Welcome to my Poetry Corner!

Hey there!

Welcome to From the Quill: Poetry and Musings by Suranya, my little nook on the internet where I pour out poems, thoughts, and the occasional mini-tale straight from the heart (and a little bit from the curious corners of my mind!).

I’m Suranya. Most of you may already know me from my stories and history-related posts, but here’s something a bit different: poetry and musings. Musings and thoughts often from the deepest corner of my diaries that I have kept through the years, and poetry... It’s a love I stumbled upon rather late, somewhere in my 20s, and it’s been a journey of discovery ever since. I’m still learning, shaping, and experimenting with it, but every verse comes from my faith.

Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to have some of my poems find homes in lovely anthologies (Poets of India, A Puzzle Called Life, Silent Cries, Remember the Roses) and even pop up on amazing community pages like Byme Poetry, Poetic Reveries, Poetry Grapevine, The Writers Repost, Train River Publishing, Globalage Poetry, Heart of Poets, Heart of Quill and Poetry Support by BT.

My poems usually circle around themes close to my heart: faith, history, mythology, relationships, heartbreak, and the many social causes that move me. Style-wise, you might notice tiny echoes of medieval poetry, inspired by my love for the Bhakti and Sufi traditions but always grounded in the emotions of today. A little blend of old and new, if you will.

Here on this blog, you’ll find not just fresh pieces but also my older ones that I’ve once shared before on social media. So, grab a cup of tea (or coffee if that’s your thing!), get comfortable, and wander with me through words.

I’m so excited to share this journey with you.

With love,

S.

Forbidden Love

Her hand trembled on the white pearl string she held close to her bosom. It had tiny red spots on it, which she could not help but assume to be blood. Some of the war, its reminders of the sins of her kin, had rubbed off on her hand now. She shivered a little, trying not to lose composure. She had lost everything that was not hers to begin with. No amount of praying could now heal her broken heart. She was mourning her love in secret because he was gone, but she was still alive. To be scrutinised for lamenting such a forbidden loss. As long as she was breathing, she had to make sure she played her pawns well. She had to reconcile with her siblings. She had to make friends with the enemies. Anything that would make her relevant, even when deep in her heart, she wanted to slip away into oblivion. The most powerful woman in the world spent the night in the darkness of her room, wine glass in hand, helpless and defeated in the hands of fate.

© Suranya

Context: On 29th May, 1568, the armies of Dara Shikoh and Aurangzeb clashed at Samugarh, some odd 10 KMS away from Agra, where an ailing Shah Jahan hoped to put his eldest son on the peacock throne. Jahanara Begum, the eldest child of Shah Jahan and Mumtaj Mahal, the Padshah Begum Sahib of the land, hoped and prayed in vain for a miracle that would deem Dara victorious. Alas, in the well-recorded account of the war, an incompetent Dara escaped to be on the run, chased by Aurangzeb's troops. Among the casualties on Dara's side was the Rao Raja of Bundi, Chatrasal Hada, killed by the cannons of Najabat Khan, Aurangzeb's close aide. On the day Begum Sahib received this news, she was on her way to talk peace with Aurangzeb, hoping that he would spare their father's life. She was ready to embrace the highest form of diplomacy against him and her sister Roshanara, who supported Aurangzeb to the throne and was set to be the Padshah Begum. Stripped of her titles and imprisoned in the fort, Jahanara inclined towards art and religion as her solace in the turbulent times. Once the most powerful woman on the land, she was now at the mercy of others. When we talk of war, we always remember the winners and martyrs. The stories of women who lost everything to these wars remain hidden between the pages of history.

The Sun is Born

This day in 1540, around midnight in the separate quarters of Kumbhalgarh fort, was born a prince who would go on to be his dynasty's most famous king. Not because he won a battle or had a huge kingdom, but because of his resistance against a bigger power, his dream of freedom, his rebellious heart, the qualities that a true leader possesses. Of course, he was not perfect. He was impulsive and often put his heart and emotions above his head and mind. He was sometimes not rational either. You see, rational people don't do selfless things that may harm them. He did. He resisted with all his might. He fought against all odds. He inspired people who came four hundred years after him to fight for freedom. He never had the life of a king, of luxury and privilege. He chose the life in the forest, the guerrilla tactics that forced him to stay away from his family, the life that led him to many personal losses. But he did not feel defeated. That's where he became the man he is. Happy birthday, Pratap. I know it's a tradition to pay tribute to Maharana Pratap, but to me, you are someone personal, someone close, someone who gives me the strength to be a dreamer.

The scorching summer heat gave some relief to Jivanta Bai once the sun came down on the western horizon between the cliffs of the Aravalli.
From the window of the Rani Mahal of Kumbha Palace, she could see the wide walls of Kumbhalgarh, the decorated roof of the temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. She prayed from her window now that it was difficult to move much. The Daima said her baby was due any day soon. She placed her hand on her belly gently as she smiled to herself. She wanted a boy. Not because Mewar expected its king's firstborn to be heir, but because she wanted to finally have a man who wouldn't disappoint her expectations of
men. She would mould him into everything his father was not. Brave, respectful and chivalrous. She would live her life through his experiences. She would protect her baby no matter what. A sudden pang of pain alerted her as she called out for her maid in slight panic. The woman
inspected her and smiled. It was time. The cry of a newborn rang through the air of the silent night at Kumbhalgarh. The excited maids whispered how he was born in the same Prahar at midnight as Kanha, the lord their queen prayed to for a boy. Jivanta Bai was coming in and out of consciousness as she watched the baby cradled by the wet nurse. Conch shells blew, and the bells in the temples rang in good news. It was a boy. Jivanta Bai extended her trembling hands at the wet nurse as she placed the newborn beside the queen of Mewar. She gently kissed his soft forehead as he let out a cry. He was her hope and joy. Jivanta knew the moment the astrologer predicted his future as a unique one, that of an immortal hero, that her task as a mother, her responsibility as queen, was greater than she had imagined. She had given birth to a boy; she would have to raise a king. A king who would be father to his subjects, respectful to his queens and honour the names of his forefathers. The astrologer suggested names. Jivanta cradled her child in her arms as she whispered into the cooing baby's ears before he was taken to his father for the official naming.
"Kunwar Pratap Singh Sisodiya, welcome to Mewar, your home and your motherland."

© Suranya