Sirens awakened the Moonman from his boozy slumber.
The 2nd day
His hangover left him soon after the rigid limbs were caressed by the mortician.
The 3rd day
A flutter of paper, stuttering sex workers and clicks of a pen droned for hours at end.
The 4th day
The Moonman was desperate. He fought. He argued. He hit, again. He killed, again.
The 5th day
She wasn’t found, she wasn’t as important. But the gun was.
The 6th day
The solemn, smoking sergeant knew enough to guess, but still too less.
The 7th day
The Moonman ; a crescent inked onto his neck and a face just as cratered with scars and pockmarks. Repeat offender. Madman. Drunkard. Lost soul. 6ft 3 inches. The 8th day
He chose bottles of booze to escape rather than boats. He could have, he just didn’t.
The 9th day
The sergeant was ready to tighten the noose. Evidence in place, bullets in case.
The 10th day
The moonman heard whispers around the brothel and bar. They were coming for him.
The 11th day
He sat next to the sea. Fight or flight, all his life.
The 12th day
They found him. He found her. She found eternal silence.
~
After all he was hunting for a star to shine with him in the pitch dark. (Misery loves company) She was corrupted as was he and in that lay their destiny…..
As we celebrate the ancient practice of yoga on this day and as I complete my fourth yoga class at the Sivananda Yoga Centre (https://www.yogashowstheway.com/), I have decided to document the journey of discovering yoga and the many muscles of my feet !
Yoga often knocked on my door in the form of school mandated lessons and Yoga Day celebrations. I enjoyed it but never regularly practised asanas. About two months back I found myself with more time than I could hope to while away on my bed and hence decided to try my hand at a trial yoga class. The experience was great ! I felt stretched physically and relaxed mentally. The Om chanting reminded me of the powerful Omkar meditation I had tried my hand at 3 years back at Isha Foundation in Tamil Nadu (which I had thoroughly enjoyed and practised thereafter). All in all, I could have easily joined then and there, but due to some academic classes (and sheer laziness) I chose not to.
Fast forward to now, with a highly motivated partner (in form of a cousin sister who has just flown down from Bombay) I am enrolled for a month at the centre. I highly recommend having a partner, it helps with waking up on time and you can also share ‘muscle discovery’ notes!
The next post will dive deeper into what the first few classes were like, so stay tuned ! (This series will be limited to 10 posts or less)
Lastly, do drop a comment if you have / are currently practising / plan to practise yoga ! What has your experience been like ?
Saloni Sharma lives in New Delhi and likes reading mystery novels. She is also interested in art. She uses poetry to express her thoughts and emotions.
The Silent Voice
By Saloni Sharma
I try to speak But I can’t find my voice I try to talk But I can’t find my words.
Why am I so silent ? I don’t know In the maze of this world Where am I supposed to go?
I have no voice But I want to be heard I can’t talk But I want to sing like a bird.
I hear , I see But I can’t rejoice Because there has to be someone out there Who can hear my silent voice.
Aryaman Kumar is an occasional writer, based near Pune (Maharashtra). He is inspired by strong opinions, beliefs and real life experiences. Human emotions find a significant foothold in his work. He hopes to be a medical professional in the future and raise awareness about medical illnesses.
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.
Aayush Gugnani is an amateur writer based out of New Delhi. He uses free style word play to express his political opinions and occasionally dabbles in poetry. He uses the world as his canvas and believes in expressing his thoughts and feelings openly.
Such Is Life
By Aayush Gugnani
In the breezy summer With the golden sun, Shimmering at the horizon I stood there in oblivion.
Standing at the worlds end Waiting for you to come back, I clinged on to my memories with you Cherishing our moments as a pack.
What once was a dream for me, Became a reality. Once I was an ill fitted piece Soon we became family.
We held each other in times of despair And had each other’s back here & there. Never had the world, Seen such a ravishing pair.
We were unbreakable, Like a covalent bond. At least that’s what people said, To which we replied it was a miracle of the gods’ wand.
Alas ! Now you’ve gone too far Away from the gusty winds Away from being what you were Or who you are.
I’m not complaining for the woes Happy you finally got what’s yours. I’ll be there if and when you return To fill your saddened pores.
Life without you in the beginning was tough, Nights were endless and rough.
Though I learned to cope with them, Yet, I wonder how can I pacify my sinking soul. O how do I break myself from these shackled chains? To go back to being what I really was.
Don’t ever think I’m not with you. I’m an undercurrent, You might not be able to see me But in all your times of both happiness and despair, I will be omnipresent.
Life’s a chaos without a pattern One moment we’re here, The other we’re not.
Yet, I try to maintain positivity in life. Try to look up and find the northern light, Look down to see the sea shimmering bright.
The haze maybe temporary, But the maze is permanent. Our laugh maybe fading, But our love for each other, Our love is effervescent.
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.
Photographed and edited by Harshini Mishra
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……..
" Young Writers' Collective" 