Girls or gallantry

The girls in my poem share the same saga of life,

but sing it in different tunes.

Their skins are the crayons of various shades,

but their shadows call each other beautiful.

They are not the statues of opinions that other people build,

they are the mountains of individuality that God has created.

The twinkles in their eyes are revolutions

that can evolve one’s perspective

and their tears are courageous soldiers

who never walk back.

Sometimes their lips are the stories of silence and sometimes the poetries which never end.

Hormones march barefooted on their faces

And the world mistook their footprints as pimples.

Their faces engrave stories so deep, just like the ocean.

But their smiles always free float without dipping into the abyss.

Sometimes their tresses seem wavy like clouds in the sky

and sometimes straight like rays of Sun

Sometimes a night clads their tresses

and sometimes a sunrise settles there.

They aren’t the breasts underneath their kurtis which make them look attractive,

but underneath their breasts, they have hearts that make them attractive

that only a few dare to discover.

Their bodies are not prey for manhood,

but they are the shrines of sanctity where the world prays for a future.

Sometimes their minds become homes for monsters of mischief and sometimes for saints of innocence.

For them, walls of social norms grow taller each day a little more.

But the trophies of appreciation for their patience, passion & sacrifice become smaller each day a little more.

They all are equally pretty in their own ways

But truth is that your eyes hold the cobwebs of comparison

Your sugarcoated compliments aren’t their necessity when mirrors smile at them

All they need

All they crave badly

is to be understood

by me, by you, by the society, by the world.

I can’t conclude what to call them

Queens or reign

Fighters or struggle

Wizards or magic

Goddesses or apocalypse

Girls or gallantry!

©ruchiabhisikta

The tragedy of hair fall

Noodles waves & brooms

Charcoal coffee & gold

Silky oily & rough

Ponytail, braid & bun

This is how the girls like me nickname them

Out of love

Love that smiles

looking at Juhi Chawla in Kesh king

and Vidya Balan in Nihar Naturals.

Dreaming the same lengthy shiny tresses one day,

each night I wet my scalp with oils

until some drops glide on my forehead.

Saving egg and onion from my omelette,

I apply them to my head

Ignoring the bone-breaking cold

I shampoo my hairs for hours

with the little hope that the prop roots of my banyan tree will strengthen my beauty

But the coiled strands in my comb,

glued strands on my chair,

scattering strands on the floor,

and hanging strands on my tee

sings the saga of betrayal,

betrayal of my hairs that is hard for me to accept

Maa blames my fast food for this

Papa says your stress is the real culprit

and Bhai mocks me telling to cut my hairs short

Relatives who had seen the past richness of my flora sympathises me now

and my dear friends embrace me with the same pinch

Travelling the road from the boys’ barbershop

to high priced ladies parlour,

my hairs have raised their worth

The worth that jumps in anger

when someone defines them as mere strings of keratin

The worth that jumps in laughter

when I cry for them & pray for their development…

©ruchiabhisikta

Beauty with a brain

For her, terms like boyfriend, girlfriend, break up, patch up seem like the language of a distant land that she has no interest to learn.
But boys don’t retire from their hope-packed act of trying. They try hard to tempt her over texts, try harder to flaunt their care in front of her, try the hardest to grab her attention. And she never backsteps to gift abundant of ignorance to those flirtatious Romeos. Finally, to rescue their defensive ego from getting killed, they push her towards the pool of blame. And now the world sees her differently as if she is drenched with the mud of arrogance, attitude and reservedness. The reality is that her personality is not muddy with their thrown attributes. But their vision is soiled enough to unsee the truth, truth of her personality that has the ability to weigh to reality. They say her heart has no softness to love anyone and she nods bravely, smilingly. Because she knows that they will praise her beauty now and will prefer a prettier face later. She knows that now their presence will subtract ten more hours from her busy day and later their absence will add ten more hours to her blank day. She knows that there will remain a large gap between what she explores about them now and what she will conclude about them later & in that gap she will lose a part of herself. She knows that now they will plant roses of memories in her mind and later those will wilt and stink. She knows neither she can stop the clock from ticking restlessly nor the clock will stop her from misusing it aimlessly. She knows, by sleeping, singing, dancing, reading, writing, painting, cooking, playing, gardening she can give much more joy to herself than any temporary person can ever give to her. She is well aware of the fact that time will fly away from her if she lets the butterflies in her stomach flutter. So she chooses to take care of the caterpillar of her love and lets it grow until the time walks towards her gracefully.

Do you recognize who is she?

A damsel with arrogance, attitude & reservedness

Beauty with a brain!

©ruchiabhisikta

Observe a writer someday

The things that you may find when you observe a writer-

1. Her smile has gone through several rebirths. But she still remembers all the people of past lives associated with it, who were responsible for its death, who blessed it with rebirth. Copyright of memories has no expiry period as her ink makes them immortal.

2. Injustice against innocents pricks her mind to the extreme. She returns to her table, injured. Then pen and paper bandage her injured mind. A moment before, she was a worrier. The world sees her as a warrior, a moment later.

3. Sometimes thoughts party inside her mind during the period of melancholy. And sometimes her heart becomes alone in a party where everyone is busy in enjoying.

4. People say everything she writes is a facade. She wonders if the smile that got painted on her face while switching over to next line, the tears that blotted on the page brighter than ink are unreal too.

5. The lost friend to whom she once valued the most, writes to her an apology after long. She reads that like the last page of her favourite book and that book never appear on her bookshelf again.

6. The very first word that strikes your mind when you see her is ‘deep’, just like the sea. And you leave her assuming that all she can give is ‘salinity’, never sweetness.

7. She handles her heart like fine pieces of bone china. Still, it is full of scars. Scars of guilt, scars of failure, scars of agony, scars of inferiority. But those scars don’t bleed red. They bleed the colour of fonts of the words she scribbles.

8. Nothingness grasps you when you stare for hours at the beads scattered on the floor. But in a blink of second everything makes sense when your eyes get fixated on the necklace of poem hanging on her throat.

©ruchiabhisikta

Saga of a street dog

I have no name to be called after.

But my innocent eyes return to you each time I listen to

your harsh “hesshesshess”,

your hateful “sskksskksskk”

and your pitiful “chchchchch”.

In your eyes, my furs may be of the colour black, brown, grey or white,

but for me, they stitch the only attire

that saves me from the rage of seasons. Sometimes your car becomes my saviour providing me with a roof,

protecting me from sun, rain & dew.

And sometimes the wheels of the same snatch away my last breath.

Sometimes the bone-breaking cold propels me

and sometimes the aroma coming from your kitchen drags me

to peep through your half-opened gate.

Then you throw stones at me,

you beat me with sticks,

you pour hot water over me.

I leave your place with limping legs and aching body.

But your such cruelty doesn’t make you a devil in my eyes.

Because since long I have accepted it as my fate,

as if I am born to be dishonoured, to be hated, to be hurt, to be ignored.

But I wish I could show you my gratitude

each time you throw your stale dishes and rest rotis in front of me.

Your kindness makes you God in my eyes.

Just like you, I also become a creator

by bringing new lives to the world,

maybe four to five lives at a time,

maybe twice a year.

But their lives wither much before

they become able to play with their paws,

to wag their tails fully.

Because neither as a pregnant I am taken care of

not as a mother I can take care of my little ones.

Do you know I have some cousins in your house, in your friend’s house, in your neighbour’s house!

But their destiny is blessed with cuddles and licks,

not with kicks and sticks like that of mine.

I bark with all my force at every other person new in the street.

But do you know what hurts!

You don’t recognize me,

you treat me like a stranger although we meet daily.

Because you think that my only capacity, my sole duty

is to bark and bite.

Someday look at me closely.

You will realise how I swallow feelings silently. I am a street dog.

Dirty, ugly and inferior.

But I have a soul too, just like that of you.

©ruchiabhisikta

Will you be mine?

If your boundless love fits into fist size heart of mine

If the lens of your endearment fits into not so beautiful eyes of mine

If the key of your happiness fits into the lock of the childishness of mine

If the crystals of your soothing words fit into the emotional void of mine

If the rainbow of your humour fits into the grey mood of mine

If the shield of your possessiveness fits into the freedom of mine

If the framework of your family fits into the family portrait of mine

If the pattern of your choice fits into the simple life floor of the mine

If the palace of your future plans fits into the dreamland of mine

If you are the one whose character fits into the love verses of mine

If your personality fits into the theory of true soulmate of mine

If the crown of your dreamgirl fits into the head of mine…

Then from miles apart can you reach the still undiscovered heart of mine

Then can you make me feel that I am only yours and you are only mine

Then can I ask you to fit your fingers into that of mine???

©ruchiabhisikta

Love is in the dessert

Slices of a cake, a packet of chocolates

Spoonful of custard and a bowl of kheer

A piece of pastry, a pan of pudding

A box of sweets and a cone of icecream

The realm of my happiness is in the shape of these.

But each time I tiptoe to the kitchen

to steal these for him,

my love for him becomes louder.

For once when I share these secretly with him

and see him gobbling with a smile

Then the dessert feels tastier.

Because the taste is going to linger long

and our togetherness is going to breathe longer.

These moments run so fast

Still, these memories will always last

And we will always start,

start running towards each other, a bit faster

every time we will grow older, a little more.

His twinkle, his teasing, his gossip and a gaze of him

Sweetness what I consider is filled

in his everything up to the brim.

I say he devours the flavour like a wild

And he says I look berserk while watching him devour the flavour.

Our love is not civilised. We both accept also.

It is wild like him. It is berserk like me.

But it is soothing just like dessert.

Dessert for us is the conversation between our tastebuds and our hearts.

Dessert for us is the juxtaposition of our luck and our love.

Dessert for us is the horizon that unites my earth and his sky.

Dessert for us is the most magical composition that sings our zigzag journey.

Dessert for us is the fraction in which he sits at the top as the hero, I peep from the bottom as zero and unitedly our bond results in

something that none can define…

©ruchiabhisikta

Mother vs daughter

A mother dies at the thought of her daughter falling in love with the wrong guy. Conversation between a mother and her young daughter regarding love never feels like a mere exchange of words and emotions. Sometimes it feels like a war that is meant to be remembered like a historical event. And sometimes it feels like a festival of another religion that you can only dream to celebrate. Wizard hormones dopamine and oxytocin don’t fail to cast a spell on the daughter. And experience stood as a mirror in front of the mother effortlessly, yet firmly. When the daughter’s mind has already reached its fifties holding the hand of her lover, mother’s mind travels back to her twenties regretting over her erroneous choice in love. While gazing at her lover, the daughter becomes fearless of drowning and the shine of a different charm in her eyes scares the mother anticipating thousands of reasons to pull her out from that pool. The daughter searches for a home in her lover because now a part of her is hers only and most of her are his. And the mother who homes the entire her as a foetus for long nine months settles at the conception that her daughter is running away from her each day, a little more.

For a daughter, love is a blissful crime that makes her stand as a criminal in front of her mother. And for a mother love is a blameworthy culprit who paves her little toddler in a puddled path,

the path in which a toddler isn’t allowed to walk,

the path in which a girl can’t walk back.

©ruchiabhisikta

I am not a home

In my life, I have never been a home to anyone

I have been a door,

standing firmly,

staring at people hopefully, yet helplessly

letting them come arduously and go freely.

In the eyes of outsiders, I am the epitome of strength and pride

who debars anyone and everyone to come inside

without satisfying me with a cause,

without climbing my stairs of criteria.

And insiders nickname me as weak and possessive

because I cling to them as a hinge

without displaying my dignity,

without illustrating my independence.

Some days it rains, it rains heavily.

Imbibition makes me swell with self worth,

And I get chocked enough to be opened anymore

Somedays a thin ray of sunlight peeps through me

Compelling me to be parched in acceptance,

discovering the darkness inside.

My knob is in the shape of a fist.

Robbers try to play with it, toil to break it.

But the destiny teaches only to few real people

how to unlock it,

keeping it unbroken and shining as before

My frame is in the shape of your mindset

And my conscience has concluded that

I don’t need to fit in every frame

to look beautiful,

to feel valued.

Still, sometimes I wonder

“What’s the existence of a home without a door and why the existence of a door is so unvalued!”

©ruchiabhisikta

A disagreement

I think it’s obvious to disagree with this decision of Bombay high court, so do I

In today’s world when the threat of sexual assault knocks the conscience of every girl each time they step outside their homes, this decision of Bombay high court is mocking more towards the security of girls. What does it mean to say “skin-to-skin contact must be there for sexual assault”! After saying this what is the need to wash hands with the statement like “It can be called as a criminal force to outrage modesty of women”! Defining such a heinous crime in this manner and distinguishing that into different tiers is just a way of boosting the knowledge of the sex predators regarding ten types of sexual abuse with a hundred types of punishment. Law is making the culprits wise and questioning the degree of suffering to the prey. What an irony it is! Tell me what is the necessity of evidence regarding if the touch is under the salwar or over the salwar when it is done against the consent of the victim. If skin-to-cloth contact is less punishable than that of skin-to-skin contact then the same piece of cloth which protects a girl from molestation is responsible for escaping the heinous sexual assaulters from the clutches of severe penalty and mortification.

This decision of the court may be a step towards reducing false sexual accusation. But it is crystal clear that the court has turned a blind eye to the trauma of real molestation victims.

©ruchiabhisikta12

Fear of a daughter

Maa often says to me that the biggest and tastiest of ladoos were distributed when I got birth. These words of her echo in my mind the loudest when the crowd inside my head gets louder each passing second and my heart deafens gradually doubting my existence in this big world. Somedays I wonder from where she buys so much faith in me when all I have sold her is disappointment, from where she picks hope in me when all I have stored inside is emptiness. Those are the days when I look at her blankly, yet full of realisations. I fear that one day I have to behave like her, to work like her, to be like her for keeping her head high as a perfect mother of an imperfect daughter. I fear for the day when I’ll burn a roti, when I’ll make the curry salty and my mistake will be accepted not with a pardon, but with taunts and tantrums. I fear for the day when I won’t be allowed to feel tired after returning from work because the duty of a woman is meant to continue until the clock stops ticking. I fear for the day when my fingers can’t paint for the entire day, my eyes can’t read books for the entire night because people say the colour of the responsibilities looks the brightest, the page of a woman’s life begins before dawn. I dread that one-day society will compel me to act overly matured concealing the child in me and the surrounding will demand from me to recreate the little me. I dread that one-day argument & adventure will become foreign for me and the realm of quiet agreement & harmonious adjustment will welcome me. Then I realise how her face tells the silent tale of courage, devotion, sacrifice and tenacity that none has the ability to listen. I don’t know how much strength she possesses to live a life that I fear to even foresee. But somedays I feel better, I love myself a little more realising that I was brought up by a strong woman who taught me a lot, who trusts me a lot.
©ruchiabhisikta

A wish

“Didi le lo na”(Didi take it please)

was not their four worded pleading

that faded away from my mind

with the breeze of Rishikesh.

That was the realisation

that reverberates in the four chambers of my heart till today,

The realisation about

what my fortune has gifted me

what I could have been with this gifted fortune

what I can and what I should gift to the society with this fortune,

the fortune which is still a dream for million girls like these two girls

The girls with no childhood

the girls who were introduced to livelihood before living their childhood

the girls who are going to be trapped in womanhood before discovering their girlhood

the girls who will be fired into motherhood before reaching their womanhood

The girls who didn’t sell me mere flowers,

but gifted me happiness for free

and I bought their million-dollar smile

at the cost of thirty bucks only

The girls who wished for my better life

while lighting the dia and paddling the flowers in water,

and lighted my heart with gratitude and

paddled my conscience with the interrogation that “How can our wishes be fulfilled when they are empty?”,

empty with stuffed complaints, selfishness and thanklessness.

And each time I meet these two girls in the memory line,

I wish one day they can have the choice to wish too, for themselves.

©ruchiabhisikta

I had photographed them two years back exactly. But till today I open this image when I want to feel happy and sad at the same time…

A man’s happiness

Being a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a man has to carry his manhood not just in his beards and muscles, but deep inside his mind. The manhood that looks too light, yet feels too heavy as that piece of paper holding his resume for the job interview. His face becomes the poster with his work profile printed on it, otherwise it’s completely blank. Blank it looks, but it holds the weight of tears that has frozen into depression and restricted to be liquefied anymore. The fatigue in his face, the exhaustion in his mind and the ache in his body are the bucks with which he brings groceries to home and pays rent for turning a house into a home. His day night hard work isn’t a turmoil to toil, but the daily festival in which he gifts satisfaction to his ageing parents, smile to his spouse and pride to his kid and happiness to himself. The strength he gathers to drag himself from the bed early in the morning and to throw himself in the bed late at night is nothing, but the accumulation of his hidden fears that why his mother won’t regret bringing him to this earth, why his darling will leave the precious marks of her love in his forehead, why his son will introduce himself by his father’s name. The fear which the mocking society fires at him each time his wallet doesn’t thicken with money. With fading childhood and growing manhood a man runs in the road of struggle carrying the luggage of others’ expectations and not allowed to step back.

©ruchiabhisikta

Muse – Chris Gardner(The pursuit of happiness)

Ways to forgive yourself

1. Look at the mirror in a dark room with frail light peeping in. Mirror will look abnormally clear, like never before. You will feel your existence from the inner self, not in the way world visualises you.

2. Your head is a wise woman and your heart is a little child. It’s unnecessary to advise a wise woman. It’s a sin to suffocate a little child with regrets and guilt. Neither do anything unnecessary nor commit a sin.

3. Fix your blank gaze on the age marks of your parents’ faces. Your blankness will be filled with realisations you need to realise right now.

4. Stop trying to build the kingdom of your perfections because you will always have to act sophisticated inside a kingdom. Step into the home of your flaws. The people who feel like home will always visit you here.

5. Dump the garbage of all the ‘could have beens’ somewhere deep inside, somewhere too distant such that its odour cannot reach your present anymore.

6. Turn your ears into earplugs for mocking mouths. Sing the song of praise by own that you desire to listen in the voice of others.

7. Recite the hymn of sorry in front of yourself for the sake of your lost dignity and sanity. Recite it for the umpteenth time until the phrase “Never Again” gets printed in your forehead.

8. Analyse and measure your mistake in the scale of hundred. You will find it much below than you think. Balance your self-guilt with that, never more than that. And don’t let the self-blame come into the equation.

©ruchiabhisikta

An imperfect poetry for you

Sometimes I wonder

how a perfect poetry for you

will be like.

Will it sound more rhythmic

than the way

words come out of your mouth

And that bent accent creates music

in my ears!

Will it become more spontaneous

than the way

you enter in the realm of my thoughts

be it in solitude or crowd

be it in glee or gloom!

Will it look more serene

than the way

Sun slumbers in your eyes

and your lashes wrap it

in warm compassion!

Will it feel more blissful

than the way

my prayers get answered

each time I see others

applauding for your success!

Will it feel more tragic

than the way

tears lose their inertia

and sense collapses in the middle

imagining you away for a moment or two!

Will it carry more tenderness

than the way

your fingers create art out of the heart

scratching your manhood

and filling that with tiny paper cuts!

Will it follow a pattern more concrete

than the way

you try to engrave your personality

with ego, with attitude

without any fault!

Will it be more simple

than the way

you write poetry in the canvas of my mind

with your sleeves folded

and that ethereal grin hanging!

Will it be more exquisite

than the way

I read, I decode, I weave

each inch of your virtues

each iota of your vices!

Will it be more mythological

than the way

I keep each bit of you

in the sacred corner of my memory

to listen every day, to tell one day!

Will it be more romantic

than the way

butterflies flutter in my stomach

when you call me sweetheart

and others call me by your name!

Will it be more dramatic

than the way

our bond germinated from nothingness

and my adoration for you kept burgeoning

each day, a little more!

I can’t conclude

how a perfect poetry for you

will be like.

Maybe imperfectly perfect just like you,

but must be ordinarily special just like you…

©ruchiabhisikta

T-E-A

My best friend

Amidst the crowd of students,
in the race of career
I traced her just as another face
to compete with,
to share the journey with
without the idea that one day
she will be mandatory to make my days complete,
without being aware of the truth that
she is going to snatch a major share of my life.

Since then we have collided with farness.
We have met closeness.
But time and distance have never stood as enemies to our friendship.
Staying near, staying apart
each day our friendship has ascended the stair of eternity.
It will touch the peak too.
We will never let it remain halfway.
Afterwards, we will never let it decline anyway.

Hiding nothing & anything from each other,
embracing our imperfections
without misjudging the another
Flowing glee in one’s happiness,
breathing despair in one’s lowness
caressing each other’s taunts & tantrums
we dare to walk hand in hand
in the darkest alley of life,
carrying our emotions at our backs.

Absorbing the colour of her virtues,
reflecting the light of her advice,
stumbling thousand times
I learnt, I’m learning
to fight with my fears
& to oppose the obstacles approaching,
And she keeps teaching me
million times the same thing
with the very same meaning
without the perspiration of exhaustion.

When misunderstandings roar at us,
when fights frighten us,
when silence speaks in the space between us
then her adjustment, my agreement,
our apology, our understanding
get summed up to make
the frequency of our friendship louder.
But the pool of anger & ego
fails to lure us
as we love to dive into the ocean of each other
in spite of every hurdle,
at at any cost
without any specified reason.

I know every day she loves me more,
more than yesterday.
But that more will never be enough.
Because I crave for the most, most of her love.
Still, my heart skips a beat,
my faith fumbles
when the world shows me millions of friendship beginning & ending within a day or two
when I see her love soaring towards her other friends, towards her boyfriend
my fear for future groans claiming the uncertainty of our bond.

How can I measure the depth of our bond,
How can I quantify the worth of her!
when our bond is fathomless
& for me she is priceless
I admit, I admit that
I become selfish, I become insecure
when it comes to her, when it comes to our friendship.
Tell me how can I afford to let her go one inch away from my heart,
How can I allow anything to slacken our bond a bit
when I need her, so much & always
the way summer seeks breeze
the way winter smiles with snow
the way spring loves foliage
the way autumn links with maple,
when my prayer pleads to the Almighty
for granting our friendship an infinity & beyond…
©ruchiabhisikta

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL FRIENDSHIP DAY TO ALL💛💛💛

Let the words write me

I wrote these words. And these words wrote me.

1. Saying hello first doesn’t come under my necessary wants. But saying goodbye is a luxury for me that I can’t afford.

2. I get hurt in small simple things. But the smallest of things and simplest of moments make me happy.

3. I am never afraid of admitting that I own millions of flaws, I have faced many failures. But I am more than my flaws & higher than my failures.

4. I never take anyone for granted. I also don’t let anyone take me for granted. Never.

5. If I trust you, I’ll try hard to not let any situation to slacken that trust and will try harder to not let you do anything that fades my faith in you. But if my trying don’t make any sense to you, I’ll impose neither my trust nor my doubt upon you. I’ll just let you go.

6. Tears drench me often. And I’m not ashamed considering it as my weakness. I feel stronger each time I dry them by myself.

7. I can’t open my heart out in front of everyone, everywhere. You may call me boring for that. Only few people know how crazy & sassy I am. And I want that few to remain few.

8. In the entire world, I love my baba the most. And I know my mami feels happier when I say it. I am nothing without both of them.

9. I don’t have an empire of friends. I have some that I can count in my fingers and store in my heart forever. Some of them can’t even be categorised as friends because they feel a lot like family, a lot like home.

10. I don’t want someone who will say me I love you. Because I say this line to me daily when I stand in front of the mirror. I need someone who will make me feel loved by saying I love Us, with justified confidence.

11. I save my little anger for the people who mean so much to me. I gift that to them in abundance, often, but not for a longer period.

12. In today’s competitive world of comparison, I love to live my own story, fight my own battle which can’t be like any other and I enjoy applauding for the joy of others.

13. I hate full stops. I love to hang as an apostrophe after the names of people I love.

14. I can’t be defined in adjectives because adjectives are meant for comparison. I’m not a synonym because synonyms are meant for replacement. I am the personification of abstracts you don’t know.

Unsolved Question

Books publish eminent personalities say
No yesterday no tomorrow only today

Never imagine future nor cling to the past
Live present moment as if it is the last

But often my heart asks my brain
Is it possible to run on the crude path
of today?
Without a peaceful walk in the memory lane

Is it doable to work restlessly day and night?
Without envisaging yourself at the greatest height

How can we separate such a virilely
bonded relation
Like summer spring and rain

Palak Mathri

Preparation of palak mathri made me realise these things-

1. Bunch of spinach is just like me, just like you, just like an individual, bundling many useful virtues green, protecting some useless goodness wilted, unable to leave few ugly vices weedy. Few are the people who can notice the raw you, fewer are the people who accept the unprocessed you and fewest are the people who put effort to turn you into better you. And in front of the rest world, you will try to present yourself as processed you, cleaned from imperfection, chopped with expectation, ground to crush your individuality, strained for being a bit more ‘fit for the world’ you.

2. When shapeless moisture meets with loose flour, the dough is made, tight. When unbound trust meets with scattered hope, the bond is made, tighter.

3. Rolling the dough balls makes me realise pain is less about the exhaustion of the body, more about that shit chewing your mind with the thought that I have expended this much energy. The body is not a cage to mind, but a meant to free the mind.

4. Cut shapes are like somethings which seem better in bits, not in a size big, which can be kept longer in pieces, not in whole. Adore little moments, store shredded memories. They feel better, last longer.

5. Those poured pieces in hot oil are like bathed emotions in the burning liquid of eyes which turns strength after being fried in adversities.

6. Tasting feels a lot like saying ok. Because good is an overconfident word and bad is a harsh word.

7. Adding spice makes me think why the same recipe tastes better than the hostel when cooked by mother. Maybe always food doesn’t taste according to spice, sometimes unadulterated love makes it yummier.

8. Packing feels a lot like filling effort with no expectation and sealing it with love with no expiry date.

9. Deciding the price after drawing the lines of profit and loss made me regret for not drawing a smile in an innocent face by not buying a chips packet for ten bucks from the kid at traffic who keeps pleading. If I bought that from him, I could have sold some inner poorness.

10. Inserting labels reminds me how I love to hang as an apostrophe after the names of people who are the world to me and feel special when I realise that so ordinary I am in this vast world. It feels good to become solely special for the few who are special to you and to become completely ordinary for others.

Ratha yatra 2020

After an immediate decision of the supreme court, after a prolonged wait of the devotees, it happened, it happened in spite of all the catastrophe prevailing in the globe, in spite of all the obstacles coming in its way. Today, although millions of hands were deprived of dragging the ropes of their sacred chariots, zillions of hearts held the hope that Lord Jagannath would always pull the journey of their lives in the right path. Overcoming the vicious circle of thousand anticipations & arguments, finally He stepped out of his sacred palace along with God Balabhadra & Maa Subhadra, amidst the sound of chants, conches, bells & drums, amidst the fragrance of Sandal, Ocimum, incense sticks & flowers. In recent time, when new regulations, modern technologies are raising their heads to make the notorious corona bow down, the happening of this occasion is the proof that spirituality isn’t a synonym of toxic superstition & devotion isn’t similar to sceptic orthodoxy. This pandemic confined his festival in his native, Puri only; but the feeling for him, the faith in him spread more miles beyond the ocean, beyond the sky. In today’s world of social distancing & sanitisation, He sanitised our souls with deep belief & led our souls towards divinity, towards eternity…

My Lord Jagannath

O My Lord Jagannath!

No pompous poem of any poet can portray your glory

No thought of any philosopher can explain your mystery

No paintbrush of any painter can sketch your beauty

No frame of any photographer can capture your radiance

No sculpture of any sculptor can duplicate your structure

No curriculum of any university can teach your culture

No perfume of any brand can spread the aroma of your Tulasi* and Chandan*

No dish of any restaurant can copy the flavour of your abadha*

No vehicle of any generation can possess the significance of your chariot

No treasure of any emperor can buy your empire

No place of world can have the smoothness of your sharadhabali*

No obstacle in life can block the path of your devotees

No festival of Odisha can overcome the grandeur of your Rathayatra*

Because

You are the only cure to many ached hearts

You are the only solace to many lost souls

You are the only air to many suffocated breaths

You are the only vision to many weeping eyes

You are the only utterance to many muted voice

You are the only support for many disabled bodies

Because

You are the faith

You are the feeling

You are the life of many lives

Whenever I go to your Badadeula*, Your palace

I may return empty-handed but each time with a filled heart.

From my heart, these are not only the mere flow of words but my dedication of love and gratitude to my Lord, my Jagannath🙏

*Tulasi – Ocimum

*Chandan – Sandal

*Abadha – Food offered to God during worship and then distributed among the devotees

*sharadhabali – Sand of this divine land

*Ratha yatra – Car festival

*Badadeula – Jagannath temple

******all these are Odia words

All my beloved fellow writers here, you must visit the sacred Jagannath Dham of Puri, Odisha, India.

Then you can feel the truth of Lord Jagannath’s splendour by yourself😊

HAPPY RATHA YATRA TO ALL🙏

My love will

You may thrust me into darkness, but I will return to you as the sunrays that scatter through your window every morning.

You may suffocate me to cry the river, but I will return to you as petrichor that enchants your parched soul.

You may devastate me as the storm, but I will return to you as gentle zephyr that caresses your face.

You may leave my hand in the crowd, but I will return to you as a fallen leaf when you will sit alone.

You may throw me as unwanted seed, but I will return to you as the blooming Zinnia that adorns your garden.

You may dip me in the sea of gloominess, but I will return to you as the wave that kisses your feet.

You may pierce me from within by your words but I will return to you as a soothing melody that alleviates your despair.

You may impel my eyes to moisten my cheeks, but I will return to you as the force that pulls your lips to smile.

You may go away from me when I need you the most, I will never obstruct your path. But I will wait to embrace you if you return.
And I believe that one day my love will return you to me as my true lover forever.

Train & Thoughts

Indian railway tracks are always in conflict with the mobile networks.
While travelling in a train,
Sometimes I curse this conflict so much when my stagnant mind can do nothing except staring blankly at the zero network of my phone.
Sometimes I enjoy this conflict to the fullest when my heart succeeds in storing some words and emotions in the memo of my phone.

Sometimes I wanna observe deeply for a little longer to those feelings filled faces of people standing in the station to receive or to bid bye to their loved ones.

Sometimes I wanna ask those group of transgenders if they also want someone in life to share all the moments good and bad.

Sometimes I wanna take that little pale baby in my arms who peeps so innocently from the lap of his young mother in torn clothes.

Sometimes I wanna give the cake from my bag to that handicapped man with soulful voice instead of searching for jingling coins in my purse.

Sometimes I wanna laugh with the gang of friends in wildest of jokes and munching chocos. Sometimes I wanna ask them if there is any other thing to discuss rather than gossiping something rubbish about others.

Sometimes I wanna listen to the abstract thoughts of the person sitting next to me. Sometimes I wanna ask the aunty in the front seat the reason for her keen gaze on me.

Sometimes I wanna untie my hairs and allow them to romance with the wind flowing from the window. Sometimes I wanna move my head, feet & tongue with the rhythm of that repeat song playing in my phone.

Sometimes I wanna do whatever my heart wishes. Sometimes I wanna say whatever comes to my mind.

But sometimes I don’t wanna think, but can’t stop myself from thinking “What if others will consider me as a sentimental fool, an immature misfit, a nonsense girl!”
©ruchiabhisikta

A conversation on beauty

She: I feel ugly amidst all those pretty girls. please don’t compel me to attend marriage functions.”

Her Mother: What is beauty from your point of view? Tell me.

She: Of course it is the combination of genetics and cosmetics.

Her Father: So you mean to say that your parents aren’t beautiful. Right!

She: None can be more beautiful than them, at least not for my eyes.

Her Mother: Then how do you dare to call our daughter ugly!

She: But Mummie! You know well how much backward I am in this world of mascara, highlighter and lipgloss.

Her Mother: Who restricts you not to apply those! It is your personal choice not to use makeup. But in fact, a smile in face and decency in behaviour are the real beauty of a girl.

Her Father: Daughter! Some years back I found such beauty in a girl and I think you had inherited this beauty from her.

Her Mother: But your daughter is more like you.

A source of sweetness- Aai

Words which flourish when she waters my thoughts-

1. Her smile is the story of her teethless jawline. Her talk is the tale half-swallowed by her, half-understood by others. Her eating is a poetry, lengthy with less volume.

2. Her face is the silent music of Vedic charm tuning in the lyrics of holy purity. She is a Goddess who appears as a devotee, worshipping fervently.

3. Her palms can’t restrict the running nose of water tap properly. But her pat has enough power to cure a bleeding mind.

4. Dye of desert adorns her skin. But ripples of wrinkles are frozen all over it.

5. Her waist has become bent. It’s not just the result of age. It’s the load of responsibilities she has been carrying all these years, as a daughter, as a daughter-in-law, as a sister, as a sister-in-law, as a mother, as a mother-in-law, as a wife, as a granny, as a woman so strong.

6. The charcoal canvas of her scalp is now painted with numerous lines of white. And her mid parted alley is still clear where vermilion walks boldly.

7. Her romance ride has come to a halt. But that bindi kissing her forehead, those bangles embracing her hand, those toerings clinging her toes sing how her love for Ajaa still revolves like a circle endlessly.

8. Autumn has settled in her body permanently without waiting for the arrival of spring anymore. But the season in her eyes never remains dry when she murmurs about the illness of her offsprings.

9. It’s hard for her to learn & use technology. It’s harder for technology to limit & understand her.

10. Her age has withered. Her energy has evaporated. But her significance in our lives will breathe not for life long, but longer than life.

*Aai – maternal grandmother

*Ajaa – maternal grandfather

Wrap your grandparents with love & warm your heart. They need it. You need to do it.

A child bride

Burying the tender child within me

Nurturing the matured bride within me…

Scattering my desire to study in school and play with pals

Gathering the courage to restrict me within four walls…

Forgetting the yearn for an independent life, a bright future

Learning to survive in darkness, to adapt my cruel culture…

Losing my identity as a human, the most special creation of Almighty

Accepting myself as an unfortunate girl, the toy in the hand of destiny…

Love of the lifeline

Clouds in the sky changing from ghostly shape to serene sedan
Adorning themselves with hues of white, lavender and blue
In symphony with them, my mind is swaying here and there
In quest of an idea to write something soulful, special & true

Varied thoughts are approaching
Excited are the words to embrace them
But still discontented is my heart
So confused is my soul
Helpless me, exhausted me

Pressing my palms on my ears with my eyes closed
But still, I am unable to stop my mind from moving without any gear
Suddenly I see you in front of me with my eyes still unopened
“Ruchi! Don’t be hurried. Be cool”-My pressed ears hear

“Idea is clear and final” now I am dancing on cloud nine
Simultaneously guilt is grasping me from within
Why I spent so much time searching for an idea fine
when I was already bestowed with you, my emotion evergreen

You, the ripple of motivation to my stillness
You, the tranquility of my stormy situation
You, the glimmer of hope in my dark days
You, my constant in the world of alteration

Your advice, the universal solution to
my every problem
Your presence, the reason for my every enjoyment
Your unwavering faith in me, the slap to my every failure
Your smile, the best reward for my every achievement

Your admiration for Mom- for me it is
the definition of love
Your dedication to your official duty – for me it is the definition of honesty
Your concern for the uplift of our family- for me it is the definition of sacrifice
Your tendency of not to hurt anyone – for me it is the definition of simplicity

Your footsteps, my path
Your lap, my heaven

Your shoulder, graveyard to my tears
Your choice, my confirmation

Yet when in front of me you praise someone’s daughter
When you don’t bring me something without reminding you again
Then either my silence or my shout comes forward to show my anger
Because whenever I feel the slightest flaw in your love for me, I become insane

But many times I couldn’t stand up to your expectation
Still, you supported me as always without any complaint
Nothing can block the flow of your care & affection
Because I am your kid imperfect and you are my Papa perfect

I am indebted to Mom for choosing you as her life partner
My heartfelt gratitude to Grandpa & Grandma for nurturing you
I thank God every day for blessing me to be your daughter
Anything and everything in my life owes you, Papa…Owes you…

I know this post is a bit long
But all these words, phrases, sentences, punctuations, rhythm can’t express
How much I love you
What do you mean to me
Why do I adore you the most
Whatever I may write to you will be lesser than less
Because my day starts after receiving your good morning call
And sleep comes to me after touching your feet on my phone screen
Because your love for me was born even before my birth
And my love for you will grow till the end of my lifeline…
©ruchiabhisikta

A Home

Bricks of words
Concrete of punctuations
Beams of languages
Floor of theme
Roof of imagery
Colours of metaphor, simile, hyperbole and personification
Doors of characters
Windows of simplicity and twist
Rooms of poetry, prose and quote
When nomadic emotions of my heart and scattered vocabulary of my mind fell in love with each other,
then my pen transformed my diary into a sweet home to let them make some memories before they drifted apart one day.

Realisation of a selfie

While taking a selfie,

I’m not so good at tilting my head in a perfect angle. I’m too bad at drawing a perfect smile on my face.

But each time I take a selfie,

I gaze at me so close, so fixed

I observe how peacefully hollowness slumbers in my eyes.

I see how my eyebrows have become wayward as if there is none to guide them.

I feel how my nose breathes imperfection so perfectly.

I notice how my chapped lips are tenacious enough not to vent out the volume of my heart in front of everyone.

I touch the pimple on my cheek to know if that full stop is going to fade away nearly or continue as an ellipsis.

I run my fingers on the alleys of my parted hairs and shivers with the thought what if oneday like this parted hairstyle the people I love so much will go in their own ways to never cross my path again.

Reading my face this way made me realize why I can’t fit into anyone’s definition of beauty. I realize how hard I am to be loved by someone.

And before clicking the selfie, I smile a little cornered thinking how this Abhisikta reigns her own little realm happily

with the flaws she possesses

with the elegance, she lacks…

*Abhisikta is a Sanskrit word that means enthroned girl👸