From The Quill of Suranya

Water over the head  Drowning in a sea of blood, Sweat and tears, blurry vision, A voice echoes in the chaos Of screaming bodies, silent minds.  Ideas do not die.  People do.  Ideas build societies.  People break them.  Ideas cause rebellion.  People suppress them.  Ideas are loud,  People silence them.  But when enough is enough  One idea multiplies into thousands, The silence screams into deafening noise Of resistance and protest; A cause brings about a crowd  That always hopes  It can change the world.  ~ Suranya

Ever looked up at the sky, The vastness of the ocean, The leaves or flowers, And two lines of a poem From somewhere — In a distant memory Of what you once read Come back in bits, making you smile? If it did, and it took you back, To days better than these, All I ask your kindred spirit is that Do not forget the poet, Who looks up at the sky, And sees a chariot, instead of clouds. Do not forget the words, Woven with hope, belief and imagination That arises from within the self, In an awakening of spirit, Inspiring rebels and dreamers alike. Do spare a thought, for the names Lost, struggling, putting up a brave face,  While another dream somewhere, Shatters into the dust of reality. ©Suranya

 The voices in my head, Screaming at the void, Getting louder every day. Some applauding, others panicking Mostly distorted and chaotic. I have tried to listen to them, To the wind that whispers in my ear, The sound of everything around me Deafening my thoughts and fears. Yet every day, even in the numbness Of unsure silences, the voices echo. They get louder and louder As if they are unheard. And I scream, in silent reassurances, 'I am listening!' as they laugh, 'Are you, really?' ©Suranya

No matter how far I travel, How uprooted I feel, How alien I become To the teenager I once was, These lanes bring me back To the place called Home. A safe space that was — Despite its flaws. ©Suranya

 I find myself in unfamiliar surroundings, Wander alone through the complex roads, That intertwines like two snakes fighting for survival And I chance upon a stranger. The sunlight reflects on his face. Blurring my view of his features. “ Is this the State of Mind? ” I ask. “ What are you looking for? ” He smiled. “ Peace. ” I show him the address. He shakes his head, amused. “ It’s a difficult road ahead, you would need more… ” “ More of what? ” “ Thick Skin, Carefreeness and a lot of self-love. ” “ Then? ” I ask, intrigued. “ Then you will perhaps find a glimpse of it some day. An idea, an abstract, a utopian world. You will get there, slowly, when it's time. ” “ How do I know when the time comes? ” “ When Death knocks at your door, Asking you to let go, He will surely take you there. ” “ But can I not reach there before Death arrives? ” He laughs, a hearty laugh, staring at me, Like I was a child asking something naive.  “ You will find a glimpse of it someday. ”  His ...

I stand and watch The pawns change colour  As the chessboard burns.  Thoughts rattled, ideas shackled I often wonder how faith turns.  Blind they are, following kings to wars Being the first in fallen lines.  Wrath of Nature, angered Gods?  It's all your doing, humans. History repeats, blood and scar Yet you don't learn love over waging wars. ~ Suranya

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...

 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...

 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

 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,...

 Freshly peeled potatoes Dipped in water in a discarded steel bowl  Smell of new pastel colours on paper  Petrichor of Kalbaisakhi  Shiuli, Bel, Jui of seasons  First aroma of Ilish Khichuri  That one plastic lay with dust  Perched in a corner, nobody dares to open God knows what lies inside.  Sound of the whirling fan  Smell of old books and dust  Alpona and Dhunuchi of Pujo  Saree from your mother. Morning conch shell Summer Kulfiwalas  That creaking door you dare not close  All that feels like home. Sometimes missed or frowned at  But never left behind  In the lanes of nostalgia  Every time you travel back  Through stories of childhood. © Suranya

 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

 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. © S...

 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

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

 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