When Breath Becomes Air

By Aryaman Kumar

I was walking in darkness. I didn’t dare think about it, because then I would drown.
And if I started to drown, I know I wouldn’t be able to save myself.

Breathe.
Was all I could do. I was a ghost with a beating heart.

All around me, was the abyss of nothing. Yet, in the nothingness, there was everything. Every sort of pain.

The inescapable frozen claws of fear gripped me constantly, and I felt the cold, cruel, yet peaceful wave of emptiness flow over me.

Breathe.

I don’t know why. I don’t know why I kept walking aimlessly.

All I knew was
Breathe.

Why was I even breathing?
I collapsed, a single tear falling off my face and onto the destitute ground.
Until I saw the light.

Breathe.

The light was warm, and it chased away the demons that lurked in the shadows.It dried my tears, and sewed the pieces of my heart together.
Thanks to the light, I finally had a reason to

Breathe.
~

{ Title inspired by non-fiction autobiographical book written by Paul Kalanithi. }

AfterMath.

By Aryaman Kumar

Tears roll down my eyes,
As I sit under starry skies.
The stars shine, in the deep black sky
I sit and stare, travelling anywhere
My mind’s a mess, for its under distress
Those memories hurt, as the mind crumbles.
All this serves to make me humble.

As I recollect my faults.
From those deep, deep vaults
I miss you still, my heart isn’t still.
It breaks and tears, along my stay
I do still cry though I’ve lost my way.
I do miss you still, and I’ve done this before.
I’ll break myself as ever more.

Thunder strikes
The skies break
The rains begin, with a brake
Even nature stares.
Ever all human and we make mistakes,
Only to lament after we’ve lost our stake.

The heart is beaten black and blue
The mind has vanished askew
The soul is lonely, pale and stale.
For it’s shut its doors on life and ale

I’ve grown to try and escape
But alas I can’t let go of my mistakes
Seeking redemption on every door
Will you but not answer my call ?
The promises made , will be kept
Tis for that , I have wept.

Feelings of disappointment pain and betrayal
Words said with out scale,
Meaningless as they are.
They still strike without care.
And I look beyond the valley
And fade away.

Harshini Misra is a young Indian writer based out of New Delhi. She expresses her opinions and concerns about societal problems using free style poetry. She tries to find a balance between fiction and reality within her writing.

(Not) My Fault

By Harshini Mishra

They told me that it was my fault.

My skirt was too short and my shirt was too tight. I drank too much, I was out too late, I resisted too much. And that maybe, just maybe, if I hadn’t provoked him like that, if I hadn’t rejected him, if I hadn’t angered him then he wouldn’t have been compelled to force me.

The police officer who hesitated to write my FIR when I came rushing in- make up smeared and crying- asked me as she judged me by my clothes and my appearance disdainfully- if it was really worth it because ‘boys will be boys’. As if by recognizing the injustice done to my body, I was the one committing a crime. As if it was within his right to touch me the way he did, to beat me the way he did because he was a boy. And boys will be boys.

So I asked them whose fault it was when the two-year-old was raped by her own uncle. I was curious to know how she provoked the 43-year-old- was it her under-developed breasts or her inability to form full sentences. Whether playing with her toys was too much to handle for him, whether her fondness for her favorite relative was too provocative for him.

Whose fault is it when he gets drunk and beats his wife again?

Whose fault is it that I am told to cover every inch of my body, that I am told to make sure that I show no skin but he is not told to control his urges? Whose fault is it that the fact that I am covered inch by inch doesn’t stop him.

Whose fault is it that I don’t feel safe in my own country, in my own city, in my own colony, in my own home?

Whose fault is it when my dad starts worrying after 7pm, when he starts calling me every hour, when he starts praying. Praying not only for my safety but praying that he never has to face the dreadful day when his daughter becomes India’s next daughter.

I had screamed and kicked and shouted and begged. For my safety. For my virginity. For my dignity. But, they told me that it was too late because, after all,

It was my fault.

School Of My Imagination

By Harshini Mishra

The school of my imagination would be a place which I could call MY safe space.

A place where it doesn’t matter what I want to study, where no subject is inferior and where students can study what they actually want to.

A place where no one is labelled- where the word nerd, geek, popular mean nothing. A place where it doesn’t matter whether I’m gay or straight, whether I’ve had no relationships or far too many.

A place where my gender doesn’t signify my abilities. A place where it doesn’t matter how high the length of my skirt is or how tight my shirt is, a place where boys are told to control their actions and girls aren’t told to lengthen their skirts.

A place where boys are allowed to cry and talk about their feelings, where they’re allowed to speak up if someone (of any gender) makes them uncomfortable.

A place where students are not labelled in the “economically weaker section” and even if they are, they aren’t treated differently because of it.

Yes, these are all issues which burden all the people, not just the students, but my safe place should be a place where each and every person should feel safe, at home, where no one has to ever feel the pressure of changing themselves just to fit in or be accepted, a place where no one is ever ashamed to be who they actually are.

The school of my imagination would be one where I could drop the facade and just……..

Breathe.