Friday, October 8, 2010

Editorial (October - September '10)



It’s rather unbelievable how the months have flown by like a breeze. It seems like just yesterday, when our corridors were full of fresh faces and eager smiles. They shuffled their way into classrooms, with their books, some dog-eared and some brand new; pages waiting to be read and written on. Last term was a blur of activity and excitement. The Department Orientation welcomed the Freshers to a new world; the Freshers’ Party saw them exploring this Wonderland; and the trip gave them an opportunity to get to know their seniors, and each other, in the lap of nature and amidst the scenic beauty of Dharamshala. We’ve tried to capture these fleeting moments, ephemeral like autumn leaves, and preserve them as vignettes. We take this opportunity to welcome the Freshers aboard a voyage which they will cherish forever.


We are all aware of the dilemmas facing the department and the country, with the implementation of the Semester System and the hosting of the Commonwealth Games. Yet, we should also appreciate the brighter side to everything, celebrate the success of past events, and look forward to a promising and wonderful second term. We apologise for the delay in publishing the journal, which was due to unavoidable circumstances, and hope you will enjoy this first issue, fresh off the press. To have a room of one’s own is a privilege, as well as a responsibility, and we hope you keep writing in to us. Because we share Atwood’s conviction that ‘word after word after word is power’.

The Editorial Team 


Snapshots by Niharika Gupta

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Martha Kanter Speaks

Martha Kanter, Under Secretary of Education, USA, speaks to Jabberwock about the prerequisites of the Semester System.


The semester system has worked successfully in American higher education for many years. But at the heart of any system is the quality of the courses that are taught. Professors must be supported to determine the competencies and student learning outcomes planned for every course, the required number of hours of instruction, laboratory work and a host of other issues that makes any system a success.

A Death Foretold

On the day they were going to kill him, Mohammed Abdul Rasheed got up at five in the morning, to attend the morning prayer at the local mosque. Dressed in white, his crocheted taqiyah neatly covering his head and his prayer book tucked under his arm, he went through the house with long strides, as the shadows of dawn danced upon the earthen walls. He walked toward the winding pathway leading to the courtyard of the mosque, smiling at the little boys on their bicycles, on their way to the madrassa. He passed the khejri tree under which the village panchayat was gathering to discuss matters pertaining to the community at large. The young girls beside the pond by the village post-office, looked away coyly as he approached them, hiding their faces with the rims of their sarees. The youngest and the most beautiful of them all, lovingly called Beba by the village folk, was the only one who looked up to catch his eye. She walked with him toward the shady grove at the water’s edge, where he asked her not to entertain anyone this evening, for he would stop by at her kothi before dusk.

The air was still, and the cocks were crowing, just as they had in his dream the night before. It was a calm and quiet morning, just like most mornings in the quaint little village of Samain, in spite of the revelry which had continued till the sun decided to rise on the paddy fields. Marriages were a big affair in this small town in Fatehabad, especially if one or both of the betrothed belonged to the moneyed class. So when Ramesh Tyagi, the son of a money lender from Rohtak, decided to woo and finally wed Pavitra, daughter of a craftsman in our village, the proposal was met with much jubilation. Pavitra was a distant relative of mine, and I remember her as a young girl, reticent and homely. On those few occasions when, tired of the grime and squalor of the city, I would come down to Samain to spend a few leisurely weeks in the rural countryside, I’d live a couple of days with her. She kept to herself mostly, scrubbing pots or cooking for the family. When her father went blind, her brothers Shiv and Prithvi took upon themselves the task of earning for the family’s meager wants, by raising chicken in the backyard. As for Pavitra, she confined herself to the chores, under the watchful eye of her mother.

I was staying at her place, when Ramesh came to town with a job at hand, and decided to inform the entire village that the pretty damsel washing clothes at the ghat had caught his fancy. The very next day, her family received sweets and bouquets of freshly pruned flowers, a fair barter for her love. Initially, the khap panchayat had annulled the marriage, holding that it violated the age-old custom defining the areas of incest, and prohibiting marriages within the same gothra. However, when they heard that Ramesh had plans of setting up a bank in the district, they blessed the couple and pronounced it a match made in heaven. So Pavitra, the new bride with vermilion on her forehead, was told by her mother that love too can be learned, and was led away like cattle.

On the day they were going to kill him, I was packing my bags and getting ready to leave for the city. The rickshaw-puller waited impatiently outside, surrounded by the village dogs, barking excitedly and pacing the yard. Away from my knowledge, Pavitra lay locked in the next room, bruised and beaten, her salty tears streaming down to her trembling lips. She had been returned that very night, similar to the cattle which the butcher deems unfit to slaughter and sell. On being asked to reveal the identity of her clandestine lover, she had looked in the shadows, only to find Mohammed's name among the many, and she nailed it to the wall with her well-aimed dart. And away from my knowledge, beside the little shop where Kavita sold milk and local brew, Pavitra’s brothers were waiting to kill him. Everyone knew that they were going to kill him. And everyone thought he knew it as well. But Mohammed Abdul Rasheed walked down the winding pathway from the mosque, at peace after the muaulvi’s blessings, blissfully unaware of his impending fate. It was as though fatality makes one invisible.

As my rickshaw pulled toward the village square, the contraption creaking under the weight of my baggage, I heard a commotion in the distance. And I saw the dust rising up as numerous feet shuffled in that direction. I climbed down, and stopped a passerby to question her about the chaos.

“The Hindu men have killed the Muslim boy,” deplored the old woman, clutching her beads to her breast.

In a community where Hindus and Muslims lived in harmony, this piece of news disturbed me deeply. I turned toward Bittu, a boy working at the chai dukaan, and grabbing him by the shoulders I asked him the same question, a bit more frantically this time.

“What’s done is done,” he replied insightfully, shaking his head.

“It had to happen,” explained the village chowkidar beside me. “The panchayat believes it. So do the people. If a virgin will not bleed, then the perpetrator must.”

Gauri Behn, coming from the opposite direction, wailed aloud. “They’ve killed Mohammed Rasheed. They killed him for honour, when there is no honour in killing. We all killed him. Both you and I, and each one of us.”

Before she could complete her sentence, I found myself running toward the crowd. As I approached Mohammed, the man who we had killed off to keep alive our honour, he was in the throes of death, gasping, choking and sputtering like a fish out of water. He clutched his side, where the blood had imbrued his cotton jubbah, and was slowly forming a pool in the dusty ground.

“Allah will forgive them for their sins, for Allah is oft-forgiving, most merciful.”

With these last words, he stopped struggling, lay still and closed his eyes. I remained kneeling beside him, till his chest stopped heaving, and his head dropped to one side. The village folk soon dispersed, some grieving, some lamenting, some doubting, some believing. The sun was slipping behind a cloud, and its waning rays bedimmed the village square. Yet Mohammed Abdul Rasheed's face glowed, under the darkening sky, its expression serene and almost childlike. I looked at my hands, carmine stained, like those of the priest at the sacrificial altar. Allah, most merciful one, only you know whether this man has sinned or not. But as for our sins, would you ever forgive them?

~ Bhavika Sicka

The Sinister System

“Do we have any classes tomorrow? I heard that there’s some strike ...”
This has become an oft repeated question by students in the past few weeks, some hopeful and others apprehensive. What most of them fail to realize is the fact that no class today would imply extra classes tomorrow. And ironically, this then leads the same students, who were jubilant about the class cancellation the day before, to realize their plight and request teachers to take class.

No, this isn’t an attack on either the teachers or the students, but on the ‘sinister’ semester system looming ahead. You may have observed that it has created quite an uproar among the colleges of Delhi University. If you ask a DU student about the semester system, you’ll encounter an alarming change in countenance – their eyebrows contract, ears redden, teeth are bared and fists curl. The general impression one assumes about the system, is of an all-consuming evil thing, out to get the vulnerable students and teachers.

For those who are unaware of its structure, the semester system will require two examinations to be held in a year; a total of six three years in a degree course. Whatever has been taught in one semester is not repeated in the other. So what happens in a literature course? Can you divide a lengthy novel and teach it in two parts without referring one part to the other? The arguments of the teachers against it don’t seem to be senseless either. The Vice Chancellor Deepak Pental has been accused of forcing the system, without an adequate debate or consensus among the teachers. Moreover, many clearly state that the annual results are never on time. How, then, will the University manage to declare the results of two semesters in a year? The students won’t have sufficient time for extracurricular and co-curricular activities, which would go to mean, in dramatic words, that for a majority of students, college life is over. It’s like you crawl out of school curriculum and then you’re dragged back. Some advantages stated by those who advocate the system is that it’ll make students more focused and control absenteeism. Since a semester is more intensive, the student will have to keep up with what is being taught in class. Also, the credit system doesn’t reveal the student’s actual marks, which reduces a sense of failure among those who score poorly.

Deshbandhu, Kirori Mal, SGND Khalsa and Delhi College of Arts and Commerce are among colleges protesting actively against its implementation. Those colleges where the teachers didn’t protest but chose to conduct regular classes include Lady Shri Ram College, Indraprastha College, St. Stephen’s and Dyal Singh College.

To sum it up, one cannot deny the academic benefits of the semester system, but at what cost?
The system instigates a chain reaction against ECA – a student apprehensive of missing classes and losing attendance, doesn’t have much say, when she/he wants to participate in a college function but is unable to, owing to the classes being held on the same day and at the same time. I thought college was all about balancing academics and extra curricular activities, and being provided the liberty to prioritize between them if one wished to. It’s also a deeply acknowledged fact that those who want to study, will, and those who don’t … well, no semester system can exert any control over them whatsoever.

~ Neha A. Owaisy

Is this Delhi that I see?

Is this Delhi that I see?
No birds, no plants, no greenery
Beautification of the city they said
‘Men at work’ the signboards read
Bricks, mortar, cement, and stone
New structures have been grown
Colour, fragrance, liveliness
Nature spreading happiness
Sweet songs of birds and bees
Pure air and the cool breeze
Now replaced by oil and grease
Smoky air that makes you sneeze
Is this Delhi that I see?
No birds, no plants, no greenery.
 
2010 Commonwealth Games
It was the culprit to be blamed
But is it right and is it fair
Blame not one it should be shared
Wrong has been done, everyone’s to blame
It was not ‘them’ cause ‘we’ had claimed
Beautification by cutting down trees
Progress and growth that’s what we see
Isn’t it so foolish, isn’t it so lame
Putting natural beauty to artificial shame
Cement structures and stony lanes
Done all this for Commonwealth Games
Oh when will this attitude change?
‘Growth’ by cutting tress isn’t it strange
Not measured by the structures built
But by the trees that we have killed
Can’t change it now we’ve done it all
Letting buildings grow & trees to fall
We’ve done it all
We’ve done it all.
 
Is this Delhi that I see?
No birds, no plants, no greenery.

~ P.S. Pranika 

The Death of Báthory


The following is based on the true story of the notorious 'Blood Countess' Erzsébet Báthory (1560 - 1614).

The windy gale blew through the trees
Which grew around the grey brick walls
That rose up high to meet the sky
As did the tower tall.

The grey-blue clouds and grey-green grass
Stretched over hillsides looking down
On winding roads and little huts
Which was Čachtice town.

The broken archway echoed still
With frantic yells of virgins young
While down below in Čachtice
The doleful death knell rung.

The narrow stony pathway paved
With painful cries as dark as night
Wound slowly down the rugged slope
Till it was out of sight.

The candle flickered in the wind
And caused the shadows on the wall
To dance around as witches do
On hearing Hecate call.

As shadows rose when daytime closed
And sunlight waned and moonlight gleamed
The lonely woman in the tower
Could hear the silence scream.

The woman's dreams were plagued with blood
Like carmine stains on dungeon floors
And haunted all her silent nights
Till she could sleep no more.

Her beauty and her youth had once
Made her bloom like a rosy flower
Which withered as the hours and days
Passed by her in death tower.

And all the blood of peasant girls
And maids and serfs and noble dames
Could not prevent the blood in her
From draining as death came.

No vanity or drunken pride could
Save her from the tide of death
Which swept away her glory as she
Breathed her last breath.
~ Bhavika Sicka

A Grey Lock of Hair

Shattered, Shaken and Sudden
Stormed by an inconsolable silence
Two heavy hearts stunned at an inevitable occurrence

On the way to granny's funeral,
A grey lock of hair caught my eye
That of my father sitting beside me,
And a strange tremor passed through me,

I was hit by a pensive thought:

The day life takes a drastic turn,
Of the very destiny that we fear
Of the loss we tremble
Of the age when I will be all alone,
Though my past landscape would remain the same,
Death  would take us all;

devoid of the lively happy times,
The question that crosses my mind
why does life anyway come to a close?
And memories cast an awfully long shadow,

“death can’t defeat me”, said I as a child
“I will be his friend, playing in the forests wild!”

But that day my hands were chilly,
I held my father’s hand unexpectedly,
Who was preoccupied in sleep,
Life is a long journey,
But getting over its end ,is even longer ;
Isn’t it true my dear reader?
That
The filthy race of stumbling each other inferior,
the war for power,
Is so futile and transient,
I know not ,
why is this grey a constant reminder of the end?”
      
Because Death knows no smiles and frowns
No childhood nor friendships, 
Riches give us solace that is so fake..
Nobody is elevated  in death
Then why bicker about the wealth-ridden cart?
Says the battle I wage to my heart
For we are all scared
Of the dawn of that grey lock in our lives.
~ Rini Barman

Anarchy Unplugged

Accursed, abused and abhorred. The figure of Vice that has adorned literature for centuries has spawned ill favored reactions from readers, across the ages.
The unmitigated malice and irrepressible vengeance that characterizes the ‘Satanic genius’ or the anti-hero has been seen for its sheer ingenuity to overpower all good.
Literature flummoxes us with its depiction of moral categories by showing them as fluid and not a rigid system of ‘good’ and ‘evil’.
While depiction of good lends itself to doubts, evil seems enthralling and attractive, to the extent of sometimes winning our sympathies.
Despite their philosophical deviance, ‘evil’ characters have spurred the imagination of writers and readers alike for generations.
One may wonder why this darkness attracts our psyche and the sneers seem more attractive than pitiful sighs? Why do the evil monologues seem to induce a sense of wonder and awe, along with waryness?
From Shakespeare and Dickens to the contemporary Bret Easton Ellis, writers have romanced with the infernal side of man.
Iago, one of literature’s greatest villains, has been labeled with negative epitaphs ranging from being a “moral pyromaniac” to “onto-theologian on evil”.
Yet, it is interesting to note that Iago still remains one of the most engaging characters of the bard; Shaespeare.
Through clever manipulation of the spoken word and the impeccable use of his victims’ cognitive power, Iago dodges all blame and inflicts Othello, who ends up earning the readers ire.
However, Coleridge’s formulation- “the motive-hunting of motiveless malignity” seems to be the best explanation – behind the sneers and the jabs, Iago’s mind is seething with white noise.
The most memorable characters in fiction are often those whose evil isn’t comprehensible. That is, they aren’t driven purely by greed or mania for power. It is this incomprehensible nature of these characters that transcends the understanding of the author and readers alike and makes them acquire a dangerous life force of their own. For instance, Stavrogin in Dostoevsky’s The Possessed is a charming, intelligent and handsome man who nonetheless frightens even his own mother with his riveting and inexplicable deeds.
King Lear’s Edmund , another Mephistophelian figure of Shakespeare, who baffles readers with the depth of his malcontent. Reeling under the torment of injustices meted out to him because of his illegitimate birth (which in no way justifies his subsequent actions), he frames his own brother; plays the love rat with Goneril and Regan and finally orders the execution of Lear and Cordelia. The audience is initially made to feel sympathetic towards him, until his true character is revealed.
There exists, of course the question of the existence of pure Evil. Writers like Kafka see evil as a function of a system rather than that of an individual. Hannah Arendt has written about the “banality of evil” and the possibility of our contributing to it through bureaucratic detachment or through the lack of action by good men. Some of these notions are difficult for a writer to depict. Perhaps this is the reason why there arises a need to look at these characters with a different eye. Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities produces a formidable femme fatale in the character of Madame Defarge for whom, revenge lies in the annihilation of the French aristocracy. As the book says, “… imbued from her childhood with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class, opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of her.”
However, Lucie, with her golden curls, perfect home and air of innocence is a “good woman”. These binaries don’t give Madame Defarge (who’s intent on finding political justice for the wrongs done to her family) much room to work in.
Perhaps Shylock may also be seen as representing the angst of a marginalized class in the dominant Christian society. Perhaps, the apparent anti-Semitic politics of The Merchant of Venice paints the Jewish moneylender in negative terms. These terms seem to be a construction of the European majority, which denounces the entire Jewish race as lasviscious, greedy and crafty, thereby completely nullifying the voice of the subaltern.
It is not the immortal fantastical creatures like vampires and zombies that make the greatest impression, but those that are human.  For instance, in the novel The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dr Jekyll doesn’t start out as a monster. He is instead forced, almost against his will, to become the sociopath Mr. Hyde and commit crimes he would shudder at. However the author takes an interesting route. Dr Jekyll decides he likes being Mr. Hyde. He enjoys indulging his  worst nature.  Perhaps he has, at a subconscious level, wanted to commit those crimes and now, as Mr. Hyde, he finds that he can. But, in trying to isolate the evil in his character, he is consumed instead which may be seen as tragic. Thus, Stevenson adds another dimension to this ‘evil’ character.
Milton unconsciously, is seen depicting Satan as a hero in Paradise Lost. With some of the most beautiful similes and lines in the epic poem, Milton makes him more attractive than God or Adam. He is shown as representing ambition, determination, nobility and honor- all qualities worth emulating.
 Therefore villains, despite their sinister side, have something to recommend them . Although there is nothing Captain Hook likes better than plunging his hook into people, he also has a gentle side. He  plays the flute and the harpsichord (how is not the point), loves Wordsworth and Coleridge, and is a stickler for form.
Patrick Bateman from American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis is the smiling face on Wall Street who enjoys fine dining, the Genesis, the band called the Talking Heads, rape, murder and dismemberment. Ellis’ success is perhaps because none of Bateman’s interests appear to bore this murderous fact-finding martian, who is revolting and humorous in equal measure.
Lastly, one cannot forget to mention the figures of Lord Voldemort and Sauron when talking of an evil, seemingly beyond human reach. These figures represent a powerful and all encompassing menace that strives for absolute power. The “unsleeping eye” of Sauron and the “horcruxes” of Voldemort embody their diabolic essence.
One may conclude that there are and will be some very enchanting evil figures representing all that is wrong with our society in literature. Perhaps the attractiveness is a sub-conscious reminder of the “evil” or simply that the good is too conventional, too powerful and brings out the rebel in us.
One shudders at their acts and yet is in awe simultaneously because latent in us is the awareness in the Joker’s words, “We’re not so different you and I.”

~ Amrita Singh




Manto says the blame’s on all


Manto says the blame’s on all
But who cares, we are ready for the fall
He wrote short stories, 250 in all
But who cares, we are ready for the fall.
 
1947: the year we were free
We went on a killing spree
Brotherhood forgotten, love long lost
Let’s see today, who slaughters the most
Manto was shaken,
And so were the rest
Birds were scared,
Even in their nests.
 
Some said, ‘its all because of these British
Before they came there was nothing amiss’
We accepted it then
Felt good for the heart
After all we are Indians,
Pretty smart.
 
Years passed Manto was dead
Trotting trudging lives we lead
Thought we had rewritten our past
So 1984 left us aghast!
 
Mirrored the same old violence and vengeance
Our thirst for blood wasn’t quenched
For a hollow identity
For something so fake
How could we put our everything on stake?
 
No one spoke, not only the khadi-clad
Not even you, me or any common lad
Soon we forgot soon we were back
Our normal lives again on track.
 
1992 our throat ran dry
Long time didn’t see anyone cry
Hunger for some more blood
A little more shroud
How could we live without - it
Our staple diet!
More blood, more gore
Still chanting ‘more, more’
This wasn’t all
Just a bigul ‘call’
A lot was left
Grief, lust, theft
Houses broken, broken hearts
Broken into pieces, shreds and parts
Jigsaw puzzle, did we think it so?
Lives can’t be fixed, they are meant to grow.
 
It happened then,
It’s happening now,
Only numbers remain,
As years move on.
 
Manto is dead,
And so will be the rest,
We didn’t care then,
We don’t care now.
 
So let’s accept our fault, and put a halt
This killing spree must come to a stop
Manto had said the blame’s on all …
                    the blame’s on all …

~ P. S. Pranika 

Life


Life is like a river, it flows on,
Halting at precious moments, it goes on.
Meandering from beginning to end,
And here and there you see a bend.
Passing lush meadows and bountiful woods,
Which you may not notice though you should.
The beautiful trees swayed by the wind,
The azure sky above the rivers brink,
The golden sunlight making the waters gleam,
The countryside crisscrossed by numerous streams.
Yet sometimes the river gets stormy and wild,
And rocks you like a cradle rocks a child.
Now and then it changes coarse,
And takes you along with its currents force.
At times when the river is tidal and rough,
Going against the flow may be tough.
So flow with the river, wherever it takes you.
Overcome the storms, though there are few.
And when the river is smooth and mild,
Enjoy the experience till the end of the ride.

~ Bhavika Sicka

Monochrome of Dreams

Another muse comes and goes,
Another mound of waste.
One more masterpiece spun out of the no man's space.
He looks beyond everything and sees everything.
A child prodigy..
A shapeful, meaningful monster.

Rotting muses.
Fading tunes.
Broken lines.
Broken lies.

Wild hair, wild wind.
A sad melody.

Masterpieces trashed in a corner.
They're all beautiful, all same.
All to nothing, nothing to all. All out of nothing. Nothing out of it all.
He's dreaming.

Crystal shards. Up close. Receding.
Rose tinted.
Ice-blue.
Filigree, snow flakes.
Lights. So bright. Receding.

He wakes. A sleepy wake. A waking dream.
He looks, more muse to follow.
Masterpieces to come.
They mean nothing. To him. To anybody.
Beautiful, works of a lunatic.

He closes his eyes.
He's dreaming.
Sweet, sad dreams.
He's dreaming.
Let him dream.

~ Angel

The Mess

While bridges fall and newer craters emerge with each spell of rain- even as rollers roll and labourers toil tirelessly- I sit on my bed trying to think; blocking out the metro’s din and carpenter’s drill. My plight is shared by hundreds of DU hostel residents who are being evicted on the “occasion” of the Commonwealth Games. That’s all I genuinely wanted in my life since DUTA strikes, semester system, hostel eviction, rising café prices, college politics, assignments, projects, exams, CAT, lack of money and work are petty things and of absolutely no consequence to me. All I needed for celebrating the glory of the Queen was dug up roads, falling bridges, and of course, no place to live!

In case you haven’t figured it out already, I fail to see a point in any of this. Unless it is to make news, which isn’t a good enough point in my book. Roads are makeshift pools and breeding place of mosquitoes, every project incomplete or sub standard and the GoM has proved it is as efficient as the OC. The Games Village is filthy and unliveable and one can almost imagine it pleading to the Yamuna to drown it, again. The footbridge outside the main venue falls injuring 27, and the Union Urban Development Minister refuses to talk about something as little as that. Metro, of course, never disappoints as the next disaster waiting to happen.

We insist on having bus stands, shades, dust bins and streetlights that are no less than a work of modern art and are eager to portray Delhi as the next New York, but is it so hard to see that we are nowhere close? I don’t even know why we have to be. Why are we so bent on putting a face pack, in an attempt to hide the zits and scars, knowing full well that it’ll only take another good spell of rain to get rid of the facade?

I am appalled at whoever decided to bid for the Games and then went ahead with it, partly because it is a pointless event but mostly because we were just not ready for it. We still aren’t, and won’t be in another ten years if we go on like this. And believe you me one doesn’t have to be Einstein to figure that out. The point is that we haven’t matured enough, as a nation and as a people, to host an International event like the CWG or the Olympics. We don’t have the infrastructure and we don’t have a system or the people who can get the infrastructure ready. Not anything world class anyway. It is just another exercise in looting the aam junta and pocketing the taxpayers money or gifting the moolah to one’s son, if you please, as our dear OC Chairman has done by allotting contracts without taking out tenders.

My only regret is that we’ll give the world a proof of our inefficiency and corruption. We’ll justify the stereotyping and branding we’ve fought tooth and nail against. And all for something like the Commonwealth Games. What a waste.

~ Sakshi Arora

Her Father

You're her father?
Oh! She has your smile!
You're her father?
Oh! What a lovely child!
You're her father?
Yes! Thank You! The kid is mine.

I am your father
lower your eyes
I am your father
I'm always right
I am your father
Don't put up a fight

I am her father
what have you taught the wench?
I am her father
knock some sense into this head
I am her father
make her understand

He is your father
how dare you speak like that?
He is your father
Cause of you, enough I've had
He is your father
obey all his orders

He is your judge
till you have his roof above your head.

~ Kritika Mudgal

I've Been

I've been near the frayed edges of madness,
I've been there; and stayed.
I've seen the lies that overpower;
When the world stands a bait.
To the mad men, that die, and wait.

I've turned circles, and turned lines.
I've turned forces, and walked mines.
I've felt what pushes through; when you lose control.
When the nerves snap, and the the soul pines.

I've pulled demons, out of angels.
I've burnt poison, and touched pain.
I've killed...when the day dies, again.
When the miasma spreads and leaves a stain.

I've screamed. For the fear.
I've smiled for the fright.
I've scraped away at the darkness,
I've seen the years take flight.

When the world cries, in wild agony.
When the souls drown in disdain.
When the heavens weep in anguish,
And the crepuscular takes the reins.

I've seen the world handed over,
And over.
And I've seen the shadows, last and go.

I've been around, for a long long time.
I've been here,
and stayed.

~ Angel

The Meadows

A shade of pastel green stretched on,
Below the azure horizon,
As I stopped to ponder,
And take a more leisurely look,
At the verdant fields by the brook,
And the meadows yonder.

The pastures and the grazing lands,
The haystacks tinted shades of sand,
On which the cattle fed.
The merry maiden was picking corn,
Humming a tune, she seemed forlorn,
As she picked, beside the shed.

The sky that morn was crystal clear,
As I strolled along, and stopped to peer,
At the carriage on the path.
Which passed the naked sun baked boys,
Exuberant in their mirth and joy,
Having their midday bath.

Calm and peaceful, I ambled along,
And whistled the tuneful pleasant song
The maiden had hummed to me.
She had given me a lovely smile,
Which had lingered on, and lasted a while,
Remaining etched in my memory.

After all these years, even today,
I still cherish that peaceful day;
Beautiful in every way.
The acres of lustrous grass so fine,
And the honey coloured sunshine,
That led the cattle astray.
~ Bhavika Sicka

Memory

Because the world smells weirder through palms with old oil on them.
Because old, oiled locks, my grand-mom’s bunch of keys: that’s what nostalgia smells like.
The stuff that that strange regret is made of.
Lost cups of ‘mom-made’ ginger-tea with lemon spike.

“Click”, goes the key in the lock, you hear it turn,
The layer of loss in your hands. The babble inside.

Used-oil smoothness, the rust of gates on your hands now,
Brown circles, where used tea-cups rip your memory apart wide.

Then musty books with their strange smell overpower you,
And you begin to think of the “candy floss for five” man;

And then in a whirlwind the lost world winks and passes by,
While you sit and wonder when it all began.

When butterfly-clips were replaced by straighteners,
When lunch-boxes became a cause for silly shame,

When suddenly, words took a life of their own,
Living with you: Loneliness, Pain, Tears, Blame.

In moments that come but rarely, yet come,
A storm- it breaks your heart.

Old smells and images blur your flashback lane
And claw your soul apart.

~ Mouli Banerjee

Somewhere in Between

Feels I'm headed for nowhere,
Feels like forever.
And it won't go.
Eternity, a curse,
For now,
And times that follow.
Unseen forces, that pull,
and retrace,
And push back.
The only place ever left to return to,
Nowhere,
And somewhere, in between.
I have seen,
Dreams,
Of tearless faces, and fearless nights.
I have felt hands,
Soft hands,
That kill,
The pain within and curses.
And eyes,
That would look through you,
And destroy,
The hurt, and more.
But outside,
Away ... from the dreams.
Are sad faces,
And hurt hearts,
And black walls,
Painted black again.
And somewhere in between,
I've seen Dreams,
Of love and much more.
But outside,
There's nothing.
Just a passing breeze and
memories of a dream,
Put out, stacked away,
Somewhere in between.

 ~ Angel

The Happy Loser

It was always unequal if not unfair
The transaction robbed me of that i held dear
I was ushered into a new world
Bumping. Banging. Falling. Resisting.
I was shoved with a new consciousness
Appalled. Intimidated. Excited. Pleased.

I hated you for the pain you caused
While reinforcing the constancy of change
You were the culprit but i was executed
For the guilty knowledge you empowered me with
Once again, Eve bore the brunt
While the Serpent slithered scot free.

With time i began to rejoice in the Fall
For it was redemption from a life like Sisyphus'
You transformed into a Saviour. Emancipator. Champion.
Pandemonium metamorphosed to Heaven
And i realized that the 'new world' is ancient, historic
And that i am initiated into it...

~ Sakshi Arora