Distances

 The sun sets in

His part of the world. 

It rises in hers. 

In between, 

The Sun travels the distance 

Between them.

© Suranya

Martyr of Love

 For all the times I believed it's true, 

I had searched the world for You.

Up in the mountains, down by the seas, 

Dense in the forest, by the fort's gentle breeze.

Dawn and dusk, winter and summer, 

I have looked far and near.

"Magic and love", they say, 

"Are illusions, never stay in their delusions."

But woke every day, with a faith stronger 

Couldn't wait for you any longer, 

And in my darkness searched Your light, 

In my eyes, Your holy sight.

It was just when I started losing hope, 

It was then that I couldn't cope, 

That You showed Your true might.

My dawn meets Your dusk, 

My morning meets Your night; 

And in every moment You make me realise 

Love isn't an easy task, 

But for it, fight, we must!

© Suranya

How Are Stories Shaped?

 Words crawl on empty pages 

Taking the shapes of stories. 

Stories we have seen, 

Heard, lived and experienced. 

Stories that were true, 

That we wish were true. 

Stories of what could have been 

And those that are not. 

Stories of what should be. 

Plots melt into subplots. 

Characters now have life. 

A mind of their own. 

And when they speak to you 

Often saying, we would not do this. 

And then the writer submits to the plot. 

As though the strings of fate 

In that parallel world 

Had never been in their hands. 

The characters tell their own tales now.

© Suranya

This Is My Journey

Today I was going through an old box of memories. Cassettes, scrapbooks, slam books, Mills & Boons, Tintin comics, Meg Cabot's Princess Diaries series... And I chanced upon a journal I used to keep back in college. I had no idea how it got mixed up with the school notebooks and teenage hobbies. I fondly remember keeping a diary every day back then, since my early teens, well into college. Even if the day was uneventful, I would still end it by writing down what happened. The random page turned to 23rd March, 2013.
I don't remember what happened that day.
But I wrote that I was crying alone in my room.
I don't remember what the argument was about, but I had blamed myself for everything bad around me. Back then, I was neither aware of my mental health nor could I recognise toxic relationships. Perhaps because I was in one. I had quoted every word he said that day. I had even asked myself why I was with a person so self-absorbed (I perhaps couldn't use the word selfish). But in the end, I blamed myself.
I blamed myself for not being the person he hoped I would be. I blamed myself for not loving him the way he wanted to be loved. I blamed myself that I was not being someone else.
I blamed my looks and bank balance because he expected "better". 
Reading the words today made me feel uneasy. Perhaps because I had grown into a woman of substance from a girl with dreams. Perhaps because I know today, "It was not me. I was just trying too hard to be someone I was not." Perhaps because today I know I deserve better. I expect better behaviour from people. And most importantly, superficial show off is not what I want from relationships. I learned it the hard way. Nobody tells you that being with Narcissists gives you a lifetime of trauma and triggers that affect you mentally and often unknowingly ripple into your other relationships. I live with those traumas and embrace my triggers as a part of who I am. And I am grateful I kept diary entries every day.

© Suranya

Price

 I feel like writing a poem

Yet no thoughts come to me.

No rhyme or reason to share 

No will to fill the empty pages.

With ink and words.

Yet I feel like writing a poem.

Why?

To be appreciated by people I barely know?

To be criticised by those who matter?

Or simply because I want to let everyone know

I am still at it,

The struggle and the journey 

Not giving up on dreams just yet.

I got what it takes,

I am running in a race 

With millions of others across the globe 

Named, unnamed, anonymous, famous 

To prove that I can write.

But why?

Here I am scribbling every day. 

Procrastinating about the story in my head

Which is yet to find the right plot.

Here I am weary from nothing.

Yet sleepless awake and alert 

Anxious about how the words refuse to flow 

In a night of writer's block.

I don't stop even when I want to. 

I can't stop, even when the thoughts tire me. 

As if I have a world out there 

Waiting for me to prove my worth.

© Suranya

Born in Battles

 I am born of fury, 

I was born in bloodshed. 

In some corner of the world 

I reincarnate as Death. 

No choosing, no right or wrong 

No age or religion, or caste 

I seek blood and I draw it 

Causes mingled and morality at stake; 

Battles won and lost in the struggle for those 

Who is up in the high chairs yet 

The sufferings are of those stampeded below 

The weight of power.

I am born from battles, 

They created me to balance the good and bad.

Yet when wars are fought, 

It all becomes just stories.

Versions of the truth, 

Yours and theirs.

False hopes and assurance 

That wars are inevitably good 

For humankind seeks the blood of its own 

Pretending they are different. 

You hope history doesn't repeat.

You hope battles spare children and women

Who becomes pawns in your ego games

But nothing changes, does it?

Era after era the stories repeat,

And you pray harder every day.

Irony is, you worship me for peace 

When I am the Goddess of war.

© Suranya

Entwine

 This is not the first time 

We met at the crossroads of life. 

I feel it as deeply as you do.

I recognised your eyes. 

As soon as they met mine, 

There was a similar longing in them 

To know, to touch, to feel, and hear. 

As if we have been doing so for eras now 

The familiarity of your scent 

Which I otherwise can't recognise 

The comfort in your breath 

That gives me warmth in the snowy night.

And then I watched you extend your hand to me 

As if to say, hold on to me now, 

I have waited long enough 

Travelled through cities and time 

To reach out to you.

And I do, expecting the touch to be electric. 

Instead, there is a sense of mundanity. 

My heart skips a beat. 

For I have never felt this familiarity in my life

Our fingers entwine as we walk. 

Silently through the busy street.

To most onlookers, we are lovers, 

To those who know, strangers, 

To us, soulmates tied by an invisible string.

But does it ever have to make sense? 

Belief, fate, destiny, miracles and tragedies?

We are just living our stories, 

Our strings are being pulled by the Universe.

We meet. We separate. 

We become friends. 

Lovers. Strangers.

We play our parts and often find what we seek.

Sometimes we don't until 

We start seeking something else. 

Someone else.

"We are always searching 

For someone, something, 

Somewhere to belong."

No rhyme or reason to our lives 

Yet we live on, continue to walk alone, 

Or holding on to each other 

Till another crossroad of life.

Your name doesn't matter now 

Our souls are carving an eternal saga.

I can feel the quill of fate at work. 

As I see you smile at me, 

I wish never to leave the fingers 

Those are entangled in mine.

© Suranya

Hypocrisy

 I put on your favourite dress, 

Rouge and lipstick 

Everything the way you like. 

You say you are lucky to have me. 

I put on my smile, 

A laugh aloud or a giggle, 

Speak of my opinion and ideas, 

Asking for my rights. 

And suddenly, you don't like me anymore. 

Why?

© Suranya

Unwritten

Memoirs of unwritten verses, 

Waiting to find the words; 

Feelings of unrequited longings 

Couldn't be put on paper. 

A dream trip you never took, 

A half-done hobby or a book, 

A few scribbles, 

A friendship 

Without a closure to comfort you?

Do they matter at all?

What troubles our nights?

In the hollow emptiness of your mind 

The sleepless soul asks in an echo,

"What are we? Who are we?"

An accumulation of particles 

Forming a shape and mind, 

Floating insignificantly in the universe 

Loathing in superiority and pride.

© Suranya

The Moon

 All the inspiration for lovers 

In distances and praises; 

All the childhood stories 

Of wonder and gazes. 

Growing up hearing about 

The Charka Buri spinning her wheel, 

On the craters shining still. 

And here we are to T minus five 

Thudding heart and teary eyes. 

A minute second, a historical event, 

And a country finds its smile. 

Who knew all the musings would cease 

Into the reality of science.

© Suranya

Chaos

 They say it is destiny, 

What happens under Your scrutiny.

They say it is meant to be, 

You puppet the strings of me.

They say it is an order 

Of universe, divine numbers 

And laws in patterns sublime;

But isn't the universe itself an absolute? 

A lawless, timeless, endless attribute? 

Isn't the earth in unorganised havoc? 

Isn't it chaos that runs the cosmos?

© Suranya

Salty

"This tastes funny." He made a face at the now cold cup of tea. "Yes." She agreed with a slight giggle. "You added salt instead of sugar." "Why did you drink it then?" He asked, surprised, staring at her empty cup. She smiled. "Because it's the first cup of tea you made for me. It's the sweetest cuppa I've ever had." "Ew. Mushy." He shook his head with a silly smile that made her laugh her heart out. He fell a bit more in love that day.

© Suranya

Action Speaks Louder Than Words

Sometimes the smallest actions speak more than big gestures. Like you are walking down a road and you see their favourite flower, you send them a picture as a reminder that you remember their favourite flower. Or when you walk into a departmental store and see something in their favourite colour and decide to surprise them by wearing it the next time they see you. You care enough to share a picture of yourself every day, even at your worst, because they can't see you soon. Or write them a letter to keep and read whenever they miss you. You often try to read their favourite books or hear their favourite kind of music to understand a person better. Try their favourite drinks or meal to see if you can share one on the next date. Or simply ask, How was your day? And hear them rant. No judgment, no advice. No amount of gifts, big surprise gestures or anything else can replace genuine efforts.

© Suranya

The Waiting Game

 I often wonder how queens waited 

After every battle, I was 

Unsure of the king's return.

Or the captive princess 

For the wanderer to free her 

From the shackles of society. 

Or the silent bare tree waits 

For winter to be over 

To fill its branches in bloom; 

Or how the birds wait 

For migratory season 

To find another home. 

I promised myself over and over. 

I wasn't like them at all.

Yet I found myself 

Waiting for you 

At every chance I got.

© Suranya

Body & Soul

 Her hair tangled like her heart 

She walked through the aisle 

Looking for customers, in need.

Her dress as dark as her skin, 

Desire-filled eyes eat into her body 

His hands on her naked skin, 

Her soul untouched, face painted, 

Character questioned, 

He'd leave before dawn 

In fear of being seen with her,

As she displayed in a tease; 

Their hunger was her morsel 

With yet another man, she leaves.

Then one night she chanced upon him. 

He was looking for a story he had never heard, 

She had aplenty, some cruel some funny; 

They talked through the darkness into dawn 

And they both knew it was just a start. 

Days passed by, people teased, 

She who was forbidden to love a man, 

Had shown one her empty soul. 

He was slowly filling it with wisdom; 

Each night, he smiled and left a note. 

The writer in him turned Poet for her, 

He had found his rhythm and rhyme, 

In her words, emotions and life.

Decorating pain in colourful metaphors 

She was indeed poetry in motion.

© Suranya

Wanderer

 Tired from a never-ending journey 

The wanderer looked to rest. 

Bruised and weary, he'd stop. 

And ask the Universe for directions. 

Time and again, the sun smiled, 

The stars ignited a hope in him, 

The moon showed a path to go on, 

The nature echoed in a chorus theme, 

"Tomorrow you will be Home!" 

Tomorrow turned into yesterday, 

Years, decades and eras passed, 

Yet like the wind aimless and worn, 

He roamed the paths, lovelorn.

Never giving up on his faith, 

Hurt and healed by people he had met, 

Faith finally led him to a door 

And just like that, he was home.

© Suranya

Meaning

 Beneath the debris of dreams 

Rain drenched the soul in existential crisis 

Struggling to find lost meanings.

© Suranya

Eventide

 In the summertime eventide 

Try finding in the concrete city skyline 

Windows to a thousand untold stories.

© Suranya

Monsoon

 My heart is wild and in a frenzy 

Like a sudden spell of rain 

Makes a peacock dance. 

For I see you then, 

O Lover of Love, 

In amidst the grey scale clouds, 

Like a ray of sunshine, 

Rebelling through the sky.

I see you in the soaking earth 

That smells so sweet.

I see you in that puddle and mud, 

Perhaps a rainbow rarely in sight. 

In the raindrops making art 

On the window panes it hit. 

In the music they make 

On each plastic sheet.

The monsoon has arrived in all its glory 

And with each droplet that falls, 

Like a waterfall 

Curving through my body 

Into my soul, I feel you nearer, in me, 

As the monsoon drenches me in your love!

© Suranya

Perception of the Insomniac Mind

 The moon reminds me 

Of how in the darkest of times

We are truly alone. 

The stars veil the night sky, twinkling 

Almost touching the skyscrapers 

In a distant concrete jungle. 

The leaves rustle in whispers. 

The owl hoots often, 

One by one, the fireflies light up 

And arrive at my window. 

My words scribble on paper. 

My thoughts were disoriented

In a state of numbness 

Sometimes I cry over a song, 

Over stories of the past 

What we could be and never were. 

Sometimes I overthink 

Every conversation plays in a loop 

The punctuation and emojis overanalysed.

© Suranya.

The Dead Poet & Other Stories

 A notebook stained with blood 

Unnamed poet, missing in the crowd 

Someone's wait for a reunion never fulfilled, 

Someone's goodbye was never said. 

Of an innumerable number of lifeless bodies.

A poem half finished, some lost in the wind 

Who will remember the stories behind them?

Who will know the unfinished tales 

That ended within moments 

On a derailed train track 

Or those whose lives changed forever 

While you are too busy to blame and shame.

© Suranya

(On the occasion of a Train Tragedy in 2023)

An Ode to Nature

 I fall in love every day.

It comes as easily as I breathe.

I fall in love with the sky, 

With how it changes into 

Thousand shades of blue.

I fall in love with the wind, 

How it whispers in my ears 

Plays with my hair.

I fall in love with the leaves, 

How they rustle 

Make music under my feet.

I fall in love with sunshine and rain 

Playing hide and seek again.

I fall for the aroma of flowers, 

For the sunset in the hills, 

The stars from the fort, 

The smell of the soaked soil, 

The sight of bright yellow sunflowers;

I fall in love every day. 

Just not with people anymore.

© Suranya

Change

 If only changing names could change the story,

I would have called You - My Beloved.

If only new names meant erasing the past, 

I would have renamed myself Your Lover. 

If only the present could be without the past, 

We would be nothing but hollow inside.

For the past makes the future; 

Stories cannot be untold.

History cannot be undone 

And truth simply wiped.

© Suranya

Belief

 Stop saying God will save you 

God doesn't save you 

You struggle for it yourself 

Your belief just gives you the strength to endure.

Stop making gods out of men 

It demeans their human sacrifices 

With divine poetic justice.

They suffered, they pained, they were torn 

But they had the strength to pick themselves up again. 

So will you.

© Suranya

Petrichor

 The storm lashed through my city today. 

The heat of the moment, building up 

Between the Earth and Sky, lovelorn. 

It poured as though the Sky was in a hurry 

To meet the Earth in petrichor 

Thirsty, lashing through the scopes. 

In a loud, rebellious protest 

The storm marched along the concrete streets 

Like a knight invading a city 

Claiming what is his.

Does the storm take a port of the 

Earth with him to the Sky?

Does the Sky wash away her pain? 

Wanderer as the heart is, never fixed to a place, 

Why does she then wait for him this way?

© Suranya

A Rainy Day

 The sound of raindrops on my panes,

Haunting wail of puppies in the lane;

Existential crisis of mindfulness; 

No moon to muse on, no stars shining

Only the city is visible in the lightning.

Wide awake, not a wink of sleep,

On these days, the thoughts run deep;

I gather them together in the warm blanket 

Carefully hide them away in my emotional casket.

The mask of the strong has fallen for the weak, 

The rain wipes it off like a magic trick.

Slowly, I blend in the waters of heaven, 

As it flows upon my cheeks, 

And I know for sure that I must endure 

In the path that I seek.

© Suranya

Lessons

 You have heard that tale as a kid, 

When Aeshop told the story of the 

Sly Fox and the Crow.

The Fox once praised the Crow; 

Its voice was melodious enough 

To melt the coldest snow.

The Crow was manipulated to lose its meat, 

Trying to display its magical feat.

Today, the world isn't any different, 

Social media illusions: praises and fame.

Does the Crow see its potential on its own?

Do the lies fed by validation make it lose its course?

The sly foxes hide behind innumerable usernames 

Follow unfollow a game despicable

When do we learn what moral stories teach?

Do we ever get out of the circle or drown in the sea?

Fox or crow, bunter or hunted, which one are you? 

For the curated world to see?

© Suranya

Our Place

Remember that rock upon the valley where we sat? Watching the day turn into dusk, the sun disappearing behind the horizon. Little by little, the stars came out, veiling the night sky like glitter on a dress. You sat half an inch away from me, carefully avoiding contact, of body and eyes. The wind whispered in silence. If not for the flow of the stream that gushed against the rocks on its bed, I would have felt my Sown breath and heart beat. Somehow, this silence was a comforting bliss. A feeling of peace. Like I belonged there, in that moment, with you. Then we walked away, back to our mundane lives, where we belong. Miles away from each other. Just a picture in the heart. The rock still sits there, however, hoping for our reunion.

© Suranya

The First Letter

He was struggling with his first letter to her. He had strangely

written thousands of letters before. To his mother. To his

seniors and subordinates. No letter left him in loss of words

like it did today. What could be written to her? He had promised

to write in an impulse. For when he was leaving for the

battlefield the day after marrying her, maybe because he had

seen it in her eyes. Tears held back. Worries concealed with a

smile. And a sense of loneliness, A sense of getting lost in a

palace full of unknown people. Truth be said, he didn't know

what to tell his new bride. But what he did was to assure that he

would write to her. For the first time, the sleepless night made

him sit with a pen and paper and scribble. He had never paid

heed to his words or letters before. They usually talked of

politics and his well-being. But she... She was like a poem to his

heart. Gentle, Deep. And mysterious. Reading between the

lines was not easy when it came to her. He had wondered at

times if, at all, marriage was the right decision. The Warrior

could promise very little to his family. Then, watching her, bold

backed her fears with a brave smile he was reassured. She was a

warrior in herself. He respected that. She had not only bound

him to a relationship. She had started ruling his heart.

Unknowingly, he wrote down a poem about distances. He

smiled at it before signing "Yours eternally" and calling the

messenger as dawn broke in the camp.

© Suranya

Massacre

The child who promised his mother he would be home soon, the woman whose aged parents were waiting for her return, the activist whose wife had pleaded with him not to go that morning, the clueless merrymakers roaming the gardens; people. Old, young, clueless, unnamed. They didn't deserve it. Yet here we are, a hundred years later, still comprehending thousands of massacres, thousands of deaths, and several families destroyed. For the borders. For the ego of a nation that thought the sun never set on them. For humanity's loop of violence.

Suranya.

Meeting Place

Sometimes in the darkest nights, under the bright veil of stars, a dim lamp shone in the room of the gem-studded marble palace. While the Palace slept in silence, no one noticed the gems on the walls, designed to be trees, flowers and shrubs, shine in the light of the lamp like the trees of heaven. It is then that the magic worked in her heart. She would stare at them and imagine how slowly, in the flickering light, they seemed to come alive one by one, swaying in the breeze gently around her. The flowers smelled of a mixture of jasmine, tuberose, and tulips. The shrubs whispered in the wind. In the palace of stones. The imagination made a garden of Eden for the Princess. She sat in a throne under the open sky, surrounded by flowers, forming a canopy over her head. The walls around her, the cold white marble, seemed to have fallen as the wind brought the freshness of the open gardens with it. Once again, the Captive Princess felt free of her chains. Her chains of reality. Somewhere far off in the hills, perhaps she heard a horse neigh. The dream of gardens and fountains broke in dismay. She stared at dawn with a sigh, for the walls rose like a fortress around her again. But this time, someone came running to tell her it wasn't just a dream after all.

"He is here."

Her heart skipped a beat." He is at the vineyards."

The Princess now closed her eyes. In the Eden of her dreams, under the fountain, she found herself sitting on the throne. Beside Him. It was time to finally meet.

© Suranya

Kalbaisakhi

The earphones playing কেন মেঘ আসে হৃদয় আকাশে তোমারে দেখিতে দেয় না while I occupy the quiet window seat of an otherwise packed bus in the evening hours of a busy office day in the city of joy. As the bus approaches the city, outbound Vivekananda Hoogly Setu with a spectacular view of the Grand Hotel, Victoria Memorial, Eden Gardens, Samriddhi Bhavan, Princep and even Howrah Bridge from the top, it starts to rain. Sure enough, the weather predictions were right about the season's first Kalbaisakhi. There's something I look forward to about the first storm and first rain. Even when I am terribly scared of thunderstorms, I still wait for the wind to play across the city, gushing into homes and swaying the magnificent trees, rustling in a chaotic musical orchestra of nature, and finally, when it starts to rain, the wind makes patterns out of it. Soon, the smell of petrichor hits you with nostalgia. There's something about it that reminds you of good days and childhood.

Today, the rain dances to the lyrics of Tagore's song as the window soon blurs with droplets of rain. The wind is moist and cools your soul like no AC ever can.

I open the window just a little. The perfume soon hit my nostrils as I extended my hand out of the moving bus just enough to catch some droplets on my palm. The roads, concrete and leaves are all drenched in the first rain and it seems to wash away all the dirt and dust, cleaning the city like a cold shower in the summer evening. The street lights glitter on the roofs of the cars that zoom by, on the thousands of droplets raining on them. It looks like stardust on the street lights, making designs as they fall amidst the storm. The leaves rustle and occasionally fall on your head like showering petals, only harder. The wind tugs at your hair. The drenched streets look as good as new. The Hooghly ripples, rising up to catch the wind, too. The city of joy looks beautiful in Kalbaisakhi.

© Suranya

Help

 I cried my heart out today 

Cleaned my soul of all the agony 

The pain, fear, hurt and anger 

That I managed to keep hidden 

From the world for so many days.

I have a problem.

I think my problems are smaller than yours.

They probably are.

Hence, I don't share with you.

It builds up a storm inside me.

I try to break free from the feeling 

Of suffocation, claustrophobia and guilt.

What am I even guilty of?

My own sufferings?

They say suffering creates art.

But my soul is tired and tested.

My overthinking brain works like a hamster 

Stuck on a loop wheel and can't stop.

I am a walking red flag, 

With my flaws, issues and definitely my personality.

I am self-absorbed, obsessive and sometimes 

Borderline narcissistic even. 

But I try, I will keep on trying. 

Life is a battle, and I refuse 

To give up just yet.

© Suranya

Death

 All your life, you stare at Death.

But never even feel for once 

That life itself is Death's flipside.

You are dying with every breath, 

All your life has been a lie.

An illusion you travel through, 

Is all that life is;

To reach its destination, Death.

© Suranya

আমাদের গল্প

কখনো কখনো ইচ্ছা হয় হারিয়ে যাই। মনের মধ্যে যে জগৎ আছে, সেখানে। তাতে যে অনুভূতি আছে, তুমি আছো, তোমার স্মৃতি আর নাম আছে, অন্ধকার এই পৃথিবীকে নাই বা বললাম তার গল্প কথা। ওই পাহাড়, ওই সমুদ্র হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকে। তোমার ইচ্ছা করেনা এমন একদিন হঠাৎ সব ফেলে পালাতে? আমার হাতে হাত রেখে আমার অন্তঃমন দিয়ে একবার এই পৃথিবী তাকে দেখতে? সূর্যমুখীর রং, উচ্যাপলিপ্টাস এর বন, সমুদ্র তৎ, সূর্যাস্ত কিংবা দূরে কোনো দুর্গের চুড়োতে দাঁড়িয়ে জীবনের কল্পনা করতে? কত বড় এই পৃথিবী। কত ছোট আমাদের গল্প। কোনোদিন কোন কালে লিপ্ত হয় যাবে স্মৃতির পাতায়, তবু বেঁচে থাকবো আমরা, অন্য কোনো গল্প হয়ে।

© Suranya

Silent Cry

 The fire rips through me 

And still brings mirages of hope 

To be heard, to be understood 

To be loved. For who I am.

I pay for sins that I know not of 

Yet here I am, committed to mayhem 

Apparently overthinking it.

To you, my problems are small 

Insignificant to your rich world 

Of course, you suffer from the heat, it's summer 

Of course, you don't get appreciation 

Your art is free, who will buy it?

Madness, anger, frustration 

I have been silently screaming into my pillow 

Every night for the past decades.

My tears have now dried up in hell 

Where many like me scream into the black hole 

Where our issues and complains disappear 

Before they reach your privileged ears.

I chose this life, I chose my pain 

For the little things you find insignificant 

That makes me who I am 

And enlighten my soul, richer than yours.

Your flaws, your reasons, your excuses 

I justify them all in my head 

Because I have lived with myself my whole life 

I know it is tough to be with someone like me.

I am burning in hell, not that you can tell 

From your lofty palaces in the cloud 

You can't even see this further down.

© Suranya

Love Stories

 Beyond the crowd of civilisation's woе 

Stories of immortality and fondness grow; 

Of star-crossed lovers divided by fate 

Society is repeating the same mistakes.

Of caste and creed, religion and status 

Power and blood, endings disastrous. 

Of Poets who roam mad in imagination 

And Heroes who die for their beloved nation. 

Mothers who took their child to war, 

Sons who fought to prevent their Jauhar. 

Then again, there are monuments of Love, 

That glow in glory in the moon beam and star dust.

And some stories lost in the pages of the past, 

Tales of war and cries of lust; 

Of queens who followed their kings to exile, 

And princesses who waited all their lives to unite. 

Waiting with eager, anxious eyes on the horizon 

In their palaces, they lived in oblivion;

Let this universe be made of such Love, 

That lives beyond a day's celebration and show off. 

Let the promises be loud and clear, 

And Love is an act of valour. 

Let stories like these, big and small 

Be eternal and live on.

© Suranya

The Other Side

She watched his horse go till the dust settled back on the road. Her eyes shone, but no tear drop fell on her cheeks. There was no time to cry. It was time to prove that Love was the greatest strength. Days passed by, then a week. Many a messenger came and went telling about the progress at the battlefield, but each day her eyes were fixed at the gates, for a letter. A letter addressed to her, minus the seal and title. A letter that called her by the name she had otherwise forgotten.

Every night as the stars twinkled, she sat sleepless and stared in the direction of the camp. That's where the sun set every day, almost as a metaphor of the darkness that engulfed her life after he departed.

Somewhere in a tent in the camp, he stared at the flickering lamp with a feeling of longing. A will to return to her. Embrace her and feel at home. He could have written a letter, assured her he was fine, but what if she replied? Or worse, the letter reached her late? Long after he was gone? Could he risk that? She had sighed in secret.

The life of a princess was nothing like a fairytale. It was full of uncertainty and anxiety. Helpless prayers and hopes. Boundaries she couldn't cross, emotions she couldn't show. All she could do was wait. All he could do was fight a long battle, hoping to breathe till the last of the enemies were slain.

A letter never arrived, but his blood-soaked pearl string painted her hands red instead. Touching it with trembling hands to her forehead, the princess looked up at her reflection on the thousands of mirrors on the walls of her chamber. The blood dried quickly on her hairline as she frantically tried to rub it off. Her vision blurred as she lost consciousness. In her dreams, he smiled, giving her his hand, one last time. Drawing her veil aside and whispering into her ears, "I will be waiting for you, on the other side."

© Suranya

A Life Beyond

February 1943, Vienna

She always complained about how vague he was with goodbyes. Whether he was coming back in a few hours or in days or weeks, she could never tell. He would walk away as briskly as he did, as if he were going to the market. He laughed at her childish complaints, mostly because there was nothing he could do about them. All his life, he had assumed that having a family would tie him down to more worldly things. He wanted to be free of attachments one way or another. But who knew what fate had in store for him when she walked in through his office door with her innocent eyes and smiling face. In a life of war, she was when he truly felt at peace. He picked up his hat as the radio chattered on about the impending wars and damage of last night's air strikes. She was nurturing the baby close to her bosom, smiling down at her sleeping figure and whispering her name into her ears. The sense of being watched made her look up at him as he smiled, almost sheepishly, like a teenage boy would if his crush looked up at him. He wondered if his fellow countrymen would find it hard to picture him like this, a man completely in love with his wife and child. She smiled at him as he approached her with the attaché case in hand.

"Are you leaving?" She whispered, concerned. But there are so many spies..." She stopped as he kissed his sleeping child's forehead. When do I see you again?" She held out her hand as he held it back with a silent smile. She knew he couldn't tell, yet it was a habit to ask. A habit to hope that one day he will give her a time and she would count the days backwards till they saw each other again.

She wished he would visit often now that the baby girl was here. She wouldn't want Anita to forget her father. But she remembered every word of every letter he had ever written to her. My first love... My motherland..." Emilie's eyes shone as he stepped back, letting go of her hand and walking away briskly... There you go again." She murmured. But this time was different. This time, he stopped at the threshold and turned to see her holding his child in her arms. Like he was imprinting an image of them in his head for a long cad ahead. Something in Emilie's stomach churned. Something told her this goodbye was different from the rest. This goodbye would be longer than she could imagine. She smiled, wiping away her tears as he disappeared from her view. She remembered some words her mother had once spoken as she kissed her sleeping baby and held her close. "Are you sure about what you are choosing, Emilie?"

"Yes, a lifetime of waiting."

Smoke Rings of Realisation

 I saw you make rings of smoke 

Of the cigarette you lit as we lay together. 

Your hand felt sweaty in mine 

You shrugged it off, complaining about the summer. 

I stared at my empty finger as the ring you made 

Disappeared into thin air just like promises. 

That was the moment I felt suffocated with you. 

And it had nothing to do with the smoking.

Did our story begin somewhere? 

Or did it end in a whelm? 

Did we know the date or time 

We promised that everything would be the same 

Or the exact moment we fell out of love? 

Was it a mere habit or just the pain of separation 

That kept us together all this time? 

Were we ever in "love" with each other 

Or we were simply the easiest option 

Not to feel lonely at night; 

To be emotionally validated or even 

Pretending to be cared for?

All I know now is that, with sunrise 

I have to pick up my clothes and bid you goodbye 

And as I do, I will never see you again. 

Because life is too short to pretend 

Pretend to be happy, pretend to be in love, 

Pretend that you are fine. 

I am not, and I am not afraid 

To choose me over you.

© Suranya

Friday the 13th

"What's so scary about Friday the 13th? So cliché." He murmured, seeing an advertisement in his co-passenger's newspaper. "All mumbo jumbo fed for commerce." The man smiled at his words. "They say spirits roam free on this day." He frowned at the man. "Have you ever seen one? Seeing is believing, sir. All these legends are only to scare people. Spirits don't exist." His co-passenger shrugged and got back to his newspaper, in no mood for a conversation, covering his view from the man on his left. The bus stopped at his designated bus stop. And he got down without sharing more pleasantries with the man, still reading the afternoon news. His co-passenger didn't look up. If he did, then perhaps he would have noticed how he got down, without waiting for the door to slide open.

© Suranya

A Story I Never Told

 I told the moon a secret, 

In trickling pearl drops 

And words of regret 

That formed the clouds above. 

The grey clouds took my tale to the sea, 

Who told the river my silent plea? 

In turn, the mountains knew my plight, 

And the stars smiled upon me at night. 

Now the entire universe knows my story 

Except you, 

Who should have known truly.

© Suranya

Forever Kind

 Sleepless I lay awake in bed, 

Gazing upon the moon and stars, 

My cheeks are warm and wet, 

As I look for You in my scars. 

I stand atop the mountain cliff, 

The gentle breeze passes by, 

Upon sunsets that make my heart leap, 

And feel the magic this universe hides.

I wait on every breath and beat, 

Where are you, hidden beneath 

The toughest face or sharpest mind,

The kind of love I wait upon, 

The Love that is of forever kind?

© Suranya