THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Cheers to the days I found myself, like the eye surrounded by the hullabaloo of the hurricane, the crimson maple leaves that turn to gold for autumn, like the stardust between the stars, the single antique piece in the crumbling museum, like the deep caves in perpetual darkness,to the days I freed myself from the cuddles and snuggles of what I called my comfort zone.  ~Aparna

I was the ugly duckling you don't know. I built my own shelter inside my shell. I schemed it with hopes and dreams. But never had I knew that the shell has to be broken, Never had I tried. At times I heard someone knocking at my shell. Knock knock. But I didn't mind open. I kept on looking at my illuminated dreams and hopes. I feared the collapse of them with the shell opening. I sharpened my ears and listened to the voices outside. I heard someone laughing at me , someone sympathising, yet another sobbing. None minded to break my shell. I was comfortable and cozy inside , I slept tight. But they said I lacked something. What was it? I didn't know. Day by day the hopes and dreams increased. I should find space to occupy some more. At times I bullied myself. And made my shell more strong. I  longed to see the world outside, But something prevented me and the shell was still closed. They called me ugly, coward, and many more names, my shel

(Written as a part of International Women's Day 2018. This poem was published in Delhi Poetry Slam on March 15 2018.) I'm Beautiful. But, I'm called inferior, I'm a Housewife. I'm called a bitch, I'm a Whore. I'm named as powerless, I'm the Company CEO. I'm called the blabbering witch, I'm a Grandma. I'm called careless I'm a Nurse. I'm known as no sex, I'm a Trans. I'm termed as the backward, I'm an Indian. I may not be fond of men, But that doesn't define me. I cannot be reduced to a column in an application form. My hands and legs are exuberant enough to do sundry duties. I change my cloaks several times, and hide in tangled forests, expecting your empty handed return. My ugliness laughs at your hollowness as I bath in the Blue Sea. I walk around the globe and touch your horoscopic stars. I tread through your ways , the prisoner light breaks its shackles and encroaches my body.

Yesterday when I tried to figure out the actual meaning of life, the images that just flashed through my mind were the trodden and the untrodden paths, the autumn season, the ebbing away of tides,the mating of animals,the plethora of stars and the fierce demons with an urge to pull everything towards them. Each one signifying the hopes and tribulations of life and when one image fades out another pops up launching a new episode and then I realised the impossibility of creating a collage out of these images. A.C

Sometimes I just hope I was Adaline , to go into the depths of a realm where aging is not possible,where you cannot be yourself, where you could keep on changing your place of stay, change your profession, change your style, your identity, language, and the people around you,  a state where you could change anything except that you cannot love anyone because you realise the heart wretching truth that it hurts to hurt!   #inspired by The Age of Adaline A.C

Because the wind blew and I no longer could see the things that I used to see. Neither the laughter of the leaves nor  the dance of the rivers. I could see only the light receding from the forest and the  fireflies floating in the sky and my vigorous  inner demons took the  courageous decision to seize the night. A.C