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.
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.
Anoushka Radhakrishnan has been writing ever since she was ten years old and presently performs at various Slam Poetry events in New Delhi. She writes about feminism and mental health. She would love to publish her own book one day !
The Difference Between A Compliment And A Catcall
By Anoushka Radhakrishnan
I don’t wear dresses anymore. I don’t wear dresses because dresses have consequences. I’m fifteen and I’m walking on the sidewalk next to my school, I am wearing my school uniform You’re twenty eight and driving a bike I wonder what you think before you cat call.
Do you think I’m a cos player? Pretending to be underage? Or do you think this is a porno? Do you think I am walking in front of you deliberately? Hoping you’ll notice my undefined body?
‘He’s just offering a compliment, learn to accept it.’ A compliment? A compliment is ‘Hi, you look nice.’ ‘You’re such a kind person’ ‘I really like your smile.’ not ‘Hey, sexy! Wanna come with me?’ Haha, get the joke? because clearly, he did too.
It’s a compliment? Is that what your mom told you when you were catcalled? Is that what her mom told her when she was catcalled? That it is just somebody appreciating your femininity, no. He does not appreciate your beauty and he doesn’t see you as a woman but as a toy. a mannequin. a doll.
You are not a doll, You are a human being. You were born in this world to live Not to feel uncomfortable by someone else’s doings and then be told you are not uncomfortable, a compliment does not make you feel uncomfortable, a catcall does. It wasn’t a compliment then and it isn’t a compliment now.
I’m fifteen. I want to go home happy and content. I want to go to a party happy and content. I want to be happy and content. A compliment makes you feel happy and content a catcall makes you feel disgusted and dirty and unsafe and not human.
I am fifteen and I am wearing my school uniform, and I do not appreciate you raking your eyes up and down my body like it is a joyride, a carnival. no, my body is not a roller-coaster, my body is not candy, my body is not yours to enjoy.
I’m fifteen, I’m twenty, I’m thirty, I’m forty, and I know the difference between a compliment and a catcall because I know the difference between a person who respects me and a person who wants to drug me.
I know the difference between a compliment and a catcall like I know the difference between my home and that god damn sidewalk. I know the difference between a compliment and a catcall because I know the difference between feeling good and feeling dirty.
I know the difference between a compliment and a catcall just like I know the difference between consented sex and rape. I know the difference between a compliment and a catcall because there’s only one that considers my consent.
I know the difference between a compliment and a catcall because both flatter me yet there’s only one I want to accept.
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" 