Saanya Sodhi is a young writer, based out of New Delhi. Saanya uses free style poetry to give form to her feelings, thoughts and opinions. Love is one of her favourite feelings to give shape to through her writings. She wishes to grow more with each passing day as a writer. She goes by the pen name Spero and also uses the hashtag #speŕowrites🌼, to display her writings.

That Night

By Saanya Sondhi

At 5 in no time, I scroll through all my content apps,
I scroll through my social media

I see how songs from another age make my friends feel warm
I however lay here, in this infinite cold just scrolling.

I have so much content, content to go through, so many words to learn and study through
But all I want at this brink of dawn is to talk to you

Talk about how the universe was made, how the matter that’s light is not even one-fourth of this universe
And how we’re just a tiny speck, a nothing in that something.

How I’m something everywhere, but how I’m not everything
How my memories juxtapose at this time of the twenty four hours

I want to talk to you about the marvels of the universe and the marvel cinematic universe,
I want to talk of everything I know and listen to everything you have to say.

I want tell you about my fascinating horror of numbers
I want to tell you about my love letters, the ones I wrote to space.

I want to hear about your life and about your last love,
I can talk hours about love only if you’d like to listen….

I’ve written speeches on ambition, on dreams that are yet to take form,
I could tell you about how I’ve adored and waited for the stars when everyone I knew was busy clicking the sun lit sky.

Just like I waited for them I’ll even wait for you,
For that night to come one day when we’d talk about life, analyse Beauvoir’s works, appreciate Marsha’s existence

When we’d, undress each other’s scars and listen to our heartbeats and to our hidden muffled screams.
For that day when the galaxy will shine and the universe will align

I’ll wait for that night, for you to realise …..

Good With Words

By Saanya Sondhi

Good with words,
People say I’m good with words
How my words are raw and how I am great at putting alphabets in lines that make sense.

I’m still scared to go deeper with my cuts, more than I am scared to go deeper with my words
I think it’s a good thing, maybe for the world it is.

The colour red pacifies me when the ques of alphabets don’t
Maybe if I was gone, maybe then someone would see me.

I’m screaming for help
But the buds of their own life are between me and them,
Why am I too poor for them?

There’s a voice screaming in my head,
Laying, saying maybe I’m not worth it,
pictures showing maybe I’m not.

My conscious knows I believe in case studies, my mind making me my own.
I am my own victim, I am the universe’s victim.
But I can’t say it out loud.

Knowing that I don’t have happiness is so much easier to accept,
than knowing that I’m meant to give is so much beautiful than what it truly is.

Tears have put me to sleep more than sleep when it came to lie with me,
Screams have tired me more than fatigue,
when I saw starvation as a pretty look on me.

The voices that become miserable sounds in my head tell me that I am my own victim.
Those sounds overlap to become cries of help to no one listening.

I often wonder what can be more important than me on the verge of dying for them.
I often wonder where they are when I’m closer to the knife than I am to my bed on which I’m lying.

There’s not miles but even more of skin that I can see is wrong.
There’s this figure in the mirror that I can see is not worth it.

As I tip-tap my fingers on my screen my cheeks become wet,
as I pull down my panel to see my hopes fade away.

I shouldn’t, I know, I shouldn’t be angry,
but when I see them crying over a broken heart
I want to show my soul to them.
I want to show how no adherent could fix the cracks the shreds of black.

I’m closer to death than I’ve ever been to life.

Young Love and The Rain

By Saanya Sodhi

Young love makes me as happy as the feeling of my cotton dress on my legs, flying in the direction of the wind, going with the wind

I recently learned what a pluviophile is, euphoria took over me as I found another word synonymous with my name

The petrichor makes me feel at home even when I’m not, the wetness of the rain replaced tears on my cheeks

I feel happy in the rain, imagining and re-imagining scenes from movies that happened and from my life that never did

I see a lot of young love around me today, I’m at that age when the little girl that was always scared of the rain thought she would live through young love

But all I live is see and the only way I live, vicariously

I was once scared of the rain, I thought it would flood our homes, that was before emotions flooded my heart and numbness my body

I thought our house would break under the pressure of water but that was before the pressures of love and life scared me much more

I used to think after the rain only wooden boats could save us, the boats of hope have proven otherwise

The me then wanted to live to see love, the me today wants to live for the same

Just that then I was a girl who was in love with love, no complexities, no questions

And today I am the girl who wants to understand all about Aphrodite, Apollo and Inanna

I am heart broken and a boy didn’t break my heart.

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.