From The Quill

Whenever Life gets tough I seek solace in people of the past. People who mark their lives In pages of History. With their blood, sweat and sacrifice. I tell myself, "They had it worse, You can survive this." Lift myself up because who will, If not me? I treat life's obstacles, As minor inconveniences, Because they taught me Life could be way worse. I wait for things that never happen Put my faith in fate's cruel play I often wonder what life was like For all those immortals In the pages of novels. They fought all odds, Wins and Losses And emerged from the battles of life So why can't I? I read their stories with hope and belief That everything in the end seems fine. ~ Suranya

Recently, someone asked me about Book Recommendations, and I realised the kind of books I read is very different from the kind of stories I write. It's a conscious decision not to read the same genre of fiction because often your favourite writer's style and words effortlessly and subconsciously creep into your writing and ideas, and you lose your individuality. But more than that, I honestly enjoy writing the genres I write, especially Romance, more than reading them. Perhaps because through the process I also discover their stories and journey. I never plan a story or its theme and let the words flow. Often, the story ends up being utterly different from what I intend it to be. But it's their journey, I let the characters speak to me. This December, when the deadly combination of Writer's Block and sickness attacked me between two long-pending drafts, I found it hard to relax. It felt like the characters were waiting for their Stories to be told, and they were just st...

Some days you don't feel like getting out of bed, you want sickness to engulf you, finding comfort in the fact that it will help you rest, yet it doesn't. A sore throat makes you restless, and everything you planned goes haywire. You don't like the music you otherwise groove to, you can't write a sentence without hating yourself, you can't look at the mirror without self-criticism, watching anything feels irking, and you have no idea what will make you feel better. You try everything from self-pampering to pep-talk and often try to find some comfort in people who you think understand you. Yet, you oddly find them irking too. On these days, take a step back, stop being harsh on yourself and be grateful you got through yet another bad day, keeping your darkest thoughts at bay. © Suranya

The crowd parted, and I saw you again.  After how many years? I need not remember. Your hair has a hint of grey, your smile Now form lines under your eyes. You spot me, and your smile fades. What is it that I see in your eyes? Regret? Pity? Perhaps admiration. Someone introduces us again. Your job title changed,  As did my surname. He jokes that I write about lost love  Despite having everything I ever dreamt of. You look at me with a weary smile.  I pretend not to recognise you. We greet each other in single syllables. He leaves us alone in awkward silence  Amidst a crowd chattering and mingling We draw our eyes away, then stare back. ~ Suranya

I walk through the arches of the past  Seeking You in the little traces that last  Of Your existence beyond books. Of stories of Bards, that history refuses to tell  I look for You in mirrors and reflections  Within my soul and contemplation  And what troubles me is to know  That You never knew me. I look beyond Your bravery and might  At everything the man dreamt of at that time  And I ask the Dyers of Dreams  To colour my life in Your name. I am obsessed, possessed, beyond repair.  Seeking answers in despair  My soul refuses to stay put here  In an era far beyond Yours. ~ Suranya

You walk towards me  As light as a feather  As radiant as the morning sun  As promising as hope.  You stop as if to admire  A flower or a butterfly over it.  I am mesmerized by your innocence  Captivated by your smile  And I often wonder,  Is a soul as impure as mine,  Bathed in blood of dozens  Worthy of you, My Princess? Your horse gallops through the fort  People bow in respect  You understand them  Even when you watch from afar  Like a God they worship  Up in a pedestal above all.  Stories of your valour  Are retold to children  As they idolise you.  And I, secretly blush and beam  In a pride only I know,  For I know the prince they admire  Is the man who chose me,  Scars and flaws and all. ~Suranya

What if I told you this is not the end? You see, with some people.  It's a loop, rather than a straight line. You meet, you leave, but you can't escape.  What if I told you, we haven't met here But before we were, after we will be  In some other name, at some other place? What if you realise we are a boon  And a curse, in a maze  We keep running around. What do I make of this longing  The way I feel like lingering,  In your presence  And lamenting your absence. The way our skins touch  Sparks fly, it's not fireworks  But a whole show of lights!  What if I make you wonder,  What are we? Why are we here? Finding our way back to each other  Every time we decide not to. All I can say is, "I will be your first heartbreak  Be my first love?" ~ Suranya

"I was never someone's first love. I never knew how it felt to be looked at with unadulterated eyes like you define a feeling for them." She eyed him with a faint smile, watching him frown. She sounded upset. "Why is it so important?" He enquired. "Isn't the goal to be someone's last?" "Because I know what it feels like to be in love the first time." She stared at the horizon and back at him. "You mean the silly mistakes and lessons?" He was amused. "No, that's a crush you think you are in love with." She corrected. He still looked confused. "I mean the one that defines your faith in love. The one which remains beautiful even in ruins." A sudden hollow feeling crept into her being, eating at her soul; she wanted to shrug off the heaviness in her heart. She inhaled as if to fill the hollow with air. "The one whom you could never badmouth, even when your heart was shattered?" He was curious. ...

A little boy on the street  Working for the day's breadstick  Being told by soldiers to bow  As the general passes by  On his high horse.  "I bet he is freer  Than I ever will be.  The boy imagines a fate  That one day he would be lord of the castle.  A general leading an army to war  People bowing and obeying his orders. The general knelt before the king,  Owning up to the loss in his name.  The king rebuked and penalised In front of an entire court that scrutinised. "I bet he is freer than me  Nobody to answer to, he does as he pleases. The general grunted under his teeth  As the king ordered him to retreat. The king was received by advisors in his chamber. "You must not step out. Your life is in danger." "Not even to the lawn? The balcony?" "No, sir, you must stay away from the cacophony  Of rebels and criminals." The king moved from room to room  The castle he built became his prison. He prayed before th...

 Why does sleep not come to the restless soul? Why does it hide from sight? Like a glimpse of your love? Why do nightmares haunt my daydreams? Why does life look like nothing but extreme As I look back at all that is lost? The string that once tugged at my heart, Pulling us near and apart, I was too weak to hold on anymore. The pearls scattered across the floor, As I broke free from what hurt, Your presence in my story Stung my soul like a poisonous ivy, In a garden of tulips and roses. Yet on nights like these, When it rains, the way it rained tonight, Drenching our souls in plight, Quenching our thirst for desires long lost, Will I be too shallow to admit, In the deepest corner of my broken heart, That I miss your presence Like a page missing from a book? Why am I writing at midnight? Awake, alert and sleepless Why am I scared of my thoughts? Why does our story not end? Even when it never began in the first place? Why does the chapter keep coming back In haunting memories of past...

Remember when we were kids and we thought that 20s were grown-up years, to be moms and wives, because we saw that around us, and we thought people in their 30s had things sorted. They worked, had enough savings to start families and think about investments, cars and homes. Today, in my 30s, I realise I am as clueless about life as I was when I was 15. Yes, I have been forced to "adult" by experiences I never chose to have, traumas I never imagined and mental and physical health issues I once attributed to old people, but am I truly ready to be responsible if I had a choice? We are all forced into our paths of career, choices and decisions as adults more than we ever intend to. The sleepless nights we once spent thinking about our life goals are now stressed with investment issues, parents getting older, people around us leaving all the time for various reasons and our innermost insecurities. We realise that life is not as meaningful or purposeful as we thought it to be. We re...

 I won't be awake in bed, shedding tears  For yet another stranger of my tribe  If only I felt less human.  I would be happy in my bubble  Of festivities and joy,  Of food, friends and frolick  If only I were less aware.  Is it a boon or a curse? Here I am in a crowd,  That celebrates the homecoming  Of their daughter  While thousands of parents mourn theirs. Here I am, heart full of fear  Hope flickering in despair  As the Goddess is awake;  Waiting for Her to strike  With vengeance on miscreants  Untouched by humans, With every hour that goes by  The sky is gloomy, heart heavy  As we pray,  May such a Pujo never see  The light of day. © Suranya

 The city was dark even in the shimmering lights, Almost like it was evening at midday. The rain poured incessantly.  Like someone cried from the skies above. She watched the crowd, Amidst the cloud and downpour, Looking frantic in joy Cheering for an idol  That was quite a lookalike. They chanted Mantras, Offered the best of fruits  Paid their respects, hands folded Yet she sighed, unimpressed. She turned her back to the crowd, Walked away from the light, Into the darkest alley Of a city that barely survives. Hungry eyes asking for help, Homes washed away, identity at stake. A teardrop blurred her Kohl-drawn eyes, As she turned again in a corner That led to an end. There stood silhouettes  Of tortured souls wailing; Grasping at her, hoping. Young, old, rich, poor, Every soul tormented by touch; She, who is Justice Stood shocked and helpless at first; Anger and agony aligned, As She knelt before them Weeping in despair, asking questions, Could she help those who...

 দুর্গা মানে মাটির মূর্তি? দুর্গা আমার রক্ত মাংসের শক্তি। দুর্গা মানে আলোকসজ্জা? পাড়ায় উৎসবে মাতোয়ারা? দুর্গা আমার মশাল হাতে মিছিলের ভিড়ে স্লোগান তোলা। দুর্গা কি আজ সুরক্ষিত পথেঘাটে এই শহরে? উৎসবেতে শবের শোকে দুর্গা কাঁদে অন্তরে। © Suranya

It's 1.30AM on 5th September, 2024. The city of Kolkata is awake as it awaits justice. We have placards, slogans, and protest marches. Thousands are on the streets, young and old. We are singing, dancing, organising street plays, writing poems, and painting streets. Art as a form of protest runs in our veins. I wrote bits and pieces of these writings through the past 27 sleepless nights and sudden feelings of overwhelm. I thought they were too personal to share. Seeing my city in protest today, knowing I have to do my bit, however small, so that tomorrow I can live with self-respect, here's what I do best. Write it all down. It may resonate with some. It may not work with others. But this is for hope. This is for justice. For her who united us in this unbelievable strength to carry on, but had to lose her life for it. I have always been an opinionated woman. Not sure if I was "raised" that way, or the habit of questioning came naturally to me (My parents still warn me...

Once upon a time in the mystic land Of mountains, forests and caravans, A tale was woven to be told beyond lives Of two people from different tribes. There was Qais, naughty and flamboyant  A rebel heart, pure soul, misunderstood  Apple of his father's eyes. Pampered, rotten, he would often. Refuse to take his lessons. There was Layli, beautifully gracious. Chieftain's daughter, always obedient  Eager to learn, eager to know She joined the lessons Where Qais would go. A strict teacher, two young souls Eyes met in a recognition age-old. Beyond this story, beyond this time They knew each other in realms divine; As if their book of love Was written beyond Time. Punished by the teacher, they would run, Qais took her hand and led her to fun. He would often sit alone and stare  At the mountains, beyond the village At the river, forests and foliage. Intrigued by the lesson from him Layli forgot the classroom limits. The mountain called, the river sang As Layli, in the meado...

The wind whispers warnings to me, The whirling fan speaks of dark thoughts Yet another failure, yet another struggle. From the moment, I feel like not getting up, To the moment I lay back in bed Why do we do what we do? The curtains sway in the gentle breeze, Forming shapes of memories, only I can see. Sometimes I speak to You, and I hear You're answering me. Your voice is distinct in my head,  As if I remember how you speak. I cook up stories in my head, Happy endings, to help me sleep. Hoping there is a world somewhere, Where it's all real, like yesterday was Without those, my day has no meaning. I don't care if I don't understand What I share with you is a bond redefined. You are the light I seek in my darkness, The will I chase with hope, Not to run out of it, as I lay in tears Struggling to get out of bed again, Looking for purpose and meaning Of a small, insignificant life in this chaos. ~ Suranya

Today, someone asked me, "How are you?" I felt like crying, lamenting, and sharing. Telling them I can't tell why I feel this way. But I do. I struggle to sleep. I fear happiness. I don't laugh the way I cry anymore. But they won't understand our story, they won't realise how important each night becomes coz I see you there in the darkness of the corner of my room. I can't explain how a simple hug, an unlocked door, an argument, A criticism triggers me the way no person could. So I smile and say, "I am fine," and spend the next hour hearing their problems because I feel guilty of mine being unsolvable. © Suranya

 When someone asks you how you are,  Is it actually what they mean? Is it a way to share how they are  Or perhaps share pleasantries? When someone asks you how you do Do they want to hear for real? How you struggle, want to rant Cry out loud or simply share? Or they just want to be polite? In our "worldness" of being good people  We pretend to care, listen or sympathise When in reality, we are too stuck  With our own issues, to even care. Then why do you need to ask questions  Knowing you don't care what they reply? © Suranya

 Every scar is a reminder of people, places and things. Lost and found in the debris, of our long lost memories, Every scar is who we are, inside out. Sometimes you see them, and sometimes they are hidden In the mind of the Victim. Every scar is a milestone, of becoming  Someone you are not. Of doing things you never imagined you could. Of facing reality, carrying on and moving ahead No matter what comes your way. And then, with words, carefully chosen Every scar becomes Poetry. ~ Suranya

 Your manipulative brain often plays  Tricks on people to your favour.  Your indecisive heart often hurts,  In a loop of ego and winning pride. Like a Gargoyle protecting your soul  Your mind doesn't let the world see  The real, raw, flawed you;  Afraid perhaps of being vulnerable  With your scars. © Suranya

 I walk through a busy street in my city, Faces around me, some tense and some in a hurry. Some having conversations with a smile, A blush, a laugh or a bluff. Domes and arches, red bricked and scarred. The scorching sun over my head, Overwhelms me beyond distress. I feel like I can't breathe, not a tree in sight  Whose shades I can use to rest. Concrete highrises provide me no respite. I look up at the scarce clouds, With no sign of rains, I curse inwardly And resume my journey again. You caused this, says a voice in my head. The machines, the buildings, everything in between You can't breathe for your own deeds.  Its up to you, not me, Mother Nature screams. The rivers are drying up, water scarce The guilt hits suddenly as I enter the air conditioned building The suffocating feeling leaves me cool slowly Yet I am engulfed in another guilty inkling. In between our soggy paper straws, brown papers Expensive cars and holiday jets, Where do we draw the line Between comfort,...

 Have you given someone a character In your story, only to realise  You were not even a part of theirs? Have they been a chapter in your life? A lesson for your love? Only to realise you were invisible to them? How does it feel, Dear Shattered Heart,  To be rejected time and again,  By different people and the same circumstances? They say you keep repeating a pattern  Until you learn a lesson. If this is a pattern, it's now become my way of life  I have embraced it with grace,  That I am this character in everyone's story  Who is never significant to mention.  Sometimes hidden away in embarrassment  Sometimes, snooze till they get hurt again  Most of the time, blissfully non-existent. Do I not leave a mark? Do I not stir their hearts? Who can say, if not they who claim,  "I forgot what it felt like with you."  And me? Naive, silly, romantic as I am.  I play every conversation in my head  Like a broken record that...

Has this thought ever crossed your mind  How things would have been had you been mine? All the entangled feelings that bind Suffocate and slowly die  Would have disappeared just by  That look, when your eyes met mine. When you asked what I wanted from life  Why could I not say "For you to be mine"? You call me the bravest, yet I was not brave enough. How I wish there had been no ties,  No worldly attachments, no duties implied,  I wish I had broken the shackles  That kept me away from your shrine.  No wars would keep our love apart;  That was all I wanted for us.  But I was not brave enough.  I know you would not feel the same.  "Dreams are like the past", you once said,  "Always perfect, always happy, how easily  We unsee the unjust, unpleasant, unruly." Perhaps your divine intervention was true  For all I remember from the past  Is the day I met you. Not a war won, nor a throne, nor praises  But your ...

 It's been years since I saw your smile  The one that used to reach your eyes.  Innocent questions amused me As you would stare at me scornfully.  Today you asked me if you were brave, Oh, how could I ever tell you,  You are the bravest I have ever met. Yes, you do not yield my sword  Yes, you don't fight for the cause  Not in the traditional way. But you, My Queen, have left your throne  All the palace and adornments alone  Just to be my strength in war. Who is as brave as you, my guiding star? Yes, you pray in fear, I know.  But with each prayer, a belief in me grows  I want to win, I want to prove  Your pride in me is not vanity or untrue. You who has a hold on me,  The king, the leader and the braveheart on the battlefield  And you say you aren't braver than me? One look from you, one wish that escapes your lips  Are my purpose, prayers and peace. A storm you surged in a lovelorn teen  Refuses to die dow...

You come home with scars and pain  Yet I know your heart never heals,  With my most skillfully made balms;  The scars of betrayal by your own  You have learnt to live with and grown,  What else could you do? Yet every time I promise to be brave  Smile through your goodbye  Trying to fight back my tears  For the sake of a title that weighs  While you ride away to the horizon  I wish I were as brave as you. You say I give you the will to come home  After every battle, big or small,  You win or lose, it doesn't matter  You will always be a hero in my eyes. But there are times when no news arrives  For days, weeks, and months  Some say the troops are moving  Others report them losing  Some say you went missing  And all I can do is pray harder  For I am not as brave as you,  To pick up the sword and lose my honour;  But am I as brave as you?  You can rise from losses and win  Yo...

 Letters that were lost in transit  Taken for unanswered questions.  People who went missing in wars, Mourned as dead, yet with flickering hope. She wished to step into the arena  Sword out to defend her cause.  She wished that she were  Brave enough to shed blood. But all she heard time and again  Was a voice in her mind as a reminder  "You are only a woman. What can you do?" "But I am the richest in the world"  "They say it's because of your father" "But I am brave." "Not like your brothers." "But I love him." "You aren't brave enough to confess." The wine spilt over the carpet.  Soaking in blood red stains  The title over her head  Loomed like a death sentence.  The cost of her life was his death,  Whom she could not mourn in public. © Suranya

"Isn't home supposed to be more than a house? A place where you belong?" "We put your name on the door. What more do you want?" "Aren't the people in it supposed to be your own tribe, Who stands by you no matter what?" "Not when you don't listen to what they say. Obey, rather than have your own mind." "How does it feel to be a stranger in your own home? Unfamiliar with your own people?" "It's your fault you feel that way." "How does it feel knowing the place you thought to be your identity was the source of all the traumas you endure, secretly screaming into the pillow every night?" "Now, don't be so dramatic, women before and after you feel the same!" "You are only another woman. You must be adjusting to the world of men, Ready to be a second-class citizen." "But what if she is not tailor-made for it? What if she wants her own corner in your place?" "A woman wit...

 I sit beside you  Watching you read,  And I miss you terribly. Do I make sense? I miss the time you held my hand  Every time we sat together. Now the cushion between us  Screams silently of bridges  We never cross. We stay together but never indulge.  In meaningful conversations like before. The only words spoken are in need  And it makes me wonder  Am I still in love with you?  Remember the times you  Couldn't get your eyes off me? Now you barely look up from your phone. Remember when an accidental touch. Excited our cores? I don't feel like that anymore. Do habits do away with feelings?  Or comfort do away with efforts?  It shouldn't be this way, right?  When two people are in love? © Suranya

 I prefer to stay in my head  Where you and I are still a thing. The storyline fits every love song  That I saved in our shared playlist. Sometimes we are star-crossed lovers Sometimes childhood friends  Sometimes we meet and part  Never to see each other again. I know your smile.  Your deep brown eyes. I know your favourite food.  And how you react to certain flowers. There's a lock on the door.  Of this world that belongs to your thought The words are my key  To let others into your realm. Yet I must be careful.  They should never know all our secrets. © Suranya

 I place a rose on the tomb of Us,  The petals wither  And the thorns remind me of you  Hurting each other till we last. I burn from within in unfulfilled desire.  Looking for a purpose in the debris of lost hope.  But then comes the wind that puts out the fire  Forcing me to move on.  I resist. I protest. I can't forget. I won't forgive. With each step that I was forced  To drag back into your chessboard I leapt forward twice. I learnt to let go,  I was taught to forgive. I am resilient, fighting till I burn  Raising my voice for things  That only mattered to me;  Only to realise, I was a kid then,  A rebel without a cause  Who was I to fix you? Hope that you treat the next woman better?  By forgiving someone who never apologised. © Suranya

 I can only sleep when the world is awake. I spend my darkness in your realms. I burn the pages I wrote about you  Only to rewrite them every night. Is it a disease or a habit now? I can't really tell. My insomnia grows every single day.  And now I can barely tell reality from dreams. You seem so real, like I can stretch my arms  And touch you. Yet I can't. I long for you yet  I don't want you near me. I fear it will break the illusion of you  That I created around my world. You are perfect in it, the way I want  Like the role play of a character in my story. You are like the forgotten lines  Of the poems I once knew by heart. A familiar face in a stranger's body  You are pictures, memories and places  And a Tombstone of regret  Over the grave of my past. © Suranya

 "The typewriter tap dances  Right in the centre stage  Where the protagonist meets Their fate." The writer pauses  In between spaces,  Pages to be changed  Ink to be replaced Often wondering about The One Greatest Writer of them all. The One whose commas continue life  And periods end chapters good and bad.  Tragedy, comedy, romance and drama  Sometimes thrillers and dark desire  They can write any genre without a care. Are we all protagonists in life? Most aren't in books.  Some are just side characters existing.  Driving others' stories. What if the writer is one of them? Never a protagonist in her own life?  Could something be more nightmarish Than that? © Suranya