Heaven and Hell, Horatio.

The mosaic of moments
Wrapped in verdant,
Dance through the eternal 
muse of life.
So, Oh! Horatio.
There is no such thing
As happiness.
It’s a fleeting illusion
Created by a little less pain.
Ah! Take my words
My friend.
Suffering too isn’t real,
It is a choice between
Surviving with dignity
Or living with pain.
Who ever proclaim’d
life is easy,
Is a fool to be wary of.
For life is nothing
If not enough twisted
Into coils of wants and longing.
What is good with people
In this world
Oft gets incinerated
and what lives long
Is deeds that no corpse
Succumbs to have committed.
So Horatio, 
Heed my words my friend 
As I tell you to run,
Save your skin
While you truly can.
Because once you get
Embroiled in these endless
Threads of life.
Coming out unscathed
With no scars to tell your tale
Stand impossible.
So be saved my lord
While safety is possible.
So don’t survive,
Live my lord
While living isn’t a dream.
Ah! Love my lord
Until love isn’t tainted.
But heed my words
Don’t search for bliss
For it can’t be found.
And remember 
That world no longer
Is what it seems.
For there are more 
Things in heaven and hell 
Horatio
Then could ever be
Dreamt in your philosophy.

Akanksha Krishnatre

World no longer a stage.

Oh! Thou Sir need to understand.
World is no longer a stage,
No longer people come
Simply to play their part.
Birth and death,
Remain no longer personified.
Oh Sir! It breaks the heart
Of a poor lady like me.
To beware Thou 
Of the honourless deeds
And changes that now have striv’d.
World is a ball, Sir
A giant masquerade ball.
Thrown by the people
whether nobler by fate
Or inhumane by deeds
Who am I to presume or judge?
Ah! Such a magnificent feast
They promote
I wonder what beast do they serve
What elagance in the menu,
Whether it is loathing or greed.

Sir! In this ball
Entrances aren’t birth
And slayings do not mean exile.
The permit to enter
Has now criteria forlorn
It depends
Sometimes on skin,
Ah! Sometimes on land
And the worst,
That a illiterate lady
From the times of yore
Condemns the most,
Is permit based on gender.

The people with 
Fate aiding them
Enter in this feast
Flairing and floundering
Their Etravagant carriages
Fit for a royal deport.

Sir! Good lord! 
I am eternaly grateful
That royalty no longer
Runs in the blood.
Or take my words
Every man would be macbeth
Playing with a never ending tempest.
But the fire
The longing
The unyielding lust
For gold remain unscathed.

And so in these masquerades
People come adorned in masks.
Masks with frills and lace 
Caressing their plummy cheeks
And golden threads keeping
Their lies together.

Sir! World is ball
Where people come to dance
Entrance isn’t easy
But exits are forced upon.
Ah! Thou would find the world 
Tragic to the bones.
So people pair up quickly
With no parts to play
Just a partner to twirl around.
No Romeo is found
And Iago fills its part.
Sir, love no longer nourishes the soul
But now is an emotion
So abstract,
So hollow,
So shallow in nature,
That I a poor, poor lady
Would have theQueen’s jewels 
More easily found.

Ah! The summers joy
Has lost its warmth.
Winters are colder
In this place with,
Hearts adorned with ice
And laced with shards.

But in this Ball
The reality My Sir is this;
There are 7 Billion faces,
7 Billion dancers
But 14 Billion masks and
14 Billion dances.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Yes, I am ashamed.

I am ashamed
for the satire that is Humanity.
You claim to care
You claim to love
You claim to respect.
But it all ends in tumbled mess
Of broken promises.
The country where each religion
Worships A goddess.
The world where Durga and Mary
Hold their dignified stature.
The universe where bows
To touch their feet.
Crosses their hearts
By their name,
And echos in their blessing.

Yes I am ashamed,
A girl of mere sixteen.
Still unable to comprehend,
That how in this world?
That how in her country? 
Is a girl molested.
How the demons of humanity
Do not feel ashamed
Touching her, abusing her, molesting her.
Do they forget
By their each breath of pleasure
That they too have a sister.
That they were nurtured in the womb of a female,
Their dignified mother.
How can they forget?
That a time will come,
When they will father a pearl of a daughter.

I am ashamed of politicians,
When they question
The very story of the victim.
And then with burning face 
And fiery eyes I ask them
Would they have dare question
If it was their daughter, their sister
Who was unmasked out of her dignity.

I a girl far away,
Am shameful of these people.
How come you forget,
That the girl you are looking at
Is a sister for a brother
Is a precious daughter to her father.
She is a mother 
of the generation to come.
How come you omit this
Reality from your heart is above me.
How come your hands don’t tremble
And you not feel guilty
When such thoughts
Merely cross your mind.
You demons, are above me.

Being a girl even I am shameful.
How come tears don’t prickle your eyes?
The innocent girl in her zenith,
Robbed of her modesty,
Humiliated for the mere fun of it.
Shame on you,
For not bring petrified.

I am adored, from the moment,
when I was born,
For my father I am his life.
I am the colour of my brothers canvas.
Just like me
Just like every girl for her family.
The girl you commented on,
The girl you molested
Too is the life of her family
She is the rainbow
For her siblings.
How dare you
Take away her colours?
How dare you extinguish,
The flame, that was her?

I feel ashamed for the society,
Which is all about power,
Domination and position.
In this hell of a world 
The devils crawl like mouses in the sewer,
Too much and filthy,
Carraying plague of their mentality and broken morals.

Hey girl! I do not feel pity for you.
For I know like a phoenix
You will rise ,
From the ashes of your past. 
The scars will be a reminder,
Of the stories to come
Of your survival, your victory 
And remember
the battle has just begun.

Akanksha Krishnatre

On the shameful act of mass molestation on the eve of new year in bengalore.  

Cosmos 

The cosmos

Is a livid reflection

Of a child just born.

With its unearthly beauty

reflected in the orbs,

Of the untainted.


The gleaming stars,

In the blaze of dusky twilight

Are like the light,

reflecting in the eyes.

Vividly bent and twisted

A mosaic of time.


It is humongous ,

yet so small.

It has the shine

Of the toothless smile,

With moist pink lips

And plummy cheeks of child.


The cosmos

Is a wreaking vortex 

Like the child grown up

With tantrums in beauty

And a denial  

For a tranquil limit.


It is the turmoil of change,

Moving on its own accord

Answerable to none.

It resonates,

When the resonance can’t be heard

And shouts shattering silence.


It is passionate,

The milky galaxy of allure .

Like the salvation 

Of an artist young.

The one with a gaping hole

And nothing to fill the void.


The cosmos

But in reality is the old man,

Lounging in the wooden chair.

Talking of things,

He has survived

And the apocalypse seen.


It is the serenity of white 

The hair on the head half bald.

As he talks of the mistakes he saw

And the one he made.

Like the galaxy narrating

Of asteroids and the breaking shade.


It is in the wisdom

That the years had to offer,

No one has survived the cosmos

as no saw the old man,

From birth to death

Each counting last breath.

Akanksha Krishnatre 

6 Months.

Six months, Six complete months and now once again back to my home town, even though just for mere 8 days but these 8 days mean a lot. Durga puja has started and it feels good to go back to family on this pious occasion. A beautiful festival, celebrating the strength of women hood depicted in the holy yet humane sculpture of beautiful Ma Durga. What more is needed for a family but the visit of their daughter. I am excited to see their faces. I missed everyone, being the kind of person I am, I do not get homesick but the mere rememberance of grandpa is more than enough motivation for me to just go as the moment has arisen. 


My friends called, they want to meet. It will be good to catch up with them and just know what is happening in my hometown. I will visit my old school and teachers. I know it has only been Six months but you can only imagine what a girl about to turn 16, in the Indian culture, not accustomed to living in a lodge ( which she has wonderful and not so surprisingly adjusted to) will feel returning home.


Right now I am in the train which will take me after 15 hours to My city. Outside the black wings of darkness has engulfed the surrounding. Out of the open window nothing but a black abyss can be seen. Fellow readers I am happy beyond limit, I just hope that for you everything is turning out for the best.


Anyway I will say good night cause the clock is striking 9:30 and I am exhausted from packing and moving and shifting and repeating the process from 2 days. So good night, sweet dreams and may this festive season give you all the best of seasons greetings. 


Akanksha Krishnatre 

I

I am a story,
Encrypted upon flaxen pages
With ink hazel and blue
Like the midnight sky.
I do not have the stars
nor the moon,
That on delight of dreams
adores the yonder blue.


I am a painting,
The uneven splash of 
Monochrome colours.
One on another,
That together form
The imperfections 
On the vivid canvas,
Just like the little flaws in me.


I am a poetry,
With rhyme scenes forgotten
Just flowing with the wind.
The words combed together
Sharp like claws
To strike a chord hard,
On the strings
Of innumerable sins.


I am the music,
The sound of sticks on drums
And the grace of blaring noise
With cadence as its origin.
The sound of metal upon metal,
The laugh of ringing resonance.
The tune of a known song
just revived once again.


I am a mosaic,
Of abandoned masterpiece
Incomplete yet admirable.
The uneven pieces,
Molded together
to form a raven
of strength, strong 
like a warrior.


I am art,
Breathing for my own sake.
From strokes of brush,
To the fold of pages
From the chords of violin,
To poetic rages.
I am beauty of the beholder
Seen in vivid forms.


Forget what I told you,
For I cannot be remembered.
Like the director in shadows
Let me just be all and none at once.
The writer of my own story
And the protagonist too
So omit me from your memory ,
For I am you yet no one at once.

The real tragedy.

A child can be forgiven
As he crouches in a corner
Afraid of blinding darkness.       It has the age                                   and the pure sacred innocence 
To be afraid ,
To dream the dreams of monsters
With bared fangs and gleaming eyes
Waiting in the murky shadows
To pounce upon his little self.


Unknown to the rituals of the world

He is allowed to cry
As tears fall without light 
and fear sets in his eyes.


But the real tragedy 

Of the world so vast 
Is when men are afraid of the gloom
Known to the illusion of beasts
And the writer of such stories.
They cower with fear tucked inside.

A twisted metaphor
The irony burning bright
When the musicians of screams
Get deaf with yodelling noise.


The tragic tale of sapiens 

bruised in heart and mind.
Planting the little seeds
That one day will grow
To cover the sky.
And then when blaze won’t be seen
And warmth not felt.
Then the people in streets
Lounging in bliss
Will then together say
They are afraid without light. 

The children are forgiven
for they are innocent in motive
unknown to the cruelty
the gloaming has to offer.
The terror among hearts,
Like beautiful playgrounds in the dark
with blood and gore
flesh and bones
guns and death
that symbolise the inequity
As the blazing bloom of black.

As one prefers to say 
The dark as a criminal mark
It is like a twisted form of truth 
For now the devils are afraid of the dark.