Plunder Of The Crazy

Clutching notes

Chasing the crescendos

The musician gloats

She tells her story

With its many heroes

And their glory

The melody is deep

It chases away the pitiful depravities of humanity

But plots are oft steep

The fools clutch their sanity

Deprived of the tale

They never reach the summit,

They just aren’t cuckoo enough

Ones like me, we fill our voids

Loose it all and sail away

We chase a horizon

Within the melodies

And at last

The joy is ours….. Joy of what you ask?

Oh dear, it is the plunder of the crazy

The happy despair of the hopeless

The best of the worst

It’s so meagre, yet plentiful

That it lasts me an eternity of a second

I dine with the musician herself in that glimpse

She coos her melodies, soft and demented

And that my sane friend is …. The joy!

Oh, Honey! Honey!

I perceived a lemon where there was only honey to be found

When I dared a lick

I found myself instantaneously lost , dazed

The taste was bliss itself

And all I could do was take one more

Then just another and another

My actions all revolved around its sweetness

I was lost

And did not know myself how to escape it’s bondage

It was when the honey bled into my blood

That I awoke

It was a strange place to be

A little sad and very forlorn

But I recognized it, it wasn’t new

I had felt this before

Differently, but yes, I knew it….

An old acquaintance

I knew enough to know, this was too much

I knew little, to know how to stop


Turn away

Not look

So I searched

Searched for relief, for others who had felt the same

Surprisingly I found many, of both survivors and answers

This was a crutch

A little tug towards light

It wasn’t smooth nor was it sunny

The honey faded away from my tongue awfully slowly

But it did

And now as I stand afresh

With a taste of relief on my tongue

It is two things I feel

Proud and free

For the world is a wondrous place to be

With more to see…

To Begin With

After all this time,

I was on the brink of losing my will to be stronger,

So I tried looking for a fresh start,

I didn’t think I could wait for you any longer.

Believing all our efforts had gone in vain,

I became oblivious to the void in my heart,

That is, until you were at my doorstep again.

I couldn’t believe my eyes,

I pinched myself just to be sure,

But there you were, with your arms wide open,

My heartache’s cure.

You cracked the same nonsensical jokes and snorted out the familiar goofy laugh,

You could light up any room with your presence, no matter how obscure,

Everything about you,

Reminded me why love was something worth fighting for.

Effortlessly, we went back to the slow summer nights,

As the sky melted from orange to blue,

Spinning in linen dresses under the city lights.

We sang along to our favourite tunes out loud,

Waltzed around the street unabashed,

Finally stopped worrying about the views of the crowd.

Although it pains me to think that not too long ago,

You were forced to say goodbye,

I’ve learnt,

Problems occur now and then,

But true love can’t be taken away by the tides of time, the wrath of gods or the close-mindedness of men.

The fact that we’re together,

Even after all these trials,

Proves that ‘love overcomes all obstacles’ isn’t just a myth.

So, as we kissed underneath the starlit sky,

I realised I couldn’t fall for you again,

Because I had never stopped loving you to begin with.

Beauty Waiting

By Shreeja Singh

How long do I have to wait?

How long do I have to seek?

An empty road

An even more barren heart

You fight for glory

You fight for hate

You fight for everything

Yet I am the one who waits

How long do I have to wait for you to come home?

How long do I have to be forlorn?

Fake smiles, stoic laughs

Happy parties but no part

A rippling river

Bustling with life

But why am I the lone bud

Alone waiting as I strive

Why can’t you see I fight against the ultimate?

The ticks of clocks

Closes and locks

The open door we had before

The actual feelings start to wither

At the core

Why do I wait?

Why do I wait?

For a man who leaves me behind

For a hand that doesn’t hold mine

For eyes that no longer gleam

We may see the same moon and sunshine

But farther than we seem

I lose a lot for you to gain

I then choose to remain

You leave to fight battles that are not yours

You leave to win and rejoice

The end result of our choice

But I am the one who waits

Alone without you

Waiting and waiting

Serene and astute

I gave up a choice to stand beside you

You chose to make me wait

For you

Why should I wait?

For whom should I wait?

Battle gears, war fields

Leave a little blood for me

Drop by drop you water a soil

You use your blood to nurture an unknown seed

But what about the one you left in me

But what about the blood that needs to flow through your heart

So I stop waiting and end this treacherous path

If you want to bleed the whole of you

For a land that will forget you in

Bloodied pages of time

If you want to fight

Fight for a battle that may never be yours

But leave a little drop for me to make that heart beat

But fight a war for me by giving me back my choice

As a beauty waits home

So does a seed

Waiting and waiting

For you to meet.


Symphonies rush into my mind
A melody here and a harmony there
Music overwhelms my senses
Fills me up
Lifts me up

This buoyancy is a feeling
I never want to get rid of
For I feel this way so rarely
I’m usually numb

And then when the music ends
This feeling settles over me
There one second and gone the next
Always leaving me feeling
Half of what I was

But then come the symphonies
And once again I’m awake
In colours and sounds
Filling up my senses
My mind, to the brim

And just when I feel
I’m about to soar
The symphonies disappear
And so does the rush
I’m back to where I’m started
Rock bottom
And I crave the sound

It’s a vicious never ending cycle
It leaves me feeling cursed
But the music gives me strength
It gives me hope

And maybe one day
I’ll feel brave enough to
String together some symphonies
Make something that’s purely my own

And then maybe someday
I’ll have the courage to share it with the world
Maybe someday
Someone else like me
Will hear it
And it’ll make them feel
Less alone

And then maybe
It’ll inspire them to create something too
To play it until they’re heard
Lift someone else up
Fill them with hope

And then maybe it’ll start a new cycle
Of inspiration, of resilience
A beacon of hope
Music made by kindred hearts, kindred spirits.



Standing in front of the mirror
Disgust was not an alien feeling to her
Questioning her existence, as tears streamed down her face
She had never thought heartbreak could do this.

Love, incomprehensible to her
Yet she herself decided to give it a chance, give him a chance
And yet both betrayed her
Leaving her exposed and in desolation.

She was afraid of love
Afraid of opening up to the wrong person
And getting heartbroken
And yet,
She took a leap of faith.

Wishing to go back in time
Wishing to have never met him
Wishing to have not fallen in his trap
Was futile
And yet she wished for all this.

Her spirit,
Couldn’t be broken.

Picked herself up from the floor
Dried up her tears
Stared at her reflection
Felt an unusual emotion bloom in her chest.

What she felt could only be termed as love
Disbelief was prominent on her face
An unfamiliar emotion had overpowered the emotions felt previously

Liberation was felt to her core
Liberation from the disgust towards herself
Acceptance of her imperfections
Embracing herself she whispered,
“I am enough.”

Flames Of Love

By Sara Sharma

We had our eyes set on the target. Our past six hundred and sixty-six failures laid heavy on our minds. We had own own doubts and fears. I know Sam was gradually losing hope and starting to regret buying ‘A Stud’s Guide to Summoning Satan’ from that shady cult but at that time for Sam love of my life in exchange for my soul seemed to be a pretty good deal. As for me I was enjoying my time here . This love quest helped me take my mind off those screaming souls back home. I was getting bored after torturing those poor souls in the fiery pits of hell so this sudden request of matchmaking served as a good pastime. This time  our plan was to shoot Sam’s love with the Cupid’s arrow which I had stol-borrowed without permission from the Cupid himself.

So here we were watching Sam’s crush from behind the bushes. This reminded me of my teenage days, falling in love with every passing guy and girl, the heartbreak, the fear of dying alone as a virgin. Well I’m an immortal so I’m not dying but I’m still a virgin. Sam’s love quest has lit a fire in me, it has once again made me want to fall in love.

“Mr. Satan if you would kindly snap out of the dream world of yours and focus on the task here it would be great.”

Oh boy, these earthlings cannot show any gratitude. Here I am helping him and he shows me this attitude.

“Listen to me you ungrateful human. I risked my life, my job just so I could stea-borrow this arrow and help you live a long happy life with your love but if you show me this attitude I will drag you down to hell, tie you on one of the cheap ropes, roast you and feed you to my helpers. So shut that hole of yours and let me work my magic.”

Nice, I still got it. To think I almost forgot the satisfaction a fear stricken face gives me.

“I… uh.. I am sorry Mr. Satan you are the supreme evil spirit and to think i shouted at you! I am a fool please forgive me. I am sor— oh my God that fine ass is on the move.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact you just spoke God’s name in my presence and do my job.” I said while shooting the arrow towards his crush’s ass. After the arrow hit him, I shot Sam.

After ten minutes they both woke up. I was expecting fireworks, dancing, them running towards one another but nothing happened. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement.

“Ugggh.. Mr. Satan? What happened did the plan work?”

“To be honest I don’t know. The arrow did hit you both but I don’t see you running towards him or him towards you.”

“Here I thought I could finally ask him his name.”

“You don’t even know his name and you have been following him around for weeks like a lost puppy!”

“Hey calm your horns Mr. Satan, it was love at first fight.”

“You mean sight?”

“No. Fight. F-I-G-H-T fight. I’ll just tell you the story of how we met.”

I wanted to stop him but his heartbroken face made me remember my six hundred and sixty six heart breaks. Damn you heartbreakers i hope you burn in Hell. His story was kind of unique. Cat calling his crush in the middle of the road, him beating Sam to pulp, Sam realising his masochistic tendencies, him meeting a cult selling a book to summon me on the same day and him summoning me. We were so engrossed in his story that we did not realise someone standing beside us. To our surprise it was the crush!

“Hey, this is weird but I wanted to say hi to this cutie right here.”

Sam had turned into stone. Not literally but that kid wasn’t moving.

“Hey kid you’re not Medusa’s son are you?”

“How did you know?”

Well now it was my turn to turn into stone.

“No need to be afraid sir I’m not Medusa’s son I’m just kidding. ”

“Oh well hello kidding I’m Satan. Please undo whatever you did to little Sam here.”

Just as if on cue Sam pushed me out of the way and started speaking to kidding. Weird name for a handsome fellow but who cares my work was done here I can always come back to check upon them and make sure he remembers his end of the deal so with that I made my way back to Hell.

A few years later when I went to check up on Sam, I caught him and kidding in a compromising position and did the only sane thing I could think of – clicking pictures. I was glad they were living happily together I even boasted about finding a cute lover after getting back to Hell. I had spared his soul because he had given me something even better. He made me realize that there was something better than burning and torturing souls in purgatory, that it was not the fire of Hell that could provide me happiness but it was the flames of love that burn your heart and leave a lasting impression. Love is a fire burns within you, it is a desire you surrender to. I’m starting to think that all this fire which burns within me can power all the fiery pits of hell.

Burn Till All Left Is Ash and Coal

By Shreeja Singh

Breathing in the familiar, fresh air of my home had been one of the few moments in my life that had not been riddled with purpose. The act itself filled me with poise and grace, like adding fuel to an ending fire that was riddled with black coal and white ash. The colorful curtains that I chose for each of my sons and little characters I had etched on their beds when my womb was swollen with them, were my salvation. The example of unconditional love that I rarely got for just being me, not the most beautiful woman on earth or as the Queen of Indraprastha or as the wife of the five great Pandavas or even as the daughter of the King Drupad, my father. I had been born into hatred nurtured by disappointment and formed into destruction. I was born to be the cause of laments not praises, a job I fulfilled with extreme efficiency and accuracy but my children were those little bursts of sweetness in a barren and sour landscape. They were mine. Mine to love, hold, and care and cherish. They were the only part of me that allowed me to see the mirror because they made me feel real, they made me feel alive, and they made me happy.

But like the sacrificial fire from which I descended, I burnt them. It was I who condemned them into an early demise, not only did I burn away their life, I took away their past, future and childhood. It was I who caused the sacrificial fire to burn, it was I who destroyed them and it will always be I who would suffer. Tears that flow down my face are worth nothing, like me. They would never fulfill the true purpose like the other water droplets to quench thirst but like me they will stand as sinners and act as angels of pain, misery and anger. People will remember me as the woman who changed the world, the inevitable change of era and maybe even as a powerful woman known as Queen Draupadi but would they remember me as a mother? It has been said that a thousand doors of death open when a woman goes into labor. I have gone through many of them but they never said that after braving those thousand doors of death, motherhood becomes an eternal heaven.  I had been humiliated in a court, I have visited the death more than enough times but why , why did even after all my torment I could barely taste my eternal heaven?

My husbands, the men I am supposed to love, could not fight in schemes and had me humiliated to an extent that I could have ended my life then, but I consoled myself by saying they were honourable and honest men so they did not know. I was nearly raped by their so called cousin in law and they didn’t kill him and I consoled myself by saying they care for all even their enemy. They broke our marital  vows of never allowing another woman in their beds by marrying multiple times but I still made excuses for them by saying that they were preparing for war and being far sighted. But when they could not save their own sons in the arena of war, what excuse should I make? They failed in their prime duty as Kshatriyas and men, they failed as fathers and they expect me not to lament, not to cry, to be a Queen of a kingdom whose throne is wet with the blood of my children? I refuse! Oh I refuse!

I will burn like I was meant to be. I will burn till my wrath is felt by the heavens and feared by the hell because I no longer have any reason to fear the rain. They changed an era and built a new one on my account, they made me their pawn, and they killed my children and tore my heart out. They will pay. They will pay in blood and misery. I was fuelled into a righteous wrath for decades now I will burn in hatred. I burn by my heart to protect my children, I will burn into an inferno so violent, maddening, so amoral that even history would rub my name away in hope to forget me!

Burn like a broken lamp….. Burn like a sati on the pyre…. BURN ! For all that will remain is the fire within and ashes outside…. Burn to forget ! Don’t love them ! Don’t care just burn like the endless fury of my heart…


Doctor ?! The patient…

Sita heard a shout that resulted in a splitting headache. Her head was hurting, her chest was hurting ; her whole body was hurting and in pain , but the worst part was not the pain in her body but a pain from within her soul like a fire burning that flickered into her with every movement she made. She did not remember her name; she did not remember anything except the cry and voice of that woman. It was like a last roar from an injured tigress, it was haunting and horrifying. It made her eyes hurt like she cried excessively and her lips felt chapped. Sita went on introspecting and she did not notice the doctor who had entered and looked at her with shock. He was old but well-kept and slightly weird, something about him made her tick but it all settled when she looked him in the eye and saw the real him. He was a monster, he killed children, especially little girls, and he had to burn…

He hurt our children , burn him like he burnt us… BURN!

And my vision went black.

I looked up from where I had dumped my tired body to see the news. The reporter kept on talking about a murder of a doctor in a hospital who was found to be convicted of multiple illegal female feticides. Then she went on speaking of multiple break-ins into prisons where pedophiles and child abusers were found burnt with a little blood lotus next to them, quite similar to the doctor.

I heard the news with a horrified face for the people around me but the fire inside me was preening like a wolf as the voice cackled maliciously, asking me to burn more and more until I was coal and ash and I agreed with a smile because I will for sure burn, burn like a fire. Burn because no one touches little babies… My children, mine.

Hamid’s Hands

By Kaisera Kanwar

Hamid had dreamt of pillowy naans and luscious, creamy curries the previous night, but sadly began the day with leftover rice and cold chai at the dhaba. His dreams often disturbed his appetite. How could he relish leftovers when his mind was floating with images of hot pakodas, makhani dal and syrupy shahi tukadas. He wasn’t undernourished, just deprived of the luxurious fare served at ‘Shahi Tughlaq Dhaba’ – his residence and means of livelihood.

The dhaba had been his whole world for all his fourteen young years. He had seen the steel vessels turn into copper thalis and the rusty fans into modern coolers. Hamid had no recollection of how he ended up here, and sadly neither did Karim Bhai. They all believed his parents must have been labourers who had nothing to give their newborn, maybe not even a home. All his early memories were of Karim Bhai and his fragrant food.

His days, come sun or rain began with the sound of clanging vessels and whistling kettles. He would hop off his bed squashed under the spice cabinets and rush to the hand pump behind the dhaba, to freshen up. “ The little one has woken up! “ , Karim Bhai would shout out and business would begin with the first order of ‘cutting chai’. Hamid’s duties at the dhaba were clearly chalked out, he would first collect milk from the dairy down the main road, then haggle with the old lady who sold them vegetables, lug the heavy bags of fresh produce with Reeta to the dhaba and by lunchtime start shovelling coal into the tandoor. The routine did bore him at times but the food always excited him. He had been pleading with Karim Bhai to let him into the kitchen and help with the ‘masala tadkas’ or even the fresh chutneys, but the man refused to budge, always citing hot oil and flash fires as the reason for his refusal. But Hamid too was hellbent on making it into the kitchen and watching the magic happen. After all he wasn’t a child anymore, he could handle the heat.

One summer night he crept into the kitchen, hoping to sneak a little midnight snack into his bed. It was extremely dark but he could feel a faint heat emanating from the corner where the tandoor was situated. The soft orange embers within the clay pit were the source of the heat. As he moved closer he recalled how Karim bhai had looked so confident slapping naans with his bare hands into the same fiery pit. Maybe he could try too? Many would have feared the hot coal, but Hamid didn’t. The idea of cooking something, anything lit this happy spark within him. So he thrust a little more coal into the tandoor and began searching for a little leftover dough. Bingo! There it was under the sugar tin. He knead it out with his hands and slapped it around on the marble slab a few times imagining up wonderful fantasies of being a professional chef like the ones on TV. Just as he was about to pop it into the tandoor , Karim Bhai all red eyed and angry entered the kitchen. “ WHAT IS THIS RACKET YOU ARE CREATING HAMID?! DO YOU WANT TO BURN YOUR HANDS!? HOW DO YOU THINK YOU WILL BRING MILK WITH BLISTERS ON YOUR PALMS? “, he thundered . Hamid was mum, silent with fear of getting punished or beaten. There was silence for a few minutes in the room, and then Hamid was hauled by his collar and left at his bed. He fretted thinking about his punishment, but soon fell asleep.

The next morning there was no hustle bustle to be heard in the dhaba. No vessels clanging, no kettles whistling only silence. Hamid was flummoxed. Was Karim Bhai unwell? Hamid then heard the sound of the shovel from the kitchen. Ahh… someone was there. He entered the kitchen and found it to be empty with only Karim Bhai present, no Reeta and no customers. Confused he looked up at Bhai who had stopped working at the tandoor and was putting something into his hand. It was the five spice special mix. ” But why  Bhai ?”, he asked. He got no answer. All he got was a nod towards the tandoor.

That day the dhaba was shut down for the first time since it was opened; that day Hamid burnt his hands for the first time while using the tandoor ;that day Hamid also learnt to name spices, saute onions, roast meat and churn buttermilk. That day a chef was born….

Playing With Matchsticks

By Mannat Sidhu

It had been an average night. Chicken for dinner, bland and overcooked, as usual. Shriya had watched television with her husband, then they’d gone to sleep. The kids had probably gone to sleep around the same time, or so she assumed. They weren’t really the kind of family who said goodnight to each other. The only thing that had been out of the ordinary was how hot it was. It was sultry and humid, highly unusual for late October in the sleepy little town they called home. She had left the windows open that night, in hope that a cool breeze would enter. But that had been a mistake. Maybe, if she had closed the windows, the wind wouldn’t have caused the fire to spread. There were a lot of “what ifs” but the reality was that on that very night, at 11 p.m., a fire spread across the house. Shriya woke up with the smell of smoke in the air and bright flames dancing before her. She and her husband rose to check on their kids, but they never made it out of the room.

What would you save if your house was burning down?

It was the kind of thing no one really thought about, a question that people made sure never to ask the kid who had literally lost everything in a fire, who’d barely managed to make it out alive. But then again, there were many people who thought that Anwar had started the fire that killed his parents. The reports had shown that the fire was caused by arson and the detectives considered it to be an inside job. Both Anwar and his twin brother Shaurya were under scrutiny, and there was to be a hearing in the court to decide who was guilty. But for everyone who knew the twins, the case was already closed. After all, Anwar was the twin who had been playing with matchsticks for as long as anyone could remember, and Shaurya was the one who was responsible for putting out his fires.

It was a bitingly cold day, and Anwar could see his breath swirling around as mist as he walked towards the court. All the major events in his life seemed to occur on days with extreme weather conditions. His mother had told him how scorchingly hot it had been on the day the twins were born. He imagined it was as hot as it had been on the day she died. So it seemed fitting for the weather to be frosty and cold on the day that his future would be decided. However, he already knew the verdict as he walked up the stairs to seal his fate.

“And how does the defendant plead?” Anwar been expecting the question, but he hadn’t realised that he would be questioned by the judge himself. “Guilty, your honour.”

All around him, he heard murmurs arising through the courtroom. He swallowed the lump in his throat as his eyes met his brother’s. Shaurya’s face showed nothing but worry as he turned to talk to their aunt. Anwar had no idea what happened during the rest of the hearing. He didn’t even register how long his sentence was. For the first time since the night of the fire, his mind was empty.

It was his last night at their aunt’s house, where the twins had been staying ever since the fire. Anwar knew that if it was up to her, he would already be at the juvenile detention centre this night, instead of leaving in the morning. She hadn’t uttered a single word to him after the hearing, but he knew that she could barely stand the sight of him. Shaurya avoided both of them. With nothing else to do, Anwar went straight to the guest bedroom and prayed that after countless sleepless nights, sleep would finally come to him.

The first things he noticed when he woke up were the heat and the light. He hadn’t forgotten how cold it had been during the day. A sharp contrast to the waves of heat he felt emitting all across the room. He noticed that according to the clock placed on the bedside table, it was close to 3 am. However, the darkness that should have been there was replaced by an eerie glow. And suddenly he understood what was happening. After all, he had woken up in the same situation just a little while ago. Only this time, something made him realise he might not be so lucky as to make it out alive.

The door swung open and Shaurya entered. Behind him, Anwar could see the flames spreading. “I did what you told me to do”, he said, hating how shrill his voice sounded. “I took the blame for what you did and you promised me you wouldn’t kill me”. “So I take it that twin telepathy doesn’t exist. If it did, you would know that I’m no good at keeping promises.”

Detective Sharma was not fond of investigating fires. Especially when the cause was arson. This was his second case of the month and he was not happy about it. He glowered at his witness, even though he knew that he should be sympathetic because while he only had to investigate two fires, this kid had survived them both. “So son, tell me exactly what happened”, he said, in an effort to be more polite. “My brother said that he’d rather die than go to jail. So he lit another fire and didn’t try to escape. My aunt tried, but I couldn’t save her.” As he spoke, a tear rolled down his face. The detective, who hated tears, ushered him out of the room. As soon as the door closed, Shaurya smiled. He thought about his dead brother, who used to play with matchsticks. And Shaurya had only recently discovered that he liked starting fires a whole lot more than putting them out.