The Silence Screams

The silence is killing me

Is not an expression 

For some of us.

Silence is a curse

A reminder of demons that chase us

Voices in our head, sins and shame

We drown in the noise of the world.

We need headphones in a crowd

Playing music that keeps us warm

Amidst cold judgemental stares.

We need stories to be told to us

Like when we were children

To fall asleep to.

Silence bothers us

Like noise bothers some people.

The beating of the heart,

The involuntary breath

The thoughts in my head

I don't want to face 

All come haunting me at midnight 

In the silences

And Music works its magic

Drowning out everything

Questionable and Tragic 

Drifting me to sleep

As if the universe

Sings me a lullaby.

© Suranya

In Search of Love

Love, I had walked to your sanctum

Seeking refuge for my barren soul.

Hoping to be enlightened

Praying to be chosen

By your grace.

I encounter strangers

Who promise to be you

Yet, they know not what you are.

I encounter promises

Vague and unkept,

Unlike what you vowed for.

I chance upon kindness,

A welcome breeze of freshness

And people think it is you.

I smile at naivety,

The desperate search for your presence

That makes them feel they will be

Less lonely, less unhappy, less insecure.

But you never promised to be so, isn't it?

In the chase, in the expectation and idea,

They have lost you somewhere

A representation of you they seek outward

But can't offer themselves.

I walk down the road alone,

Solitude is my peace,

As I realise I have been looking

For you at the wrong places,

In people and things,

But never within me.

~ Suranya

Heartbroken

I gave you my heart 

Not looking for lessons 

Nor expecting to be hurt.

I trusted you with my soul, 

My identity, my being. 

Why is it that now, 

I stand at your threshold, 

Eyes full of tears, 

Heart full of questions?

Why can't you look at me, 

When you say everything was a lie?

If I had known, love was this 

The pain I endure 

The betrayal I feel 

The trust was shattered into broken pieces 

Of my never-to-be-healed heart. 

I would have never loved you, 

The way I unfortunately do. 

~ Suranya

Afterlife

 Once, just for once, imagine if this is the other side.

The heaven or hell you dreaded, 

A place you believed to exist (or not) 

Because your faith said, 

There was something good beyond.

A reward for your virtues, a punishment for your sins. 

What if it's just this, your world of good and bad? 

No other repercussion of your actions exists.

What if this is the place and you don't know it yet?

It just gets worse and worst, doesn't it?

That place you thought of often, 

Your perfect parallel universe, 

A loop of the same lives. 

The seeking doesn't end.

Then, what is the meaning of life?

Is it just to reach the end?

You keep asking, till you can't anymore. 

Your head feels light,

Everything is meaningless. 

Silence fills the void; nobody answers.

~ Suranya

Life

 How many times do you die; 

Before you are truly dead? 

Your body and mind work 

Like people expect them to work 

But you don't think before you act, 

Or say or feel anymore.

You live like a habit, you don't live anymore.

How many of us can say we truly lived

To know ourselves more than what 

Others expect us to be? 

To do the things we want to?

How many can say we truly lived 

Before we died?

~ Suranya

By Chance

 The rain and the sunshine 

How everything in the universe aligns 

To make us meet at the perfect time 

We praise it on fate and stars.

The particles that we are made of, 

The journey and the joy of life 

The reason and rhyme for love 

It all comes down to why.

And all I can say, dear friend,

Is that nothing is planned

Yet chaos is a system 

Beyond our minds.

You and I are like particles. 

Expanded and contracted with time 

A part of this vast universe 

Insignificant in the divine.

We try in vain to understand 

The mysteries that we take by chance 

As a sudden coincidence or divine intervention. 

But nothing in this universe is by chance.

~ Suranya

Welcome to my Poetry Corner!

Hey there!

Welcome to From the Quill: Poetry and Musings by Suranya, my little nook on the internet where I pour out poems, thoughts, and the occasional mini-tale straight from the heart (and a little bit from the curious corners of my mind!).

I’m Suranya. Most of you may already know me from my stories and history-related posts, but here’s something a bit different: poetry and musings. Musings and thoughts often from the deepest corner of my diaries that I have kept through the years, and poetry... It’s a love I stumbled upon rather late, somewhere in my 20s, and it’s been a journey of discovery ever since. I’m still learning, shaping, and experimenting with it, but every verse comes from my faith.

Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to have some of my poems find homes in lovely anthologies (Poets of India, A Puzzle Called Life, Silent Cries, Remember the Roses) and even pop up on amazing community pages like Byme Poetry, Poetic Reveries, Poetry Grapevine, The Writers Repost, Train River Publishing, Globalage Poetry, Heart of Poets, Heart of Quill and Poetry Support by BT.

My poems usually circle around themes close to my heart: faith, history, mythology, relationships, heartbreak, and the many social causes that move me. Style-wise, you might notice tiny echoes of medieval poetry, inspired by my love for the Bhakti and Sufi traditions but always grounded in the emotions of today. A little blend of old and new, if you will.

Here on this blog, you’ll find not just fresh pieces but also my older ones that I’ve once shared before on social media. So, grab a cup of tea (or coffee if that’s your thing!), get comfortable, and wander with me through words.

I’m so excited to share this journey with you.

With love,

S.

Forbidden Love

Her hand trembled on the white pearl string she held close to her bosom. It had tiny red spots on it, which she could not help but assume to be blood. Some of the war, its reminders of the sins of her kin, had rubbed off on her hand now. She shivered a little, trying not to lose composure. She had lost everything that was not hers to begin with. No amount of praying could now heal her broken heart. She was mourning her love in secret because he was gone, but she was still alive. To be scrutinised for lamenting such a forbidden loss. As long as she was breathing, she had to make sure she played her pawns well. She had to reconcile with her siblings. She had to make friends with the enemies. Anything that would make her relevant, even when deep in her heart, she wanted to slip away into oblivion. The most powerful woman in the world spent the night in the darkness of her room, wine glass in hand, helpless and defeated in the hands of fate.

© Suranya

Context: On 29th May, 1568, the armies of Dara Shikoh and Aurangzeb clashed at Samugarh, some odd 10 KMS away from Agra, where an ailing Shah Jahan hoped to put his eldest son on the peacock throne. Jahanara Begum, the eldest child of Shah Jahan and Mumtaj Mahal, the Padshah Begum Sahib of the land, hoped and prayed in vain for a miracle that would deem Dara victorious. Alas, in the well-recorded account of the war, an incompetent Dara escaped to be on the run, chased by Aurangzeb's troops. Among the casualties on Dara's side was the Rao Raja of Bundi, Chatrasal Hada, killed by the cannons of Najabat Khan, Aurangzeb's close aide. On the day Begum Sahib received this news, she was on her way to talk peace with Aurangzeb, hoping that he would spare their father's life. She was ready to embrace the highest form of diplomacy against him and her sister Roshanara, who supported Aurangzeb to the throne and was set to be the Padshah Begum. Stripped of her titles and imprisoned in the fort, Jahanara inclined towards art and religion as her solace in the turbulent times. Once the most powerful woman on the land, she was now at the mercy of others. When we talk of war, we always remember the winners and martyrs. The stories of women who lost everything to these wars remain hidden between the pages of history.

The Sun is Born

This day in 1540, around midnight in the separate quarters of Kumbhalgarh fort, was born a prince who would go on to be his dynasty's most famous king. Not because he won a battle or had a huge kingdom, but because of his resistance against a bigger power, his dream of freedom, his rebellious heart, the qualities that a true leader possesses. Of course, he was not perfect. He was impulsive and often put his heart and emotions above his head and mind. He was sometimes not rational either. You see, rational people don't do selfless things that may harm them. He did. He resisted with all his might. He fought against all odds. He inspired people who came four hundred years after him to fight for freedom. He never had the life of a king, of luxury and privilege. He chose the life in the forest, the guerrilla tactics that forced him to stay away from his family, the life that led him to many personal losses. But he did not feel defeated. That's where he became the man he is. Happy birthday, Pratap. I know it's a tradition to pay tribute to Maharana Pratap, but to me, you are someone personal, someone close, someone who gives me the strength to be a dreamer.

The scorching summer heat gave some relief to Jivanta Bai once the sun came down on the western horizon between the cliffs of the Aravalli.
From the window of the Rani Mahal of Kumbha Palace, she could see the wide walls of Kumbhalgarh, the decorated roof of the temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. She prayed from her window now that it was difficult to move much. The Daima said her baby was due any day soon. She placed her hand on her belly gently as she smiled to herself. She wanted a boy. Not because Mewar expected its king's firstborn to be heir, but because she wanted to finally have a man who wouldn't disappoint her expectations of
men. She would mould him into everything his father was not. Brave, respectful and chivalrous. She would live her life through his experiences. She would protect her baby no matter what. A sudden pang of pain alerted her as she called out for her maid in slight panic. The woman
inspected her and smiled. It was time. The cry of a newborn rang through the air of the silent night at Kumbhalgarh. The excited maids whispered how he was born in the same Prahar at midnight as Kanha, the lord their queen prayed to for a boy. Jivanta Bai was coming in and out of consciousness as she watched the baby cradled by the wet nurse. Conch shells blew, and the bells in the temples rang in good news. It was a boy. Jivanta Bai extended her trembling hands at the wet nurse as she placed the newborn beside the queen of Mewar. She gently kissed his soft forehead as he let out a cry. He was her hope and joy. Jivanta knew the moment the astrologer predicted his future as a unique one, that of an immortal hero, that her task as a mother, her responsibility as queen, was greater than she had imagined. She had given birth to a boy; she would have to raise a king. A king who would be father to his subjects, respectful to his queens and honour the names of his forefathers. The astrologer suggested names. Jivanta cradled her child in her arms as she whispered into the cooing baby's ears before he was taken to his father for the official naming.
"Kunwar Pratap Singh Sisodiya, welcome to Mewar, your home and your motherland."

© Suranya

The Chessboard Burns

I stand and watch

The pawns change colour 

As the chessboard burns. 

Thoughts rattled, ideas shackled

I often wonder how faith turns. 

Blind they are, following kings to wars

Being the first in fallen lines. 

Wrath of Nature, angered Gods? 

It's all your doing humans.

History repeats, blood and scar

Yet you don't learn love over waging wars.

~ Suranya

War Zone

The cry of the peacock haunts me 

The scared call of the animals beyond 

What have you done, mankind? 

Where are your moral grounds? 

We watch them burn 

Being grazed on the grounds 

Thousands of homes, 

Millions of hopes abandoned. 

All because Man wants 

War and progression; 

To develop a planet 

Where only the rich survive, 

Buy oxygen to breathe, 

Make synthetic food to eat 

And boast about a healthy life.

~ Suranya

Chaitanya

My heart is that of Radha's 

Longing to reunite with my Beloved.

My soul that of His, 

One and the same, he and I. 

There they sit together 

Witnessing song, dance, and frolick 

Colours that smear the same 

On every skin, 

Rich, poor, class and caste alike.

The red of love, the orange of sacrifice 

The yellow of spring, green of everlasting promises.

And here I am, dancing in a frenzy 

Singing the praises of the Lord 

Who made you and I? 

Would He not grant me a final wish, 

And reveal Himself to me 

As the drums play along?

~ Suranya

Holi is celebrated across India as a day when Krishna confessed his affection for Radha. However, in most parts of East India, especially Odisha and Bengal, this full moon is celebrated as Dol Purnima. Here's why:

Vishambhar Mishra was born in Nabadwip, Nadia, in a commoner's house on the day of Holi in 1486 CE. As he was born under a Neem tree, his nickname (Daak naam) was Nimai. His affection for Krishna and Bhakti grew under the influence of Swami Ishwara Puri, especially after losing his first wife, Lakshmipriya. Finally, at the age of 24, he left home under the guidance of his Guru Swami Kesava Bharati. He left behind his second wife, Bishnupriya, and founded the Gauriya Vaishnavism. It grew into a new cult with followers, where he preached that no priest was needed to worship the Lord. It earned him the name Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, and like many of the Bhakti saints during his time, he also earned the enmity of not only the ruling class and local king (Hussain Khan) but also that of orthodox priests. Nevertheless, to his growing followers who called themselves Vaishnavs, he was believed to be a reincarnation of Radha and Krishna in one body and soul. Jagai and Madhai became his primary disciples. The main form of worship for the Vaishnavs, Kirtan, a song and dance attributed to telling stories and honouring Lord Krishna's Leela, became a popular form of worship across East India. Even today, Kirtan is not only a form of worship but also an art form attributed to the East. Chaitanya travelled across East India and finally settled in Puri, where he mysteriously disappeared in 1534CE. He is believed to have drowned in the sea to become one with God.

Bengalis celebrate the day of Purnima in Falgun as the day of his Abirbhav (arrival) on earth, and hence in Bengal, Holi is known as Dol Purnima. The word Dol Jatra is attributed to the worship of Lord Krishna and Radha on a swing taken around the villages (Jatra means travel) on the day of Holi. Horir Lut (The Loot of Hari) is also an East Indian tradition that comes from this day when Batasha, Murki, Kodma and other offerings are distributed among Bhakts by throwing them into the crowd.

On that note, Subho Dol Purnima, Everyone!

Imperfect

I am the daughter who brought bad grades home. And every time I did, I saw a look of disappointment in my parents' eyes. I am the daughter who made my parents worry about my future. To the world that counts the intelligence of a child by their maths number, I was the stupid, head-in-the-clouds, immature person who cried at the slightest inconvenience. I matured later than my parents expected me to, and I was pretty sure at some point in my clueless life that I could perhaps never make anyone feel proud of me. The complaints were piling up.

But I did, I made myself proud of who I am the most. Everyone else comes after that. I found my way, I stick to my dreams and believe in my ability to fulfil them, maybe not all at once but slowly, gradually and finally. I became independent not by choice but by the way life experiences taught me to be self-reliant is the best way to keep me from expectations and hurt. I go through existential crises, knowing so does everyone else at all ages around me, trying to find meaning and purpose in things beyond our control. None of us has our lives going exactly the way we envisioned, and that is fine; we will figure it out.

© Suranya