From The Quill of Suranya

 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...