Quill, Write Ups

Quieter

Stop.
Just stop, okay.
Stop counting the days since he last messaged you. No, stop thinking about how he hasn’t talked to you since 5 days. Stop staring at the blackboard and start listening to the professor, your melancholy isn’t going to help you with your grades.
Don’t sigh.
Take a deep breath,
in…out…in…out.
He has draped your love with feigned ignorance, stop checking his last seen. He’s not going to reply to your messages.
No, the sunset is not gloomy today, or the night is not quieter. It’s just the smell of cigarettes, not his. Don’t be a wreck.
Don’t hallucinate.
Take a deep breath,
in…out…in…out.

Poetry, Write Ups

Unfinished

And apparently
moving on is not as easy
as they show it in movies

Months after ‘us’ turned into you and I
I cry myself to sleep sometimes
and you probably smoke all your memories
Too stubborn, aren’t we?
we just can’t take that goddamn phone and
call each other

You know, one of these days
I miss you a little too much
alcohol may or may not have been
involved in the process
So I made you a list of things
I miss the most about you;
your smell, you running your fingers down my
spine, that 9:10 local & platform one

Quill, Write Ups

And So I Conclude To You

There is a humongous possibility that you may criticize me, to the point of where we shall rather call it, crucify me for what I am about to utter. But I plead you to try and understand what I say before the rant is launched.

“I have seen all the works that are done under the sun. And, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. I communed with mine own heart, saying: “Lo, I am come to great estate”. And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit. For in such wisdom is much grief, and he that increases knowledge, increases sorrow.”

With contemplation, we non arguably agree, wisdom is but the prime virtue. And in accordance with Ecbert, such wisdom brings much grief. This brings in the fact that this is rather a loop of grief and wisdom. Where attaining wisdom gives rise to grief but wisdom itself, on the first hand, stems of grief. Creating the eternal loop with no bars on increase in knowledge or pain.

But what I bring to you is a different tale. Where grief is spoken as pain and wisdom, after all, is the sum of emotional and intelligence quotient of a man.

As to what it appears, pain is in a symbiotic relationship with both the intelligence and emotional quotient of a human being. A relation where more is the pain fed, more does the value of quotients rises. But, what makes this relation agathokakological is that pain feeds but only on the human spirit. And by eating the spirit gradually it strengthens the emotional and intelligence quotient of the very body the same spirit resides in. Hitherto creating a scenario where your spirit is consumed by the pain you carry which in turn increases your ability to reason as well as to understand your emotions more efficiently.

To link it to the more common examples in our world, we are well aware of the many stories of how the greatest of men who walked upon the surface of this planet, from inventors, to artists, to investors, to athletes had one thing in common in all their stories- ceaseless suffering. But unlike the eternal loop we talked of, this truth fits into our reality as well for there is a bar up to which a man can live.

This creates a limit upon both the wisdom and grief of a man. This limit is what we call spirit. The day we cease is the day when our spirit runs out, when pain runs out of food to consume. This day our ability to develop our quotients ceases. Our wisdom, our knowledge stands stagnant at a point, out of pain to consume to grow further. And hence, when the heart and mind get stagnant and the spirit runs out it is then that the body stops to function any longer.

And so I conclude to you, suffering is imperative for great intelligence and emotion as well.

Quill, Write Ups

HEARTBEAT

In a heartbeat I was thrown to the ground, beaten with iron rods on my head, my blood splattered on the pavement adorned with paan, red all around, saffron to be precise. In a heartbeat, the land I was standing on sunk into the ocean, taking my little hut on the mangrove with it, as the water level increased to a frightening height.

In a heartbeat, the internet shut off, rendering me incapable of communicating with my family, telling them that I was singled out and abused for being an alien in my country, unable to go back to my land and wander in my own Switzerland. In a heartbeat, the fish I loved to observe was there no more, dead in some forsaken corner of the Yangtze River.

In a heartbeat, my words started to reek of my religion, people around me looked at my clothes to ostracize me. In a heartbeat, I was going to die, the air in Delhi was not conducive for pranayaam.

In a heartbeat, I was devoured by beasts in the garb of teenagers, too shaken to protect what was left of me. In a heartbeat, I was slapped by my father, for going out into the streets to protest.

In a heartbeat, the drug I had taken made me forget my worries till death. In a heartbeat, my house was burned in front of my eyes and my father was taken by his long hair, stabbed multiple times.

In a heartbeat, so small yet profound, I ceased to dream, sleep, laugh and live. In this heartbeat, the world that was mine ceased to be.

Quill, Write Ups

Check List

Send in the check list

and let’s start to tick

the people who might get offended

even those you didn’t diss

while you pen these raps

sitting on the cliff

they’re in their in groups cussing you

you little prick

he makes us so sick

guess, his throat has to be slit

and flow his brains out with a brick

but the skull is so damn thick

put it in the micro, cook us an aspic

and pull his guts out with a stick

it’s what they say is his shtick

maybe that’ll end this shit

that’s the only option cause he says wouldn’t quit

the raps wont cease to spit

even when he’s ninety half dead with a drip

wont loose even a bit of grip

he’ll continue to make people flip

who the f*** requires bondages?

my words are enough to strip

Then these people boycott me

one of your verses dude, that strike us blue

The f*** am I even supposed to reply

cause bitch that wasn’t even meant for you

But yeah, I get it, you can’t undo the shit you spoke

can’t take back those endless jokes

from my accent to my being a broke

my mix of meth and coke

me lighting up that bloke

and how I killed her little hope

do me a favour, get me a f****** rope

that’s the only option after what I spoke

But guess, another controversy would be better

I’m just loving it holy smokes!!!

They sit across in the room and tell me I don’t listen to nobody

And how should I feel after hearing it from a person who meant life to me

I’ve just realized I can’t change the way the people think

And yes, it hurts just as much as your eyes getting pinched

As if it’s been a million minutes and you haven’t blinked

While your nose is still stuck in the door hinge

And your entire existence turns out to be sinned

But the worst of it still remains inexpressible

Cause what I say is a hundred percent cerebral

Because the major part in it was played by a b****

Who’s just an overrated Jesus, actually isn’t worth shit

The thigs are getting heavy now

and we don’t understand what to reply he dissed us so bad, let’s just drag in di

Cause you know then I wouldn’t intercede, just accept whatever she’ll speak

And while you drench all this humanity out of her, you call her biased, you freak

But that’s what your love is, bleak and weak, what did you do for her in all these years? Traduce-y

Then what the f*** makes you wonder wiping off your tears is her God damn duty

Then go downstairs and tell the world you’ll confront me face to face, call the police

Cause the entire episode is just a giant heist, I robbed you off your mental peace

Then warned how I’ll skin you all like a flock of geese

And mark my words, even when the anger’s gone the intensity wouldn’t decrease

Cause it was you the one who drew the line

And forced the world to choose the sides

Whether you like it or not you got to agree

Then you played your card

I’m just an innocent millennial, save me please

I’m a hundred percent clean

He’s the one whose always so keen

To blow off on us

And he would just start to cuss

He made it all a fuss

Then he would just vent out

And put it up on the website

Without even feeling the need to discuss

It just leaves us all in disgust

Tell us yourself isn’t boycotting a must?

And the next thing to do, yeah that’s right

Call my mom up and tell her about the shit I write

Jesus Christ, I’ll get slapped twice or thrice

Still wouldn’t give a damn, just continue to write

Stand right beside and give a bright smile

Confused? Yeah that’s fine

Cause I mail her a copy myself of everything I write

Is that alright, I don’t think so no

But at least I ain’t got nothing to hide

Cause now I know that I’m riding on right

And it doesn’t matter if no one’s standing beside

It’s the entire world versus me in this fight

But don’t you worry, they call me modern day Zeus

I’m f****** God like.

Quill, Write Ups

THE ANGER THAT SEETHES WITHIN

Gunshots rake through Chatanpally, Telangana. The four accused in the gruesome rape and murder case of Disha are killed. There is a celebration all around and closure for families of other rape victims. This is the victory of good, this is justice

But what baffles me is the meaning of law and justice. Does it entail retaliation and revenge? Does it encompass taking the reigns in your own hands? Or does it mean a systematic and organized process of punishment and deterrence?

These questions swirl in my head while reading the various perspectives regarding this incident that seems to have been the final straw in the history of appalling crimes against women. While some hail this act, others condemn it as an extra-judicial killing. And still, others feel this to be the awakening of a new dawn, a safer world, a brighter future. But this incident is a grim reminder of the eroding faith of citizens in the state institutions of courts. It shows how the years of wait in the courtrooms, hoping for justice have led to the reduction of its legitimacy. Courts are perceived not as harbingers of justice but as a mechanism of enhancing the victim’s suffering by delaying redressal of grievances. The pendency of cases, reformative punishments and an exhaustive list of remedies for the accused, evident from the mercy petition filed by an accused in the Nirbhaya rape case a few days back, have marred the fabric of trust and belief of citizens in justice. This, in turn, has unleashed unbridled rage. It has been aroused all those times the charred bodies and torn identities were displayed in media, girls were ripped apart and killed for daring to dream big. The tolerance has given way to hellbent rage, a longing to right the wrong, to take an eye for an eye and restore order in the society.

It is a sad state of affairs that the inadequacies of the state institutions have brought us to this cusp where we all now become our own masters and rebel against order and balance. But who decides this order and balance, the state and its mongering mouthpieces, the opposition parties with garlands of onions adorning their necks or the academia which does publish reports and articles but is then gagged and underfunded? Or is it decided by commoners, who ride their pillions towards their offices every morning and try to maintain a facade of normalcy in the face of the breaking news they read which threw their age-old ideals and ethics out the window?

While answers may not be plenty, I can say that the present state of affairs is not welcome. It only heralds a darker age of brute force and fury which will burn our existence to the ground.

Quill, Write Ups

But I Became The Change I Wished to See

You surely would have heard of this phrase before at least once if not often. And honestly irrespective of the resistance you showed towards its genuineness and credibility in the ‘modern world’ yet, just like me, just like us, you too accepted it.

And just like me, you too had nothing to answer back when your parents slammed this rhetoric straight into your face, “saari duniya shudaaran da theka tu lita hoya hai?”

Just like me, you too accepted it. But, I did become the change I wished to see in this world, and maybe so did you.

From targeting the most subtle forms that stemmed this plight of the modern woman to directly addressing them, I did it all.

“Teri maa ka”

“Teri behan ki”

Sounds like just another day at school, that is how firmly these slurs (now adjective cum fillers) have inculcated into our language and hence our lives. I eliminated them completely from my vocabulary for I realised nothing would change, surely not the nation until we, the intellectual millennials, keep on promoting raping our own sisters and mothers after every couple of words we speak, in every joke we crack, in every sentence we form. I realised that it wasn’t funny and surely not casual when even my best friend used this filler for me. And I stood my ground firmly irrespective of how many times I’ve been told that I am overreacting upon this ‘just friendly cussing.’ Yet the only thing I felt was a feeling of alienation whenever I stood among/in the groups, my friends, for I didn’t ‘behave’ as normal teen friends do, as I did. “You have changed” that is what I got, because I changed?

Do you feel the same? Have you changed yet?

I put forward stats of how there were only 280 rapes in 30 years when mutilation, stoning to death, or hanging were the three options to chose from when caught guilty of raping in medieval English midlands. How only 63 rapes, all martial, were recorded in 5 years in Viking Scandinavia when beheading was the only punishment.

And I don’t need to prove anything, for now when the punishment begins at 2 years along with the imposition of fine, the stats go to somewhere over 106 rapes per day in India.  

I also tried telling people the problems, I questioned, I studied this predicament, I wrote articles on men, women, and their duties. I fulfilled mine. I became the change I wished to see. Yet, my phone flashes Priyanka’s burned body. Why? Who shall answer me at this juncture? I changed myself for Gandhiji, for ‘mentors’, for ‘well-wishers,’ for those wise ones who told me that doing so would change the society too. Yet, my phone flashes Priyanka’s burned body.

Hey… Knock knock… I know you’re there. You told me to first be the change I wished to see. But I already did that… I don’t see no difference… Hey, I’m talking to you. Have you become the change you wished for? Did anything change?

Am I all by myself, are you still there? When will not me, not you, but we change?

Quill, Write Ups

Peter Pan

Dear peter pan,

Whenever a small version of me woke up in the middle of the night, scared of demons in her dreams, my mum would be right there, ready with a story book and an aura of comfort only she could provide to fill the void of the dark night.

As I lay on my favorite storyteller’s lap, which would always be more homely than my bed, she would read out the title nice and loud:

“Peter Pan, the boy could not grow up.”

And soon I found myself floating in the adventures of a boy too cocky for his own good, a self-centered, bumptious boy who seeks the extremities of his fantasies.

As days passed, there was a constant clash between the beasts who reveled in keeping me awake in the middle of the night and the sweet voice of my mum who lulled a so very pleasant tale of a not so very pleasant boy.

And I started believing in you, started in the Kensington Gardens, started believing in flying, in the wonders of being audacious, in evil and in just a little bit of tinker.

But, above all, I believed in staying young till the very end of eternity.

‘Children have minds that run at speeds; adults could never pace up to.’ Mum used to smile and tell, with a chest filled with pride, to others, to me, to herself.

‘Everything has a price, honey’ she’d say cautiously at times. ‘For Peter must forget all about his adventures and what he learns about the world to stay childlike.’

But as my feet grew, my hands bittered, my tongue dried up and my height rose, so did the expectations of this world.

I remember sitting on the window and waiting for a perpetual sight, bright eyes shining with a hopeful future, a smirk that won’t go away, a sharp red nose, rosy cheeks, viciously pink lips with a melodious voice that would be so pompous that I’d be inspired to leave this worldy mess within seconds.

But, alas, my only company in those lonesome nights would be the scars of the moon; praised by all for it’s beauty.

Have I failed you or you me?

Was I banished to nowhereland without even existing in your team of lost boys?

Why did you give up on me and my escapade before even understanding me?

Maybe I deserved it because of the ridiculous aspirations I had from a boy who could not love for the sake of this undying youth.

When I stand in front of the mirror, I see a lady, a lady in distress, her eyes bloodshot, she waves a bottle of alcohol so as to hypnotize herself to be happy perhaps, she’s covered up in wounds of the past; cleverly hidden underneath tons of makeup.

What has become of the lively adolescent that once stood in her place, the one who was crazy enough to imagine her life as a tiny bud forever, who was moronic enough to imagine that creations lasted and quiet.

My uncanny truth has indeed damaged the very essence of my childhood.

I’ve lost my belief, my dear pan.

Glittery tears, where’s my fairy dust?

Yours truly,

A lost girl you never found.

Quill, Write Ups

Last Words


“The love that moves the Sun and other Stars….” is how Dante Alighieri ends his 100 canto epic, which has rekindled itself throughout history, again and again…and again. Mortality is a “cloud” for Dante, an obscure haze that prevents the truth from being fully seen. Little by little, the Divine Comedy’s events remove the cloud from his vision, preparing him for ever more direct insights into God.

Quill, Write Ups

Walking on Water

Allow me tell you all a little, simple, bed-time, teeny story, although I know I have been writing and delivering poorly these days, unlike I once did. Seems the Gods are angry at me, Odin has taken away from me the power of poetry for my inefficient use. But I can’t stop without even giving a fight maybe this would please Odin and you all, maybe this would revive me.

Let’s go by the traditional start.

Once upon a time, during the rule of King Eirik in the petty kingdom of Vestfold there was a beggar. The beggar -he was not a very tall man, thin as a stick, and always carried a frown upon his face despite the love in his pocket. Aah… but the world doesn’t peep into pockets it just picks pockets. (Look at the desperateness of the writer to engage his audience by throwing punches, look how bad he is failing at it) But this was never what made him distinct, there were already a lot of emaciated beggars and the world was pretty much the same with each of them. What made him different was his ambition, his insanity beyond limits yet all ethical and true, his weird arrogance and haughtiness not of some title but of being himself- what beggar calls himself King after all?

He used to speak often of his desire of being influential, powerful, and important and more than he spoke, he worked for it, grind for it. He lost a lot of friends on his way to power, he lost all those playing and drinking hours, he lost family hours, rock bottom became his home, but kept on moving until one day he challenged King Eirik to a duel and familiarized him with his fate. As per the law, the man who beats King becomes King and this case was no different.

Finally, all his efforts, his walk on this lonely road in pelting cold, it all seemed to end. It was now the time to rejoice and celebrate his victory, reminiscent and cheer skol to his ambition and passion that made him King today, that made a beggar King today. Well, but a man can’t change his soul, can he? A beggar stays a beggar and he seemed to forget that. Being King sounded the most beautiful thing ever, being King was a bit different.

Kings walk in grace but stand in pain. You must be an extremely good observer that stands behind a veil. And while you stand there you just listen, unseen and unhear, you just listen to all. Also, what you listen should be important to you but it also must not affect you too for you might (not might) you will hear people hate you just because they ain’t you.

Dying, as in going back to normal and dying in minds of people as if you never existed, it becomes a dream you dream day and night long. You don’t talk of your pain but once you do, still no one relates to it. And you just wonder to yourself while you reminiscence as to how did you even make it in the first place. You wonder, you rather wish you haven’t had left the farm in the first place.

You think, is this what you envisioned, is it really what you wanted?

Fame to the point of imprisonment. You feel like incredible hulk, your back is broken yet you walk. When they see you down, they say they’ll pray for you and you wonder to yourself why would someone who doesn’t even know you pray for you. No one never prayed a couple of years back, was I not the same man then?

And repeat to yourself, “Be careful what you wish for, you might get what you want. And once you get it, it might get back on you ten fold.”

“Kings never die.”

You turn yourself oblivious again and sing,

“I know some shits so hard to swallow
And I just can’t sit back and wallow
In my own sorrow, but I know one fact
I’ll be one tough act to follow
One tough act to follow, copy, one tough act to follow
Here today, gone tomorrow
But you have to walk a thousand miles

In my shoes, just to see
What it’d be like, to be me
I’ll be you, let’s trade shoes
Just to see what I’d be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each other’s mind
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each other’s eyes

But don’t let ’em say you ain’t beautiful oh
They can all get f*&^$% Just stay true to you.”