await these one-minute boosts to our laziness. Closing our eyes and savouring the richness of one second has never been more fulfilling.

By the tenth day, the results were visible. The ghosts of laziness that had tightly held on to me for years slowly released its grip. My body gave in, and seized this new found flexibility with warm tingly sensations. I realised the gift of our breath, Pranayama made sure of that. My body feels lighter and head clearer. My biological clock is better regulated, now that it’s been forced to sleep early and wake up early; and what’s more, I sleep better.

We still giggle when someone tumbles or grumbles, but now, it’s with a new found consciousness of both the clumsy and the able.

Signing off Literati 2016 with a bang!

By Swati Sinha

Day 4 of Literati was a true sight of delight and ardor. The 4 day festival that was a tribute to the Indian writer Mahasweta Devi came to a euphoric end today, with several events compelling the audience to stick to their chairs throughout.

The festival began with the much awaited theatrical rendition of the play Rudali written by Devi. Directed by alumnus Deepak Dhruvkumar H and adapted by Minal Sukumar of II M.A. English, the play showcased the powerful portrayal of the character of Shanichari, (enacted by Divya Malhari of II M.A. English) a lower caste woman who works as a Rudali to earn her bread and butter.

This short adaptation succeeded in capturing the essence of Devi’s intentions to highlight the plight of lower caste women who had to turn a natural, humane and personal mode of catharsis into labour for commerce for survival. Students from both I and II M.A. English comprising of the cast and crew left the audience absolutely speechless and were appreciated with a thunderous applause.

The second event of the festival included an academic talk by Dr. Sushma Murthy, an Associate Professor in Christ University, Bangalore who spoke on feminism in relation to the web of caste and class embedded in the crux of India. Her paper dealt with Devi’s writings and their interpretations not just of feminism or caste and class issues but an ontological study of the aspect of performativity of a human’s body and lived experiences.

Several of Devi’s stories such as The Breast Stories and Baayen were taken as examples foregrounding scholars such as Spivak, Kant and Said who elaborated on the condition of the subaltern immensely. Her presence was truly an icing on the cake for the students who learned enormously from her words of wisdom.

The participants and volunteers who toiled hard to organize Literati were presented with certificates of appreciation by Dr. Sushma Murthy and the PG English Department Co-ordinator, Dr. Padma Baliga.

Followed by this was the finale act put together by the music team comprising of students from both I and II M.A. English led by Christy Thomas and Vinaya Grace Mary from I M.A. English. It included songs of hope, togetherness and the importance of the subaltern – some highlighted Devi’s themes such as Raise Me up by Josh Groban, Love of the Common People by Paul Young, Dil Hoom Hoom Kare from Rudali by Lata Mangeshkar and Send It On by Disney’s productions. It was a perfect end to the evening, as the music that has no language brought the audience together, who could not hold themselves to the seats and sang and danced along with the performers.

Literati 2016 was wrapped with Dr. V Shilpa extended a vote of thanks to all the students and teachers for making it a grand success.

Needless to say Literati was a festival that not only honoured a legendary writer and celebrated her works but also gave the PG English department to come together and share art, smiles and spirit for life pure in nature. Literati 2017 is indeed awaited!

Of stories and social change: Literati Day 3

Navya Denis

The highlight of the third day of Literati 2016 was the Panel discussion on the topic ‘Literature and Social Change’. The discussion which was held in Aloysius Hall was a genuine encomium to the illustrious woman who exposed the true shades of the depravity that plagues the fringes of our society. It began with an introduction of the topic by Prof. Amrita Banerjee, who spoke at length about the power of literature to catalyse social change. Further, Prof. Gargi Dutta gave an amazing account on the role of the author as a “mouthpiece for change”. She also said that Mahasweta Devi was the unmediated voice of the inferior other.

The panel of five gave the audience a brilliant overview of the impact of literature, grounded on the works of Mahasweta Devi. Rajeshwari N. of II M.A. English spoke on the seemingly subtle impressions that literature leaves on the face of humanity which leads to gradual massive revolutions. Asha Sistla of I M.A. English gave a detailed description of the contributions made by Devi to the marginalised sections. Diana Sushmitha of II M. A. English spoke about the power of literature to bridge the gaps within the society, manifested how Mahasweta Devi shook the middle class consciousness through her words. Keerthi Sebastian of I M.A.English pronounced the multiple viewpoints presented by Mahasweta Devi, especially on the emergence parallel governments. Further, Atreyee Madhukalya from M. A. Political Science spoke on the impact of literature with a different perspective. Her views on the relevance of literature towards an ecological mission was a refreshing comment on the topic discussed.

Finally, the moderators Prof. Amrita Banerjee and Prof. Gargi Dutta gave their valuable comments and suggestions on the panellists’ views. Comments were welcomed from the audience; Prof. Padma Baliga appreciated the panelists’ efforts to discover and popularise Mahasweta Devi, and the hushed voice of the subaltern. The panel discussion was altogether an engaging exchange of views that developed a greater inference on the topic, with special acknowledgement towards Mahasweta Devi and her works.

From rock to reel: Day 2 of Literati dazzles

Sara Fathima

Day 2 of Literati 2016 – a tribute to Mahasweta Devi, began with a superlative musical performance by the students of I and II MA English. Following this was a movie screening for the film review contest. It is said that, “Music can change the world, because it can change people.” This was perhaps the essence of the musical performance preceding the film screening, an adaptation of one of Mahasweta Devi’s powerful stories, Baayen.

Mahasweta Devi’s works were about change, about revolution and precisely about the voices of the subaltern, in terms of her well defined characters who spoke, to be heard. Baayen, is a fine example of the same. The musical performance was in tandem with the theme of the film that was screened, Maati Maay.

The first song that was performed was Blowing in The Wind by Bob Dylan in the spirit of it being a protest song, and a song that poses questions and is significant for it addresses issues of war and peace. The second song, To Where You Are by Josh Groban, was a special dedication to the extraordinary author herself. The third number performed was Radioactive by Imagine Dragons, symbolizing revolution, rebellion and most importantly the need to stand up for what is right, to stand for justice.

Finally, the last number was Chekkle, a Malayalam Dalit folk song. The performers stole the show with their mesmerizing performance, that charged the ambience of the gathering, and was certainly the highlight of the musical performance for me.

Following the spectacular musical performance, the audience were surprised and subjected to a whirlwind of emotions and a gripping performance by Nandita Das, in Maati Maay. The Day 2 of Literati 2016 came to an end with the marvelous performances and the movie review contest in tandem with the themes of the works by Mahasweta Devi.

Literati 2016

Blessy Thomas

After overcoming a few road bumps and hitches along the way, the Department of English at St. Joseph’s College formally inaugurated the first edition of Literati. Literati, an annual festival that celebrates some of the finest writers and artists of our generation, dedicated its first edition to Mahasweta Devi. The writer-activist passed away in July this year. She was known as the voice of the voiceless. She played a huge role in the upliftment of backward communities like the Kheria Sabar.

The first day of the four day event began with an introduction to Devi and her legacy both in Kannada and English. This was followed by an inaugural speech by the Head of the English Department, Dr. Cheriyan Alexander. “Writers are constantly creating new realms with the force of the pen, and Mahasweta Devi was no exception,” said Dr. Alexander, giving a brief insight into the works of the late writer. Combining her literary skills with her social activism that included giving a voice to the Subaltern and the oppressed, Mahasweta Devi worked tirelessly for the marginalized.

The event was formally inaugurated in true Josephite spirit with the lighting of the lamp by the members of the college support staff. The event was rounded up in style by students of the I and II year MA English who gave a fitting end to the inaugural by crooning melodious songs of solidarity in Kannada, Bengali and English, that echoed the sentiments expressed in Devi’s works. We look forward to the events to follow in the days to come.

Finding a family treasure

Divyashree. A. M

Anyone who has known my parents long enough will tell you straightaway that they are the best example of an arranged marriage. Having their families decide everything, from the theme of their wedding party to the venue of their honeymoon, my parents were the last to be informed. However, as their daughter, when I hear their stories, I’m amused by the lack of communication they had, as fiancées. My father, for one, did not even know my mother’s name before the day of the wedding. My mother had no photograph of his to show off to her friends and had requested for the same through an old mediating aunt. When the aunt asked my father for his picture because Manju (my mother) wanted one, his response was, “Who is Manju?” No cousin of mine fails to recount this incident though my parents remain stone silent about it. Given this total lack of interest in marriage, one wouldn’t be wrong to say that my father knew no romance.

It was a sunny Sunday like any other. My mother had decided to clean a new place. This time, the shelves of books whose covers hid colors of her own time. They were all the beautiful yellow that smelled of the century gone by. Amused by the books of Tolstoy, Vivekananda, Ananthamurthy, Kuvempu, Eliot and every biggie of English and Kannada Literature’s, I could not stop myself from skimming through the pages to see her own notes scribbled in nearly invisible ink at the margins of the pages. I came across my father’s name and a small heart beside it. I knew my mother did her Master’s course after her engagement, so this definitely meant that she was head over heels in love with her fiancée while he was far from being bothered. It disappointed me greatly to see my mother’s first romantic interest not returning the love at the same time. As I skimmed through some more pages, a letter jumped out of the book ‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen.

The letter was an open envelope and was unmistakably in my father’s writing. “Dearest Manju, I am extremely sorry to not have written in the past week but work kept me busy…” read the first line. I was shell-shocked to see my father being patient enough to write a letter to his fiancée every week. What more, he had described to her how he was extremely sorry about the fact that previously he had no care for even her name but now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He described in detail his fervent desire to see her, since their secret meet at the Gol Gumbaz in Bijapur. He simply couldn’t wait to be married!

It took me more than a few minutes to digest the fact that I had a romantic father. My parents met secretly before marriage, my pious mother wrote his name in her books with hearts all over and he wrote her letters every week! No wonder they were quiet every time someone mentioned their total lack of interest in each other before marriage! They had spun their own fairy tale in an arranged marriage and managed to keep the spark going even after twenty five long years.

Slyly, I held up the postcard for my mother to see. She recognized it immediately and snatched it in a second. She blushed intensely as she asked me if I read it. “Yes,” I said, waiting for an explanation of the sudden revelation of their pre-marriage romance. She mumbled something about checking on something in the kitchen and left the room with the postcard. I sneaked behind her after a few minutes, only to overhear her reading out the letter to my father. My father completed my amusement as he, in turn, spoke of the meet at Gol Gumbaz to my mother, where they undertook six hours journey to see each other and my father bought her an ice cream on their date.

I rushed to my sisters to tell them about my discovery, only to see my father telling them that we would be visiting Gol Gumbaz that weekend. The feelings some souvenirs invoke, can indeed never be explained!

The Unknown Mystery

Diana Sushmitha

All I wonder is whether,
I am a “he” or a “she”.
Trapped in the body of a man,
Not being able to unravel my true feminine self,
I am chained, confined and confused.

Hard it is for me, to me, in the vicinity of other men,
But forced am I to be around them.
Playing bat and ball is never my kind;
Going on shopping sprees and posing pout faced,
Is all I can bind.
The company of girls enthralls me and
I go head over heels when I see men with a dudeen in their mouth.
With the ebb and flow of these thoughts in my mind,
I suppress my feelings and watch in quiet sublime,
The world around me moving just like the thoughts in my head.

I crave to create an identity of my own and fight for US, the unknown.
Yet I am afraid of being rejected by the conventional society
That I belong to.
So, with a perplexed mind
I choose to remain silent and simply wonder,
Is it a villainous act to be born as a transgender?
Then why am I treated like an untouchable for no fault of mine?

I realized that it is the rigid threads,
in the minds of people that needs to be separated.
They need to be unraveled,
That we are also one of God’s beautiful mysteries
Made to be known.

 

 

 

A Sound Being.

Nayanika .P.

Eyes closed I sit silently,
The irreverent buzzing of voices
Drift about me.
Different tones, Different pitches,
Softly and loudly,
I seek amongst them
For a semblance of harmony.

My ears tune into a distinct sound.
Suddenly rising above the mindless chatter
Distant and detached it seems to be bound
To an eerie voice;
Once whole but now
In tatters.

I noticed her then, in an obscure corner,
Might have been there forever.
Never to be heard or seen,
A relic link between
The sides of a mirror.

Her long withered nails
The threads of different sounds,
Mapped about in confused geometry.
And once she had all the notes
She consumed all to create her own,
Unearthly pitch.

Listen.

The voices of the dead reverberates
All around.