Perspective

Nazariyaan alag ho 

Toh zarurat nahi ke koi galat ho.

Perspective can be different 

Not necessarily wrong.

© Suranya

Open Endings

 We were, for a long time 

Sharing everything under the sun 

I didn't know it was so important 

To chase people all the time; 

I always wondered why I lost them 

Perhaps 1 grew out of them 

Or they evolved more than me.

Our views changed on things; 

Politics, religion, caste, creed, phobias 

Things that didn't matter once 

Now became relevant.

Or perhaps I was selfish enough 

Didn't ask, how you are? 

But did you know my tears? 

My fears and failures? 

Before you judged my intentions?

Our story is short and unexpected 

It stops at an open end 

I don't know whether we will talk again 

Or ever see each other's face 

Our bond is now like a tree in autumn 

The leaves have slowly fallen 

But there's still hope for spring 

I keep my heart's door open 

Lest you want to come home again.

© Suranya

Tracker

She stopped in her tracks. A feeling of being watched crept in. The alley was dark. And the dim light made shadows on the walls. She paced up her speed, feeling her own heavy breath and heartbeat at her throat. She stopped at the end of the alley with a sigh of relief.

What she failed to notice was that someone was still breathing heavily at her neck from all the running. He failed to understand why they all kept running from him. How was he going to prove to his community that humans existed as an afterlife for every ghost? They called him a lunatic. Made fun of him. But the human hunter waited every day in the alley, hoping to catch one human who wouldn't be afraid.

© Suranya

Slow Dancing

He found her twirling across the dance floor as he approached her. "I thought you said you didn't like slow dancing. She stopped, almost aware and awkward at his presence as he stepped into the spotlight from the darkness. His smile reached his eyes and twinkled.

Was he amused? She had stopped trying to read people. "I don't." She smiled, "See, I was doing it alone. To warm up for practice." He stepped closer as her smile faded. "Maybe you don't like it because you never danced with someone." He gave her his hand as she looked unsure. "Come on, you can hate it after this." She narrowed her eyes at him. Was he flirting? He could read her mind as he smiled sheepishly. "This is not me trying to convince you about anything. I reassure you.

She took his hand as he pulled her closer by holding her back. "You see, slow dancing is always about the rhythm and trust. Knowing each other closely and allowing a certain level of vulnerability to show to your partner.

He studied her face as he placed her arms around his shoulders. She stared at him, her eyes unreadably cold. They started moving slowly to the music.

"How do you trust someone with your vulnerability?"

He smiled at her question.

"You don't. They earn it."

He lightened his grip on her fingers.

© Suranya

Majnu

 He lived and died in search of Love, 

In love he wrote odes to the One above.

She was He and He was Her 

The mad man could not decipher, 

Why he searched for her in vain 

When she was at the tip of his pen.

© Suranya

Awakening

 I wander aimlessly in the thirst for knowledge

Aware am I not?

Questions shroud my sleepless nights,

Awakened am I not?

I looked for you in idols and stones 

Temples, mosques, churches and domes

I looked for you in the rain and the sun 

Seasons that change, time that runs.

In the chaos and the rules, 

In the wise and so-called fools.

Looking for a soul in despair

To answer what I ask in dare 

Alone, hopeless, I look into the mirror 

And there a soul I see very clear 

Enlightened, I smile, 

As You call from the Divine, 

Answering the riddles of Time.

I am You and You are I, 

Now I will not live any more in a lie; 

I am your seeking student, just like Rumi, 

In the path of Love, you show me.

You are my guiding star, Sufistic 

Like Shams, the mystic.

© Suranya

Love Tomb

 I had been a dreamer, a romantic lover 

Weaving stories and fairytales. 

You came along like a summer song 

And gifted me tinted glasses. 

I didn't remember in a love-drunk autumn 

That winter wasn't far away. 

Glasses broken, cold shivers running. 

I wait for warmth in the winter sun 

But you ghosted me on a cold night instead.

How many more hearts will you destroy 

How many more trusts will you burn, boy?

Dreams shattered, heart scattered, mind battered, 

Girl, wipe your tears and rise.

You now know better than to trust him 

That walking red flag! 

Sweet talker, charmer, scammer

Fake promises, white lies 

I don't know how blind I was 

Perhaps I can't see the Red 

Or am I attracted to toxic traits?

Winter wasn't far away

But you left me without a blanket.

Here I am, quilting my own

Here I am, warm and alone

I see you burn many more homes

But I know mine is unreachable,

For now, I know

My love for you is just a tomb.

No more burnings, ashes and urns 

The next one is the best to come 

I read love stories, hear the music 

And there he comes like a perfect ruin 

He has his scars, and I have mine, but

Together, we will fix it all 

Love is blind, but chances are that 

We make it through this one.

For my love now is 

The rose in the thorns 

Build upon your love tomb.

But let me ask you one last time, 

How many more hearts will you destroy?

Oh, how many trusts will you burn, boy?

© Suranya

Look Up

Since the COVID-19 days, I have limited my bus journeys unless necessary. After almost two years, I started regularly using the commute again, especially for long-distance journeys. It's on one such journey that I looked up to check the rain clouds and discovered that the journey looks so different if you keep looking up. The sun, moon, stars and clouds seem to travel with you, and as the branches in their geometric designs pass by, one can imagine oneself lying on a haystack on top of an open caravan or horse-drawn carriage being transported back in time. Come the tall old buildings of central Calcutta, and you can see their exquisite designs standing the test of time, a small, detailed motif or simply a name plate, almost faded into oblivion. The verandahs overlooking the busy streets full of traffic (which by the way I suddenly realised looks the same everywhere) are often filled with potted plants, discarded things or a broken railing, and sometimes an old man in his dhuti sitting on a chair sipping tea.

Come the highrises and shopping malls whose outer glasses reflect the sky or sometimes light up in designs or the green patches with open skies at the Maidan, Calcutta gives you your own canvas of every street, lane and road the moment you look up. And if you are lucky like I was that day, you can even spot a red sun setting right above the Bhagirathi Hoogly while crossing the second Hoogly bridge. You can see flocks of birds returning home.

From now on, every time I travel, instead of looking at the busy roads, hoardings and traffic, I will choose to look up and imagine a canvas of endless possibilities. Try to look up once, and see a world different from the one in chaos below it, standing in its stillness, witnessing history every single day.

© Suranya

Agomoni

Having grown up hearing the stories of Agomoni from our grandparents' generation, how Maa Durga is but a daughter returning home to us, for five days, and the blue sky and white clouds being a reflection of her happiness on her impending homecoming. Then suddenly clouds begin to gather, and my grandmother would often say, Oh look, there it is, Shiva seems angry. Why, I would ask, the eager child in me, always having a love for stories. And love stories. The clear blue sky and the fluffy white clouds are another natural thing that preludes the Dhak of Durga Pujo. Every time I see it, no matter when and where, it reminds me of her. Having grown up hearing the stories of Agomoni from our grandparents' generation, how Maa Durga is but a daughter returning home to us, for five days, and the blue sky and white clouds being a reflection of her happiness on her impending homecoming. Then suddenly clouds begin to gather, and my grandmother would often say, Oh look, there it is, Shiva seems angry. Why, I would ask, the eager child in me, always having a love for stories. And love stories. Why, of course, he will miss his wife when she comes here with the children, and he doesn't want her to come. Thunderstorms would follow, often drenching the plains of Bengal, and we would hear a rather popular tale of how perhaps it is Shiva and Parvati having one of their marital arguments up there in Kailash, which was for some reason always skywards. Oh, who won? The rains were too heavy. She must be crying. The imaginative child in me would go into a world where she would be in tears over an argument. But then look, the sun shone through the clouds again. She must have won the argument; After all, who could win an argument with his wife? Not even the Lord. So she is coming home after all? I would be excited again. Mainly for the new clothes and the list of food we planned to eat throughout the five days. That was the only time in the year when your mother wouldn't scold you over that ice lolly from the streets. But then, often our grandparents would tell us how Lord Shiva doesn't want to miss out on the fun either. That is why he secretly follows his family to the land, and is always seen behind the idol of the Goddess. Oh, and he is definitely jealous of the attention she gets at her home! We would often giggle, imagining how he, like any other human in flesh and blood, was jealous of missing out on good things.

Why, of course, he will miss his wife when she comes here with the children, and he doesn't want her to come. Thunderstorms would follow, often drenching the plains of Bengal, and we would hear a rather popular tale of how perhaps it is Shiva and Parvati having one of their marital arguments up there in Kailash, which was for some reason always skywards. Oh, who won? The rains were too heavy. She must be crying. The imaginative child in me would go into a world where she would be in tears over an argument. But then look, the sun shone through the clouds again. She must have won the argument; After all, who could win an argument with his wife? Not even the Lord.

© Suranya

Dugga Pujo

Like the clear blue sky and cotton clouds after a spell of grey clouds and thunderstorms that often prelude Agomoni, happiness reflected in Kanai's eyes.

There was lights, Dhak and celebration in the City of Joy. After two years of despair and struggle it seemed like Ma Durga was truly home. He watched the streets crowded with eager onlookers, people waiting as the aroma of the freshly made egg rolls hit his nostrils.

The day ended at dawn for them. Baba counted the money in the box with a smile. Maybe it meant Maa wouldn't have to go back to working her "night shifts' and return home teary eyed, reminding Kanai to stud harder than before. With eyes full of hope, Kanai folded his hands, She smiled back.

© Suranya

Poetry of the Broken Heart

 Lost in the trail of success, 

Fame and time. 

He walked into the empty Villa. 

Turning on the lights of his luxurious home 

His eyes fell on the wall full of pictures.

Moments that have passed by. 

Her smile. Her tears. Her fears, 

All came haunting back.

He gulped down the drink. 

Not letting the guilt get to him again.

Trying to forget the pain Void. 

Emptiness, Regret. Despair.

He lost her, 

First slowly, then all at once. 

He had never paid attention 

To her silent screams. 

Her vanishing dreams. 

He realised it all day. 

Her presence was replaced in a moment, 

By a paper and memories. 

And he knew for sure. 

In the rat race called Life 

He had lost this once. 

Life in all its flavours. 

Is it worth the fame and success? 

Only if someone is there 

To share it with you. 

Life was always about 

Chasing dreams for him. 

Until today, he has realised 

She had always been 

His only fulfilled dream.

© Suranya

Time

 Riding with the tides 

He had gone on many adventures; 

Each moment at war 

Went like a flash of thunderbolt 

Before he could return home.

Waiting somewhere in the palace, 

Her eyes were on the horizon, 

Each day of separation 

Unbearably engulfed in loneliness 

And time was calculated in heartbeats.

© Suranya

From Up Above

 I sit crouched up on the topmost post, 

Of the tower meant to overlook the waterhole

I feel dizzy, but god forbid I sleep

The fate of the country rests on my 

Keen eyes, I keep alert.

And just like that, in the calmness of the night, 

Sounds of commotion are heard coming by

The horizon flared up in smokes of dust 

Hooves and trumpets all from afar.

I wake from my trance, in time to ring the bell 

Alert the soldiers who sleep in the cells.

I gather my weapon, they lie long in the dust 

Time to raise them at the targets, discard the rust.

Gunshots and arrows, war calls and cries 

My ears are deafened by the noise of life.

I remember briefly the people waiting back home 

Parents, children, and the one who nurtures them.

I raise my rifle and shoot at them, roaring.

A bullet grazed me, and I lay down bleeding.

Here is my breath about to stop, the camp lost 

My life is just another number game.

© Suranya

Illusion

 The star I once wished upon, 

To be your favourite song 

Turned out dead;

Burnt away aeons ago, 

Yet ignited in illusion, 

Light years apart, 

Just like our Love.

© Suranya

Art

 For all the times I ever bled,

'Coz it wasn't in red.

They never noticed 

The droplets blotted 

On ink and paper, 

And became Art 

They couldn't decipher.

© Suranya

We Meet Again

 Wreaths of rhododendrons in honour of the brave, 

Smell of jasmine, rose petal sprinklers in the celebration; 

But the sweetest smell that surpassed these was 

That of your soft Heena-painted hands.

Drums and horns of celebration across the land, 

Singers and dancers at court till the wine poured late, 

Yet the most beautiful of music was 

Of your anklets' tinkle in the echoes of the palace. 

A monument of marble, a fort conquered far beyond. 

But home for my wandering heart 

Remained your open courtyard. 

A royal title, a guard of honour, a sword 

Yet your letters were still my greatest reward: 

A rule laid, fate separated, 

Your heart remained the rebel, as did mine. 

I painted your image in a corner of my room, 

As you left an everlasting imprint on my heart.

The gust of wind blew, 

It travelled across the plains, 

Over the hills of the Aravallis. 

It brought me a tint of dust from your soil 

Imprinted with your smell and name, 

And I knew that my heart was transformed.

I longed for you as you did me

I was no longer afraid to show it. 

Not caring about society 

My soul was bound to yours 

For eternity and beyond.

Wild and untamed, 

This Love knew no norms.

No borders nor religion, 

It only knew you.

Your eyes. Your smile. Your touch.

You made it a rebel for life. 

You made me a rebellion of Love.

And when we parted at last, 

That teardrop shone in your eyes 

Like a pearl on my necklace. 

But I knew in my heart, 

And you in yours, 

This was not the end.

This was a beginning 

Of something the world would never know.

I wait for you again today, 

Under the moon beam and stars 

At the same white marble where I saw you last. 

This time you come, a little late, 

I waited too long, but then 

Do souls have days? 

And finally, your painted hands touched mine, 

A perfect fit. 

And here we dance today. 

In a Sufi trance in the moonlight, 

Our union of Love, 

As for the world that separated us in life, 

We slowly slip into oblivion, 

Waiting for someone aeons far, 

To tell them our story 

Of love, bravery and scars.

© Suranya

Omen

 Alone on a bench in a park, she sat, 

Staring at the couples on the picnic mats.

Children playing in the lawns,

She spotted a man all alone. 

Shook her head in a disapproving glance 

She should never have taken the chance. 

"One human? Ill omen",

She shrugged, flapping her wings, 

She flew away from the scene.

© Suranya

Existential Crisis

 In a frolic of hide and seek, 

You remain hidden from me tonight; 

O Guiding Star, 

Unseen in the darkness like a shadow, 

You perhaps appear with light. 

Oh, how I desire to see you. 

I weep over thee 

Like I would for a near one.

I feel restless to feel warm again. 

But tonight you seem like a stranger to me.

Cold, like a distant dream perhaps, 

You walked away tonight 

And took my dreams with you.

Perhaps that is why sleep refuses me tonight.

My salty tears turn themselves. 

Into waves of turbulent questions 

Over my mere existence and purpose.

Who am I? What am I? 

Without an identity or purpose?

© Suranya

Things I Never Said Out Loud

And yet another day passes by, and I realise that I feel less and less. For everything around me. My existence is at stake. My humanity is in question. I can't come to terms with the fact that I can't be understood, I can't be heard. My silences are killing me, as a part of my heart learns to unlearn everything it once learned and detach from what hurts and a part of my mind feeds it with logic. Why is it the right thing to do? And then there is my soul. It eats away dreams, piece by piece, trying hard not to think of all the things it once deemed true.

© Suranya

Heartbeat

There was a certain beauty in the forests. The rustling of leaves. The birds are chirping. The moon shone in its crescent shape, and the stars were slowly becoming visible as the sky grew a shade darker. She parted the curtains of the caravan. The light of a torch was visible at a distance. The dusk had just set in, and they were almost there. Or so she was told. On any other normal day, she would have noticed the rustling of leaves or admired a bird's song. But today was not any other day. Rumours were flying. She was summoned immediately to this hideout after ten days of the war and waiting. She had travelled alone, leaving the family behind in the Bhil village where they had set up camp. Her heart beat increased. Was it bad news? She said a soft prayer as the caravan stopped. Ranima." She heard her son outside the curtains. Come with me".

The curtain parted, and her teary eyes met his disappointed face. "Where is he?" He had barely managed to point at the cave when she ran inside. A sign of relief swept across her face as the chiefs lowered their heads and left their king in privacy. With bruises and bandages all over his hand, body, and head, he was half seated upon the mattress and managed an assuring nod as she rushed to his side.

They said they... They killed..."

Ajabdeh," he smiled faintly. I'm here." She had hugged him in an impulse. Like her whole world was restored to existence. He could feel her hiding her fears as she shivered a little in his arms. He smiled and held her closer. Some battles were lost. But some losses gave such precious moments that made him stronger. He held her hand as if she gave him all the strength he needed.

"I have come to stay with you. I am not going back to the hideouts. I will be safe wherever you are, there to protect me."

"So you knew I was fine?" He asked, surprised. Always," she wiped away the coming tears.

"How?" He helped her with the smudged Kohl.

"Because my heart is still beating." She smiled, leaving Mewar's bravest speechless.

© Suranya

Time Machine

 I walk through the busiest parts of Purani Dilli, 

Where Chandi Chowk meets the Qila across the street. 

I stand in the crowd, wondering what it was like 

When horses and elephants paraded by it.

I walk through the old Calcutta lanes,

Where once was a canal of British reign. 

A ditch to lay off Marathas was built, 

And then there are places where elephants took over the streets. 

Imagine for once in your mind's eye 

What it was like when Siraj's troops went by.

I zoom past Haldighati in a car, 

Wondering how fast Chetak was 

As he led Pratap to safety; 

Or how narrow the pass had been 

Suitable for war in climates extreme.

My heart pounds on significant days and times, 

For the writer in me believes in another world 

Parallel to mine. 

A world that is alive in the past still 

Where time is repeated in loops therein.

Sometime somewhere in that world 

Perhaps, like a dream, we often call the past 

Someone is fighting a war, someone is shedding tears. 

Someone is dying nameless, and others are immortal.

Stories are being woven, legends are being written 

Every single moment of breath is sealed by fate 

And here I am, 

Using my imagination as a time machine.

© Suranya

Purpose

 I see night break 

Into dawn every day, 

The shadows disappear into light. 

I lose my grip on dreams again, 

Intoxicated in the reality of life. 

The blue Illusion appears clearer 

Till the sun burns into moonlight tonight.

Yet my thirst for love remains 

To meet Your soul somewhere divine. 

My soul burnt in flames of Love, 

Tonight, I smile in peace.

I choose to give my love a name. 

I dare to call it Devotion; 

I vow to wait like a queen does for her king 

Endless days and nights.

The wind doesn't whisper your stories anymore, 

Decades have turned to eras, 

Your name has faded in the oasis far away 

Yet I waited to hear, 

Hoping for You to show the way 

To help my soul grow to reach Yours.

Oh, where have You gone? 

Hidden yourself from me? 

Why do you not see me burn 

In the trance of Your Elixir of Love?

After decades of unfulfilled desires and suffering, 

I give my love a purpose, 

I guide my pen to stories of love, 

And through them, I seek meaning every day 

Almost like a prayer escaping my lips 

Hoping to find You.

© Suranya

Star Crossed Lovers

 Beyond the crowd 

Of civilisation's woe 

Stories of immortality 

Of fondness grows; 

Of star-crossed lovers 

Divided by fate 

Society repeating 

The same mistakes.

© Suranya

Sound of Music

Have you ever heard the music each place creates at night? The winter night is long and silent. From behind the closed doors and windows, we can occasionally hear the otherwise inaudible trains chugging by the station a few kilometres away, or the hooting of the owl that flies by close in a chaotic rhythm. Once or twice, a puppy squeaks in the chill or two cats sound like a baby wailing, like a musical background score of a haunting movie. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of the breeze against the windowpanes. And breaking the otherwise quiet that the night wears is the sound of an ambulance winding through the road at a distance. You figure out from which direction it comes and where it travels. Then there is the sound of dry leaves rustling and the occasional footsteps of people walking on them. Does this city ever fall silent? Probably not. Because even silence has a sound. Perhaps of your own breath or heartbeat. All making music, all that can be heard in separate musical rhythms. And then one by one the stars disappear as the crow's call wakes the chirping birds way before dawn. The tinkling bells of the cycles of the milkman and paper boy can be heard. Once again, the music turns into noise.

© Suranya

Different

 The family sat on the darkest branch, 

Of the neem tree beside the pond. 

The Owl warned her Owlets right, 

"Be careful, dear children, 

Do not venture into the light; 

It is a blinding, scary illusion 

Not worth your innocent intuitions."

"But why, mother? 

I want to see the morning sky.

I heard it is blue. Is that true? 

I heard there are birds exactly like us 

Oh, won't they love to be my friend?" 

"Silly boy, what a fool you are, 

Yes, they look the same but are very different. 

Their thought and life, their clear blue sky 

All are but a distant story, untrue, unreal 

As we are, the creatures of the darkness for them."

The Owlets listened with open ears, 

Twisting their heads, eyes wide and eager. 

The smallest one was perhaps the bravest 

Or the foolest, depends on who narrated.

He stepped out one morning when the sun shone bright, 

He was blinded by the power of the light.

He flapped his wings, ready to make new friends 

Wanted to see their world and experiment.

At first, the crow came flying down, 

"My my, what is this thing sitting alone?"

His eager voice crowed aloud.

"Why, I am a bird!" 

Smiled the Owlet, excited.

The crow shrieked at its mates, intimidated.

"Come here, take a look at this 

Such a ghastly beast claiming to be 

One of us, it seems."

"Oh, we aren't this scary, nor our claws so sharp 

A flock of black gathered around the Owlet. 

Eager, scared, shrieking, yet afar from 

The strange thing they encountered. 

A Bulbul asked what was going on, 

Seeing the beast, it gasped and made a song.

His family joined in, shouting at the beast, 

"Go back home, you evil creep."

The Sparrows gathered, so did the Kites, 

The Seven Sisters and the Cuckoos in sight.

A Kingfisher perched itself on the high branch.

"Pray, what the hell is going on?"

"Oh, we found a beast!" 

Laughed the excited Magpie.

The kingfisher flew with the news far and wide.

"Its claws can kill, and it disguises itself like us."

"Oh, what a sight, I shiver to wonder."

"Its head cracks and twists, its cars like bats."

"Have you seen the beak? Attack from afar."

"It can change form. Such was the rumour.

The birds alerted the humans around.

They gathered beneath the tree in a crowd.

None could go near the little owlet, 

Traumatised by the flocks of "playmates".

"Such stupid birds. It's one of you."

'Stop your noise, it's a baby, not harmful."

"Can't you see it's just like you?

Two eyes, two wings, two claws and a beak, 

Haven't you seen two?"

The humans laughed at the foolish birds.

The dusk had set in, slowly in pink, 

The birds were tired of screaming. 

"We'd better get home, it is dark. 

We hear evil gets powerful thereafter!" 

"Oh, it can vanish in the dark!" 

"Evils have such power indeed." 

It was once again the grapevine lead. 

The blinding light gave way to darkness, 

The Owlet could now see the way back to its nest. 

It flapped its wings, scaring away the remaining birds, 

Never again did it try to be friends with those, 

Who saw him apart.

© Suranya

New Life

 The call of the universe is surreal, 

The time has come to feel 

The joys of a new life.

But the path leading to light 

It is suffocating and dark 

For in every bend fear larks 

I must not give up, 

I must not lose hope. 

For once, I get through these difficult days, 

It is only the journey that stays 

While I spread my wings and fly, 

Away from the cocoon of chaos 

Into a world unexplored; 

From the darkness that should not fear 

Even if I feel my end is near 

Because from this very nothingness 

Comes the light of a renewed life that awaits.

© Suranya

Naive

 I walked past a stranger today, 

On my way down memory lane.

She smiled at me faintly, 

I wanted to hug away her pain.

Until I touched the mirror, 

Realised she looked exactly the same, 

Only my thoughts were clearer, soul wiser 

While she was still lost in her innocence.

© Suranya

Knowledge

 There you go to the glittering gold shops,

Buying the expensive textiles and hardware 

Enough to reflect on your status

To show off to envious relatives.

Your ignorant gazes are blinded by vanity.

For the most precious riches are those your eyes can't see.

The awareness of the vast universe, 

And how insignificant are thee.

Once you leave the realms, you can no longer see your riches.

Your soul will whirl in thin air just like

That beggar you winced at on the street.

But the Fakira who chose knowledge over it.

I live on in ideas and thoughts, 

Revolution and rebels, stories and words.

Her soul was enlightened by the richness of the verse.

For your riches can turn to rags with tide 

Your friends can become enemies 

Your luck can run out with time.

But knowledge, once earned, where does it go?

It stays in your heart and lights up the soul. 

It makes you richer and teaches you humbly 

How fragile is life and all the desires you chase 

In the endless Universe that lies around 

Just like your mind, in darkness.

© Suranya

Perception of Love

The older we grow, our expectations of love change. It's something that happens naturally. We tend to prioritise our needs and wants and call it love. Our mushy teen selves that once believed in the purity of such feelings are often overshadowed by socially set standards and judgements on how one's partner should work right, be settled, and have certain materialistic offerings rather than the emotional capabilities we once sought. But then, once in a while, all of us wish to go back to that unscarred pure self of ours that wanted a love very rarely found beyond stories of romance. But deep down, you know you would give anything to have it.

Then there are days, fleeting moments, words said and unsaid and perhaps one single incident that makes you momentarily feel that love you wanted to feel. The expectations you once had from this feeling. Of finding peace, solace, and a home. In that moment, you feel like you have been waiting all your life for that one single moment of bliss. Of peace to find your bruised heart. And your soul finds a home. That feeling somehow becomes greater than your idea of what Love should be.

~ SURANYA

Falling In Lust

 Lips part as if to whisper a prayer 

But no words escape it. 

Your fingertips linger on the edge.

Of her body, like she is a nymph 

You are craving on the wall of a temple. 

You know every scar and mole in her body 

Like it was a shrine to you. 

Her youth is a blooming lotus. 

In your garden of desire.

But why do you pause when they ask who she is? 

Why do you inhale every time she asks

What you like about her? 

Everything, you say, hoping to please her.

She smiles and brushes off the empty feeling.

that creeps in 

As you cuddle in bed. 

Every time you make love to her, 

She knows it. 

You know it. 

There is no denying it. 

You know her inch by inch. 

In the darkness of the right 

But in the light of dawn 

Her soul is still a stranger.

©Suranya

My Muse

 I stand beneath your stone statue, 

Staring at a distant dream, 

I feel like I have belonged here, 

Since eternity or so it seems.

People call you History, 

The perfect hero of the past.

You to them is a warrior, 

Perhaps a king, fighting for freedom. 

You to me is a Heart, 

That battles against the brain, 

Stands alone against the odds of every pain.

You come across as perhaps a rebel child. 

To me, you fought for your belief. 

To them, you were about the war, 

To me, you are her Love.

All they see is a statue or two, 

Your values and soul forgotten. 

They remember you for two days a year, 

While the rest seem unimportant.

© Suranya

Longing

 There is something about you I can't quite forget.

Perhaps the sunshine reminds me 

Of the way you talked, 

The night reminds me of the way 

We met in a tryst of sheer ecstasy; 

The mountains remind me 

There was a life waiting beyond it, 

And the rain reminds me 

Of my lovelorn heart 

That has never found a way 

To erase you from the mind.

I sit here, amidst the storm, wondering 

Was there more to our story? 

More to love than we could ever know. 

And my teardrops turn into pearls. 

That now adorn the white marble dome.

I wish to see you again, in dreams 

Hold you near and sin, 

But somehow with every ray of light, 

You slip away like lost hope.

~ Suranya

Fix It

Skipping through the songs that hurt, 

Writing down my thoughts in the dark 

Reading between your lines since the start 

I realised how naive I was to fall prey 

To your overly charming ways. 

Gathering the pieces of me you scattered around 

All the trauma you left in rebukes all along 

I decided to live for me instead. 

I fixed my heart, 'coz I realised 

Trying to undo the past and forget it was insane, 

But moving on was not impossible 

'Seeing' you was all it took to realise my mistake. 

© Suranya

Samjhawan

 Gayero se kya sikhayat karna 

Apne bhi kaha samajhte hai tumhe?

Kaha hai manzil kya jaanta hai dil?

Bas musafir hai ek anjaan safar mein.

Koi apna nahi koi geyer nahi, 

Kabhi andhere mein dekho toh,

Parchayee bhi kaha saath nibhati hai. 

Gayero se kya sikayat karna, 

Apne bhi kaha samajhte tumhe. 

Apno se kya sikwa karna, 

Jab khud bhi samajh nahi aata, 

Yeh Dil akhir chahta kya hai?

© Suranya

Red

 In the sky, so beautifully mesmerised 

On the sea, art is God's canvas.

In the hairline, blessed, & divine.

On the forehead, power and grace.

In the blood, kin, pedigree, war, 

A sign of pride.

On the clothes, fiery and in control, 

And flags, brave and bold.

Why is it then only when 

Red appears monthly for a woman in shame?

© Suranya

স্বপ্ন

 তখন অনেক রাত, সকাল অনেক দূরে।

স্বপ্ন হঠাৎ হাতছানি দেয় অজানা এক দিশে।

অচেনা সুর কানে বাজে, 

তবু কি সত্যিই জানা না? 

পথ যে ছিল বড়োই কঠিন সে পথ চলা মানা।

ফিরে তাকাই অবাক আমি, স্বপন পানে চেয়ে।

স্বপ্ন যে আমার পিছে আসছে যেন ধেয়ে।

অবাক হয়ে ভাবি আমি ক্লান্ত দিশাহারা,

স্বপ্ন ও কি খোঁজে তাদের, স্বপ্ন খোঁজে যারা?"

© Suranya

Patient

 I fluttered my eyes open 

And saw the light above my head. 

Is this heaven or hell? I wondered. 

Oh, it was, but a doctor's table. 

I see the man in blurred vision. 

Accompanied by another.

"What happened here?" 

He asked the intern 

Who mumbled something unclear. 

I tried to speak, complain even 

About the stabbing pain in my chest. 

I know not what happened to me, 

I was just lying in my bed. 

I probably am too feeble. 

My words didn't reach him. 

I saw a scalpel come down. 

Right on my chest. 

The men spoke in language. 

I didn't quite understand. 

"What are you doing to me? What has happened?" 

I panicked, but my words went unheard.

"Hmm", the older one removed his gloves, 

Then his surgical mask 

Turned to the other in a clear voice to say 

"Put it back in, Rigour Mortis has set in." 

Hell, I was in a morgue.

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 1

 "You are too opinionated.

Tone your voice down otherwise you won't find a groom."

"Did toning her voice down help Aunty suffer your abuses and hide the scars on her body, Uncle?"

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 2

 "My dad is very open-minded. He allows me to attend late-night parties. Working night shifts. And even befriending men." She almost flaunted.

"What? You need permission for those?" He laughed, a little shocked. She suddenly realised it was NOT funny that he didn't realise his privileges.

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 3

 "I can't go in there." She said to her husband, almost in an alarming whisper.

"But why?" He frowned.

"My mother arranged the puja especially for you."

"I have my periods." She said, almost sounding guilty.

"Why didn't you take medicines for it if it was due?" Her husband retorted. "Mom will be very upset."

"You know those have side effects." She said calmly.

"And if my being present matters, just tell her to allow me in the prayer room."

"You know that's not possible."

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman

 "The greatest form of love is self-love," she said. I agreed with a nod.

"I don't get these girls," she winced at a group on the opposite table. "Short dresses and so much makeup!"

"So you don't think women should have a choice to wear the things they like?"

"No, but be appropriate."

"Appropriate to what?" I asked, "And just because she likes makeup, she doesn't endorse self-love?

Isn't taking care of one's body or looks, hitting the gym or putting on a face pack, too a form of self-indulgence in a good way?"

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 5

 "Why don't you get married?"

"I want to pursue my dreams right now."

"What will you do in the end? End up alone? You will have to get married and have children. That's what women do. What's the use of wasting your youth and money on your silly dreams?"

"So that if I do raise a kid, I don't raise one like you."

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 9

 "Life is tough." My grandma smiled, "You are a daughter first, you think of your parents' honour, then you become a wife, your behaviour reflects on his respect, then as a mother, you are judged at every step if your child misbehaves. As sisters, aunts, grandmothers, too you have to step up and look after your extended families."

"What about your respect?" I asked. "Your name? Your identity?"

"Women did not have those in my days. We barely stepped out, knew the world or dared to have a dream separate from our husbands." She shook her head.

"And how was it?" I was curious.

"I am glad things changed for the better." She smiled.

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 8

 "When did you know she was perfect wife material?" His words made me frown.

"What's wife material?"

"You know... the one who will care, look after your home, and your parents... cook and stuff... dress up occasionally for you, respect and never question your decisions..." He smiled, "All that."

"The day you do all that and start calling yourself husband material and think you deserve her, you can go look for it." I shrugged.

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 7

 "You are not like other girls." He smiled. He had perhaps expected me to blush. I frowned instead.

"What do you mean?"

"You know how typical girls are." He shrugged.

"How?" I asked cluelessly.

"Nosy. Control freaks. Always judging. Needs so much attention and gifts. Drags you to shopping under every excuse! Doesn't watch sports. Always criticising other women."

"I do not know where you get this opinion of women from. But women aren't like this. And me not being like others is offensive towards my gender."

"Oh, you are overreacting. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's exactly what you mean."

© Suranya

The Story of Every Woman 6

 "That uncle touches me in a way I find uncomfortable." 

"What are you saying? It's just in your mind. He is your uncle." 

"Isn't the rapists too someone's son or husbands, Mom?"

© Suranya

Spring

 The day I met you 

The sun shone warm 

Like an embrace 

In the winter morning.

The day you left 

The sky poured incessantly 

Like my teardrops in vain. 

But between them, 

Was our Spring of Love.

© Suranya

Offended

 You speak your mind

I am offended.

You don't speak your mind.

You are spineless.

You have an opinion

Let me hear it.

Oh, wait, you don't like mine?

I am offended!

You identify as another gender.

That's not "normal"!

You are tolerant?

You must be spineless.

You like a dynasty?

You are one of them.

Colour, food, place, attire 

It's my way or the highway!

Your hobby is art?

Don't end up in jail!

Diversity? What is that?

Agreeing to disagree?

Isn't that for fools?

Look at me! I know it all, 

And if you don't agree, 

I am offended!

© Suranya

The Princess

She was the eldest princess of the kingdom. Her childhood days were spent making garlands with her mother, singing praises to her lord, lighting the lamps and reading the religious books. At times, she would play house. At nine, she started her lessons. Unlike her brothers, who went to Gurukul, her Gurukul was at home. Because, unlike politics and war, her subjects were sewing. Cooking, calculations of groceries and at times defence. Unlike many of her sisters, who loved their swords, she preferred the sewing lessons. She waited patiently at the jharokha as her brothers and father finished their meals before she could have hers. Politics and discussions never caught her attention. At fourteen, her father had declared the wedding. Arriving at the new home, called the royal palace, married to the crown prince, things didn't change much. This was a test of all she had learned. 

Each action was scrutinised. After all, she was the future queen. Some she passed, others she failed. On the first night of their marriage, he had made it clear. Her duty was the household. His was the politics. He had no time for love. After a few months of marriage into her first pregnancy, when she had started to fall in love with his care, reality hit in the form of his second wife. She realised she was never going to rule his heart. Alliances were important. She found solace in her children instead.

As her son became a crown prince, the mother realised two things. One, she should have been more attentive in defence classes. Two, power knew no relation. Only hunger. Her son was at stake. The worried mother had sent him into battles. He had come back with bruises that ached her heart. The country was in danger. With trembling hands, she had done the last tilak to her husband. Hugged her son before Saka. As expected, she had led the ladies to a fire altar. No tears or fear. As she faced the fire, she smiled. Finally. Freedom. You wonder why she doesn't have a name. Because no history mentions the thousands like her. But this untold story deserves mention. More than ones who won wars.

True Love

"It's just a misconception among people that just because it's rare, it's not true. Just because you didn't find one doesn't make it unreal. Some people in rare, precious ways do find the love you often call true." I looked up at the crowd. "... and that's what their love was all about."

I ended my story as the crowd appreciated with smiles and claps. Some of them, I even found blushing with hopeful eyes. I nodded and thanked them.

I got up to leave as someone stopped me. Newlyweds. Hand in hand.

"Your stories are amazing. Write ours someday," they said. I smiled silently.

"No. No. She only writes fiction." My friend dismissed them quickly.

I agreed with a nod.

"I only write fiction"

But, do 1? I stared at the happy couple hand in hand.

"Like this one. It's a fiction, right?" She smiled, adding. Was it? Someone in the crowd, perhaps, knew it wasn't. I had connected

S a lot of people and relationships in my life. Some in flesh and blood. Some in the pages of history. Some in my imagination and experience. Each of them made it to my writings. In some way or another. Fragments of their lives, bits of their saga, random people I observe on a long train or bus journey. They are all part of the stories. The characters often talked and walked like people I know or assume to know or muse on. They merged with faces in my imagination. These are all their stories. As much as the words are mine.

© Suranya

Day Dreamer

"Are you an insomniac?"

"No. That's a major problem. Mine is different."

"And what's the problem that keeps you awake all night?"

"I am a daydreamer."

"Umm... Okay and....?"

"You don't know how that is, I assume"

"Not really. Is it bad?"

"It makes me happy and sad."

"Together?"

"Yes. I imagine what could have been. It makes me happy.

I imagine what could never be. It makes me sad."

"Why do you do this then?"

"When you dream with open eyes, it really is beyond your control. Those songs, stories, pictures in my head, are all like small scenes of a play."

"Then you should be aware that those are just imagination."

"Well, I try. But sometimes even my own thoughts scare me."

"Why?"

"Because I sit in the darkness and I can hear his voice in my head. I smile. I laugh. I have a mental conversation with him..."

"What if you close your eyes and try to sleep?"

"Worse. I end up putting his face on someone I shouldn't dare to. I shudder like it's a bad dream."

"Are those images vivid?"

"Oh yes. His face. My feelings. The stare. The smile. Everything."

"Then you should perhaps tell him..."

"I know we are not meant to be. And it scares me to death because I can't imagine anyone else's face there. I have never put a face on the dream before I met him, and now I can't even get him out of it."

"Then why don't you confront your feelings? Why run when you should face them and face him?"

"And let my daydream hurt? No. I am good with my own illusions."

© Suranya

Gulaab

 Mujhe sirf gulab ke khusboo nahi, 

Kaate bhi pasand hai; 

Jab Phool murjha jaate hai 

Kaate tabh bhi chubhte hai.

Phool sapno jaise kuch der rukhte, 

Aur kaate haqiqat jaise reh jaate hai.

Kyunki shayed pyar issi ko kehte hai, 

Jisme sirf khushi ke muskaan nahi, 

Gham ka bhi hissa hota hai.

© Suranya

Situationship

 Are you scared to start all over?

Love again, and show your flaws? 

Do you stick around because you have to? or  

Because they are your comfort zone? 

Every time they say they love you, 

Do you say it back just to make it stop?

End an argument or not pick a fight?

After a while, love fades in a relationship 

But what about when the relationship fades? 

Into resentment, frustration, and irk. 

Yet you stay because you are too scared 

To walk away and start over; 

Knowing you have to 

Say the things you never mean, 

Flattery, ego boost, validations they need; 

Knowing that some time later it will again be the same, 

Alone we are till the very end.

© Suranya