From The Quill of Suranya

Water over the head  Drowning in a sea of blood, Sweat and tears, blurry vision, A voice echoes in the chaos Of screaming bodies, silent minds.  Ideas do not die.  People do.  Ideas build societies.  People break them.  Ideas cause rebellion.  People suppress them.  Ideas are loud,  People silence them.  But when enough is enough  One idea multiplies into thousands, The silence screams into deafening noise Of resistance and protest; A cause brings about a crowd  That always hopes  It can change the world.  ~ Suranya

I sat alone on the overly comfortable couch in the room with blue walls and green curtains. There was something very clean about the room. The painting on the wall was abstract, and it felt like every piece of furniture, every bit of art, every bit of stationery was there to test my mind. I have never been to a psychiatrist, psychologist or counsellor before. This was my first time in therapy, and I wondered what he was like. The man who walked in after two polite knocks was rather older than I expected. He was about my grandfather's age. I wondered if he would understand the complexities of the new generation and the stress we go through. Truth be said, I did not even know if something was wrong with me, but I felt so overwhelmed lately that I could not sleep at night. That was when I decided to try therapy because my bad thoughts had by now transformed into bad dreams and nightmares that woke me up with sweat and tears in the middle of the night. I wondered if he could fix all of...

 A rush of warmth; It feels like my head is going to explode. There's anxiety and a headache, There's life and meaning, There's everything and nothing.  And no matter what I read, What I know, How much I distance myself, How aloof I feel, I am pulled back into a whirlpool Of emotions I suppress Feelings I dread; As I find myself slipping away In nightmares and afterthoughts Of choices I never got to make. ~ Suranya

Ever looked up at the sky, The vastness of the ocean, The leaves or flowers, And two lines of a poem From somewhere — In a distant memory Of what you once read Come back in bits, making you smile? If it did, and it took you back, To days better than these, All I ask your kindred spirit is that Do not forget the poet, Who looks up at the sky, And sees a chariot, instead of clouds. Do not forget the words, Woven with hope, belief and imagination That arises from within the self, In an awakening of spirit, Inspiring rebels and dreamers alike. Do spare a thought, for the names Lost, struggling, putting up a brave face,  While another dream somewhere, Shatters into the dust of reality. ©Suranya

 The voices in my head, Screaming at the void, Getting louder every day. Some applauding, others panicking Mostly distorted and chaotic. I have tried to listen to them, To the wind that whispers in my ear, The sound of everything around me Deafening my thoughts and fears. Yet every day, even in the numbness Of unsure silences, the voices echo. They get louder and louder As if they are unheard. And I scream, in silent reassurances, 'I am listening!' as they laugh, 'Are you, really?' ©Suranya

No matter how far I travel, How uprooted I feel, How alien I become To the teenager I once was, These lanes bring me back To the place called Home. A safe space that was — Despite its flaws. ©Suranya

 "Do they know how strong your Bhakti is?" Bhojraj asked as Meera looked unsure at him.  "Bhakti? I love him." She corrected.  "What is the difference?" He asked, eagerly.  "Bhakti is flawless. It puts someone in a God's pedestal. Love brings them down to earth and makes them human. Love is not flawless. I can accept ten flaws of his and love him anyway. It's a choice."  "It's love then?" He enquired. Meera smiled a little, her cheeks warm with a blush.  "I guess it is." © Suranya