Aretha, the Queen of Soul

Aretha Franklin, regarded by many as the Queen of Soul, passed away on August 16th at the age of 76. (Strangely enough, she died on the same day as the King of Rock Elvis Presley passed 41 years ago.)

The Robbery

So my girlfriend just broke up with me. I asked her why and she told me – ‘You are the most benevolent soul I have ever met. You can’t manipulate people or play mind games even if you wanted to. My best person, always. But you have one fatal flaw, and I can’t bear it anymore. I’ll have to end the relationship, I’m sorry.’

Honey’s Kitten

I rode into the driveway on my bike one sunny day and saw her playing with it under the sassafras tree in our backyard. It was a tiny black thing with white paws and its face was half white. There was a pink collar around its neck, so according to Honey that means she is a girl and her name is Mimi.

“It sounds like Mommy,” she said as I crouched down next to her. The cat purred at Honey’s touch, turning in slow circles. My nose itched. “Honey, it—she—” I sneezed, “belongs to someone. That’s what the collar means.” But as the summer went on and grew hot the darn thing kept coming back. Honey begged Dad to buy some cat food for it, and one day he caved in and came home with a yellow bag of kitten chow. Honey took it and stumbled outside to the sassafras where Mimi was rolling around. She set the bag down next to the cat and then ran back inside to get a bowl and milk, her short legs pumping.

Unfocused Images

Imagine being a photographer and carrying your unbelievably magical Pandora’s box everywhere. Being given a chance to view its contents, who wouldn’t pounce on it?

People comment on its aesthetic view, perfect angles, beautiful models and compliment the spontaneous talent. The more the colors, the prettier the picture. And we love it . Every time we attach the picture to our documents, we do so with a hope that it will enhance our work.

But sadly, no one has the time to delve into the picture and live through it. Polaroids and HD pictures splash colors and people soak them up like drought – ridden lands soak rains. No one has the time to listen to the stories the person behind the lens wants to convey.

Boxes

A twenty year old log cabin sits atop a hill in the countryside. A field of cornflower is nestled across the street from the house. In the twilight breeze, the flowers waver and whisper good-nights to the occasional eagle or bat that soar above it. A bat twirls and flits into a tree that stands tall in the front lawn of the cabin. The ground is snowy with dandelions.

The front door is occupied with boxes. Empty boxes. So is the living room, the kitchen, and the bedroom. The only area not overpopulated is the dining room where a single box, the only full one, of old china sits, waiting to be secured in the glass cabinet beside it.

Be Human, Love Animals

Most people forget that this world belongs to the animals that so inhabit it as much as it belongs to us. Do we really believe we will not have to answer for every animal that suffered on account of our utter negligence? Will we not be held accountable for each animal which we could have fed, but failed to? Could there still be humanity while these innocent beings suffer, could one’s humanity still be intact after inflicting harm on them needlessly with brooms, bats and sticks?

Estrangement

1. Beginnings

 

Far out into the sea, too far to traverse on foot, on a crude lonely crag, sat a child.

The tide was well into its midnight frenzy, spraying an icy shower upon the slight figure and amidst all this turmoil I wondered how that child came there to be. He didn’t seem to be concerned, though, by such trivial thoughts. His head hung back at a worrying angle to the rest of his still body; the position offering him an unimpeded view of the heavens. I blinked furiously, hoping to doff the remnants of this remarkably lucid dream, but I remained upon my cliff and the child atop his perch. I called out only for the wind to steal my voice and divert it where it could do no good. The air hung heavy with brine as I inhaled my frustration, burning where it permeated my nose. Defeated, I followed the child’s gaze and forgot. I forget everything. The night hours trickled past me, unnoticed. I was nothing, I was no one. Under the unearthly might of the heavens, I did not exist. No diamond shone as bright as the milky clusters glinting against the dark canvas of space. So vivid they blazed that I feared, any second, they would dislodge from their far away thrones and plunge my world into an abyss. They held me frozen under their spell, those celestial bodies, for more hours than I care to remember. I now know that I needn’t have fretted for the stars making their obeisance to the pull of gravity. In the moment that followed, this fact became obvious. It was so fleeting, no matter how many times my mind revisits that fateful night, chasing itself around convoluted paths, the result would only have been the same. Something shifted in my periphery, forcing my eyes back to the child. His tiny, pale palm reached towards the sky as if to pluck out a star like an apple from a tree. In a second that panned for hours, I watched his body slip perilously close to the edge of the precipice and disappear into the dark frothy waters. A warning cry ripped through my throat and my paralyzed limbs struggled forward but I was separated from the crag by too many meters of wind and sea. I contemplated jumping in after him, plunging myself into the treacherous depths of a tide lost in the clutches of a moon-driven madness. For the second time that night, I found myself frozen. This time, from fear rather than awe. The churning of raving waves birthing thunderous roars as they crashed against the cliff-side, struck such horror within me that I laughed, remembering my reason for being there.

In the distance, the weeping wail of sirens began to play through the night. There I was- hysterical, hunched a hundred meters above a full tide scattered generously with jagged rocks- when they finally came. The melee of alarm-bells and flickering lights; the panicked amplified voices demanding that I step away from precipice.

 

Contemporary Poetry and Advent of Budding Poets on Instagram

What is poetry? Panacea for the ailing aesthetic soul? Or fodder for the not-so-ordinary bibliophile? Or perhaps the expression of the innermost imagination using handpicked words?

When we happen to read a poem, it often strikes a chord with us, touching some deep recess of our mind, and we feel attuned to the poet’s psyche. We try to decipher the hidden meaning behind every word, sewn together to form a wonderful tapestry that is a poem. That’s the beauty of poetry! The freedom lies in your interpretation of it. No two people ever see the same rainbow, likewise every reader perceives a poem based on their own experience and understanding. Surprisingly, more often than not, we wonder, how is it that someone put our thoughts in such a lucid manner into words?! How is it that, some clever being found the exact right words to describe what we, as individuals were feeling within?! And if they make it rhyme on top, well, they just made your day didn’t they? Although we love reading about “a host of daffodils” or how “the two roads diverged in a yellow wood” every now and then, we connect with these budding poets at a more elemental level. For they belong to our generation, churning out poems that match our wavelengths; and over the years these talented authors have become more accessible through Instagram. It’s a great platform for showcasing your flair for writing as well as your creativity, in terms of art and presentation. While Instagram allows you to remain anonymous, should you choose to write under a pen name (like bygone poets used to do); you can even sell your craft using a business profile.

Book Review: Ivory Gleam by Dr. Priya Dolma Tamang

Born in Sikkim, a north-eastern Indian state, to Nepali parents, Dr. Priya Dolma Tamang is a medical graduate and a poet.

She is one of the best people I have come to know. Sweet and equally talented, with the right amount of depth that makes a person stand out as a human, and probably the one author with maximum online presence, Dr. Priya has a unique way with writing, and that is what gives her and her debut poetry collection, Ivory Gleam, a special place amongst other poets and their anthologies.

Straight as a Curve

Present day –

That girl shopping for high heels is Maria.

The guy beside her, watching in awe, is Jack.

Anna just ordered meatball noodles for Robert.

Robert is simply accompanying Maria, Jack, and Anna.

He is neither interested in high heels nor meatball noodles.

And I’d like to introduce myself as the narrator of this seemingly innocent yet devious tale of love, straight love.

Flashback (The day when Robert and Jack arrived in the flat right next to Anna and Maria’s) – 

Cupid struck Jack when he saw Maria.

It was love at first sight for Jack as Maria welcomed him.

Robert watched coldly as Jack’s expressions transformed.

Anna was swept off her feet as well when she caught a glimpse of Robert’s brooding and intense face.