Sabah Kaur Mann is a young writer and poet based out of Jalandhar. She practices formal poetry and inspirational prose to accentuate societal problems that people face in their day to day life. She prefers to write under a pen name – ‘Genesis’ which is interpreted as the origin of a new beginning.

The Girl Who Cried

By Sabah Kaur Mann (Genesis)

I’m writing this to the girl who cried,
I’m sorry you felt like you died.
I know this wouldn’t make it fine,
So forgive me if I crossed a line.

I see you waiting after all this time,
With no one sparing you a single time.
I know you went through a terrible life,
Believe me you’ll get through this strife.

I know my words seem like a lie,
But these horrible times will surely die.
You will soon bloom like the Queen-of-the-Night,
And will positively get through this plight.

The girl who cried was once my name,
But sadly no one told me the same.
I died each night, each time, each day,
But I couldn’t ever follow this way.

So save yourself it’s all I ask,
Don’t burden yourself with every task.
Just be yourself and dry your tears,
Scream and let go of all your fears.

Just A Tide

By Sabah Kaur Mann (Genesis)

You can be the wisp,
or you can be the storm.
It might be rough,
yet you needn’t conform.

They might try to thaw,
from ice to ash.
If that flays you raw,
try not to crash.

No need to dry,
those tears you hide.
Whenever you cry,
remember, it’s just a tide.

You are yourself,
no change required.
They can’t put you on a shelf,
you aren’t some ‘thing’ acquired.

Terror.

By Sabah Kaur Mann (Genesis)

Welcome to the world,
Where terror isn’t a crime.
So many people have hurled,
Somehow, nothing changed over time.

I’m puffed-up and proud,
To call myself an army brat.
I stand out in a crowd,
No matter where I’m at.

See, everyone in our nation,
Can sleep a peaceful sleep.
Because my father at his station,
Makes sure that we do not weep.

Yet, bigoted politicians,
Do not seem to care.
They have made it their missions,
To use words to ensnare.

They negotiate with the enemies,
And always protect their skin.
Feeding on our amenities,
They betray their own kin.

We wished those unfulfilled words of honour,
Become a wisp of hope.
Patriotism lost its valour,
And somehow meant a necklace of rope.

Hostage

By Sabah Kaur Mann (Genesis)

How many women believe,
That the wrongs happening to them are right?
How many women will grieve,
For the events that happen to them every night?

I’m not telling you to take it,
Nor fake it and say, “It’s alright”.
I’m asking you to not just sit,
And act like it’s not a problem just cause it’s out of sight.

Nobody has the right to tell you what to do,
Nor to tell you what to wear.
They can’t push their opinion on you,
And then snatch away your air.

There is no one else who holds you hostage,
Except your own mind,
Your life is a book, write your own page,
You never know just how much you will find.

I Tried To Be . . .

By Sabah Kaur Mann (Genesis)

I tried to be sugar,
In a world full of spice.
The world threw a dagger,
Cause I tried to be nice.

I tried to be a friend,
In a world filled with hate.
The world asked me to end,
Cause I tried to depend on fate.

I tried to be different,
In a world so mundane.
The world became a parent,
Cause I didn’t try to be the same.

I tried to be the best,
In a world that held me back.
The world pointed out to the rest,
Everything I ever did lack.

I tried to be myself,
In a world as fake as ours.
The world put me on the highest shelf,
And then left me there for hours.

Darkness All Around

By Sabah Kaur Mann (Genesis)

Lost in the fields of my own mind,
I drown in the river of regret.
My essence somehow I cannot find,
Millions cause me to fret.

And in those fields I find no light,
Just darkness all around.
And in those days I lose my might,
And I realise I’m nowhere to be found.

The river rushes by so fast,
My regrets I see flowing by.
And sometimes I drown in at last,
Still asking the question – Why?

My essence lost bit by bit,
A trade with the devil it seems.
And nothing ever seems to fit,
Yet somehow I drown my screams.

I care for some who never care,
I fret and fret for an empty face.
My love I somehow cannot share,
With those who keep changing their pace.

Be it fields or rivers,
My essence or my mind.
In the end I remember,
People cannot always be kind.

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.