From The Quill

War and bruises, battles and scars,  The hope of returning home fades further.  But Home is where the palaces are,  The stone-cold walls and luxury calls?  Every soldier here, big or small,  Has someone to return to, Someone to hold on. Me? Their leader, a prince at war,  My home is further away than she appears.  There she sits, on the marble stairs,  Singing to her Beloved,  Soothing people who come to hear.  The only heart she can't calm is this,  For with every lyric, a flood of pain engulfs it. Yet I find myself lost in her thoughts  Feeling emotions raw and undeciphered.  Her touch is healing, pure and holy  Her words pierce through my soul  Touches me in places only she can mould.  I find myself at her door every night  But destiny is cruel, my life its prey,  I have given up this fight. For in my soul is a temple shrine  She is the God, my beloved divine.  In her soul, someone els...

 Oh! As the Raag Bhairava plays,  The emotions pour on the Syahi,  The string of hearts on the Sitar,  And the voice of longing wakes the sleeping soul;  The wind sways and the branches dance,  To the magic of music all at once. Hear! As the music picks up pace  Does your heart not cry to lyrics unsaid?  Does the Alaap not make you yearn  For someone lost, somebody beyond?  The birds sing along in the morning sun,  And somewhere the Beloved is summoned. Feel! The way your body lightens  Gives up on its worldly burdens.  Your soul twirls in a Sufi Whirl  And reaches out to Him. There you find yourself in Heaven,  As the music reaches its zenith. ~ Suranya

 There she danced, twirling away  Singing his name, evening and day.  There she sat, under his lotus feet.  The princess, the saint, the humblest to meet. Love, they said, was the strangest of things.  Sensual, spiritual or unconditional in being:  But the love she preached, unique it was.  For God became lover, and love a cause. But what about the world? She cared not.  What about the society? Scared it was.  For a woman stood, a woman chose Who she was against the odds. The woman lived, the woman sang.  The woman left them burning to the ground.  And she became an immortal being.  Girdhar's Meera, still searching for him. ~ Suranya

Art is like the soul to our bodies. It gives us imagination, wings to fly, and a happy escape if needed in the rat race of reality. Witnessing a pandemic, we are pursing our escapes of reality through poetry, Photography, painting, singing, dancing etc. to cope with the sense of fear and uncertainty. It is time to acknowledge art, that heals the earth, and is present right at its core, musing on the nooks and corners of nature. 

In the midst of my melancholy night,  When the crickets sing and the owls hoot in the distance,  Standing on the pavilion in anticipation,  I search for your face on the crescent moon. The gentle breeze whispers  Erupting my skin in goosebumps  As though you touched my soul again.  I shiver and wrap my quilt around my heart. I feel you in the excited beat against my bosom,  A tiny sparkle of a precious pearl drop on my cheek, My eyes drawn in Kohl smudged,  Yet a smile lingers on my lip  As I sing for you the holiest lyrics  Adjusting the strings of the Sitar  To that of my heart, calling you home to me. Did you remember me today  When at dawn the cuckoo sang? Or the waters of the Narmada  Splashed across your tired face? Did you whisper a prayer for me In your Namaaz today? Like I did for you before the Lord,  Who plays the flute in the music of love,  Just like we do? Do you also wait for me?  Counting eve...

Lost in the universe in specs of dust  Lies stories of the ancient past.  Or perhaps the secrets of the future it holds While the mysteries of Chaos it unfolds. ~ Suranya