I’m Writing To Set You Free

​You are always searching for me, aren’t you? 

You search for me in your black coffee, 
you sometimes add milk to it 
only to realise it tastes a lot like me; 
Bitter and familiar. 
Sometimes my name rolls off your tongue, 
and you’d touch her 
only to find me under your fingers. 

The funny thing about you 
was that too often 
you told the universe that 
you hate me 
only to whisper to your heart, 
“Not so much”. 

I remember those sweltering summer nights, 
you’d wake at 3:43 AM 
and ask me, 
“Do the broken edges hurt you as you draw me closer?“
I would wipe the question off your lips,
like the remnants of mayonnaise from that shawarma 
we ate after every 10:25 class in  college. 

I should have told you 
That if you were an abandoned building, 
Like the one all the children on the street were afraid of; 
I’d paint you in every shade of love, 
humility, sweat and blood. 
I’ll construct not a house, 
I’ll make a home out of you, 
with vintage furniture, 
blue, pink and yellow walls 
Held together for years by laughter and tears.

I should have told you that, 
I want to stick to you. 
Like stamps in my passport 
for all the cities my father showed me, 
for all the cities I loved. 
But could no longer recognise.

I should have told you that, 
if you were a tree, 
with the tendency to splinter 
and release into my skin, 
to branch off into my veins, 
to root in my soul 
I would still sit under it and write a song 
about getting better, 
about beauty, 
about you.

If you ever cried on a crowded street, 
like you did when you felt your heart travel 
all the way to your knees. 
I would hold you and whisper, 
“Shh, it’s okay, no one ever taught you 
how to behave in public when your heart was broken” 
I’d pull you into my mouth, 
thinking that I could hold you there forever 
but I couldn’t,
because too often houses abandon people. 

Every night in your dreams, 
I tell you the same story 
over and over again 
about this young prince 
who found the wrong princess 
who didn’t know what it felt like 
to hold the universe between her palms. 
He eventually rode off on his white horse, 
To find an adventure instead.

You have to put all the pieces 
back together- so that one day, 
You’ll wake up under white sheets, 
Next to this beautiful girl 
And make yourself a cup of tea 
Because who the hell likes coffee anyway.

Simran Varma

B A History H

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY

Independence day just passed by, like an aeroplane in the sky, coming with a loud establishment of impact. We waved at it and then when it hid itself in the leaves of the calendar, life again resorted to back to normalcy. 15 August has had its significance since it designated a spot for itself in the list of national holidays in the calendar. Unfortunately, the essence is just on the calendar, not in real life. We fly kites with friends the whole day, or probably, if feeling patriotic, watch the parade. But, is it just limited to that? Does flying kites really convey the essence of the word? Forget about celebration. Are we independent yet? Even if we are, then for whom? For our own selves or the world out there? Do we have the freedom to be who we are? Do we have the freedom to express ourselves clearly? Do we have the freedom to rise above a set of social norms society has established for us? Everything is on the page,numbered, segregated, but what’s out in the open? Guilt, fear , anxiety, depression, bondage, burden, the vague ideas of morality and what not? Independence is still an abstract idea that comes alive once every year in the form kites and fake patriotism and pride. Ask Yourself. Are you independent for your own sake and being?

 

It’s been seventy years, ten hours and eleven minutes. 

I am writing this with my deception reaching its highest point.

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY. 

Yes , you are independent to be who you are. 

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY. 

Yes , you can love whosoever you want to.

Yes , you don’t need to be accepted by anyone.You only need to be accepted by yourself. 

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY..

Yes, your dad will no longer beat you.

Your mom won’t cry now.

They won’t throw you out of the house. 

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY…

They are not going to tease you or humiliate you in school.

Yes, You can reveal your long old Crush you had on him and he won’t break the same long old friendship.

They are not going to call you with different names anymore.

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY….

Yeah, you can proudly admit who you are. 

You don’t need to be closeted anymore.

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY…..

NO, 

You are not independent. 

you will sit along with your dad, 

in front of the TV, 

watching the parade, thinking, 

This is the day I will come out.

This is the day I will be born again.

This is the day I will be independent. 

“Dad, I think I am—-.”

“Hey , see the Tricolor being hoisted. I feel so proud of my country. Yeah , you were saying something? “

“Nothing dad.See the tricolor being hoisted.”

They will still tease you in school.

When your friend will come to you and say , “I think I have a crush on that girl who lives across your street. She’s so hot. “

You will end up saying ,”yeah,Totally.”

No, You are not independent yet.

The day will end up and before going to bed, 

you will look at the mirror, 

you won’t be able to look at the image, 

eye to eye.

Just like other days, you will curse yourself and go to bed, pretending to sleep, staying awake for hours. 

You won’t realise when you closed your eyes and slept.

The alarm will wake you up. You will go to the basin, wash away the stains of tears from your face, whitening your red eyes .

It’s been seventy years, ten hours and forty minutes.

I am writing this with as much truth as I can put.

No, You are not independent yet. 

Just then, your neighbour will say, 

” HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY……. “

You will reply, 

” HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY……… “

                    -AMAN SINHA. 

English Hons. ( First  year)

 

Crash Course on Motorcycle Maintenance

Source: http://www.forwallpaper.com/wallpaper/art-road-hands-sunset-motorcycle-bike-clouds-trees-132590.html

I

On Sunday morning, I was stopped by a priest dressed in white

He was late for a sermon, and he needed a ride

I said, “I don’t believe in Jesus, religion is crime.”

He just smiled, shrugged, winked and started on this rhyme,

                                       *

Then I met this young lad who played a pretty game

He said he was a slinger, had two goats to his name

He took me to the boroughs, where the fighting began

Within minutes he was off, screaming as he ran.

                                        *

Next I met this old gal, she was stronger than most lads

She had ninety wrinkles and a temper very bad

She once had a husband but she left him for dead

When I asked her the reason, here’s what she said,

                                        *

The circus cat was fired, he was out of work and down

Every dog has its day but what about the clown?

He was the jack of all gags but master of none

He said his life’s a bad joke, but here’s a funny one.

II

Riding on my Fatboy, on to the causeway

I’d give up anything, just to live on like today

A twenty first century cowboy, out into the sunset

I’ve just had a journey I’ll never forget.

III

Back to civilisation, back to law and order

Where men behave like cattle, and the money’s fodder

Oh I’m not gonna be a part of this roundabout

Gonna go up to my rooftop and scream and shout,

Coda:

“Life’s too short my friend, well, they said so

They’re gonna give you their worst, but you mustn’t let go

Life’s too long my friend, they don’t want you to know

You must do your best, and then just let go”

© Aishanya Sarma

(Zoology Honours, 2nd Year)

Cold Friend

(Source: Emil Nolde- Sunset over Blue Mountains)

I held a snow globe once, and shaking it softly, gently
observing a winter wonderland in the middle of our Indian summer
I felt it shiver.
It was for you, cold friend
and I held it with care.

I never wrote you billet-doux
I never scented my gifts, never
splashed our photographs anywhere.
Neither did I tell my parents
that I’d discovered someone.
Not found, not met, but discovered the way your lips would part
while reading the poetry I’d written
and you’d blink twice while smiling
and how always, always, you would rub your rough palms on the table
as you waited for a meal to arrive.
I may not have done more,
but I discovered you with care.

I didn’t see you often when the rains pulled in.
Feeling you shimmer as our early flaws escaped
through the cracks of a careful sphere,
I pushed them under the bed we never shared
leaving them to writhe and multiply
as we walked under the makeshift sun.

You found it all one final day.
I never did much for you, cold friend, but that night
I cleaned up the shards silently, with care.

And silence is a clockwork tomb
I learnt, as I later dragged my sorry tail
to you, I a whimpering bitch on drying
grass, stepping on the broken glass.
Only needing a warm touch, however fleeting
I begged, tossing dignity aside
all after playing coy for a day.

I may have refused you once, cold friend,
but I pursued you
without a care for the stars
who sang for me, to leave.

© Zoya Chadha

(English Hons 2nd Year)