Boarding the wrong train.

Boarding the wrong train.

Sitting down, facing front
I see squabbling kids moving around
And their mother with her voice,
As hoarse as a broken gramophone
Drones on and on.
She talks of bills to pay,
And relatives to meet.
She mentions someone,
I forget the name next instant.
And No!
She isn’t talking to me.
In her voice, hard with years,
Bossy with struggle,
Angry with fate.
Drabbles upon unaware
Talking to her boys,
Who remain uninterested
And her words die upon empty air.

Rocking back and forth
And back again,
Her hands wrapped around her own knees,
Like ivy wrapped around dandelion seeds.
That will fall apart
The moment she leaves her limbs
To move on their own accord.
So the greasy girl,
With two piglets of hair
Loosely packed in bands,
Hugs her body closer to herself.
Just like the old and lanky
Crooked gardener,
Looking after his prized petunias.
She looks at me with distrust
From the back of her lashes,
I never knew that observing someone
With all your hate focused
From your irises was plausible.
And I too look again at the girl,
Not with fear or hate
Just curiosity mingled with my breath.

I swipe my gaze,
From passenger to passenger,
And the con artist with eyes blue
Smirks at me.
His hands grasping the threads
I am sure only I cannot see.
For he seems to tug at some strings
Which I do not feel,
Yet I feel a tug,
A pull
At the organ
Beating behind my fleshy breast
Tucked among lungs
Cajoled amidst ribs.
He smirks and plays on and on,
On his instrument
Deceitful like the winter snow,
Cold to feel
And harsh to touch.

The gates of the train are shut,
Closed with a sign mentioned so.
But such signs are found at stores,
But why again,
So many boards claim open or close?
I look out of windows
My breath leaving behind
My marks of life upon the glass.
It is white outside,
Like fallen cotton threads
Binding a Web,
Blinding me
To look beyond the cabin
I currently home.

Wait! What madness.
That I know cannot happen.
So, stop right there,
No. Do not go further,
Someone, stop the train,
Pull the chains,
Oh! Please!
Bang! Bang!
The windows won’t buzz.
Knock! Knock!
No one opens the door.

Oh Sir, thank you for asking,
Yes I would want to leave.
Oh Sir! Now don’t laugh and walk away.”

And he left too.
Like every last person
That I have stopped and asked,
And ordered
To let me out.
And they are staring,
With creepy Cheshire smile,
The boggy full of people
That I am now wary of.

It is closer to midnight now,
And the mother with her boys,
She is still droning on and on
Telling tales of wolves and blood hounds.
And that girl with bleak eyes,
And limbs that are ready to leave her behind,
Is still clutching at her heart,
Ready to pull apart,
Shreds of her soul,
Which I doubt she holds.
I am fearful for my sanity.

Oh! What madness.
What fury!
Stop the train!
Halt the tracks!
Pull the chain!
Blow the whistle,
For the gates to crack.

And the con artist,
He simply smirks
Now passing me the strings,
I strings I said I cannot see.
He passes those threads
Again to me,
And I unaware of the threads,
Not visible,
Cut my fingers
And bleed.

Oh crimson blood
Trickles down my arm,
And I hear a lapping sound.
The boys with the mother
Are upon myself
Like blood hounds
Warming up to their prey.

Oh! What madness.
I stand only to be pulled down again,
I look at my reflection
On the mirror hanging
Down by the blackened door,
And a ghastly, pale
Devoid of blood and fuel
Reflects back,
Smiling with no resemblence
To what I know of me.

With hands shaky,
I pull upon my sleeves
And gently touch my chapped lips,
Looking at my reflection
With hollow bags under her eyes.
One hand to my bosom,
Listening to my hammering heart.
And the other in my pockets,
Searching for the door pass.

And when my fingers gently,
Brush against a paper slip.
Finally found,
I look at the ticket
With trepidation,
Oh Lord! I boarded the wrong train.



Where We Are From, There is No Sun. 

​Where we are from,
there is no sun.
But quotation grey clouds,
the cloak I wear each morning.
Dyed with the colours of my mouth
shut tight with unjust kisses.
And I wear the cloaks
tied with taut strings
around my neck.
It is a conspiracy,
you see,
The don’t want me to speak
For I shout,
Standing off the cliff
Hoping to fill the void
with some kind of some noise,
Noise with colours 
That bleed pages upon pages of tragedies. 

For I scream
In Hope 
That one solemn day
My words will echo back to people.
Make them believe
that even though
Where we are from,
There is no sun,
yet some people
are hoping to light a bulb.

I wear the cloak
of the colour that shines in dead eyes.
People, You see
no longer see.
They have hollow sockets
Where eternity was once captured.
And Irises hazel, Brown, tawny and grey.
have no emotions.
But the ups and downs 
of denial and death.

War is a game
like monopoly.
And I am still craving for the words to end it.
I don’t want to win
Because victory seldom means Peace
and House never means home.
And where we are from,
there is no sun.

Yet I stand
in persuit of lost cities.
That once we’re carved on maps,
with quills that hoped for a future.
Where there was a break among clouds
and filtered ochre sunlight caressed my brows.
Cities, lost like baby teeth
leaving behind in hope
for a better foundation
But in truth,
left behind the bleeding gums of Humanity.

And maybe when I say,
that I put blame.
I am not seeking innocence
for my own tainted soul.
Because the legacy gifted upon our tongue
tastes bitter like blood
and It has been years since
I was born
And I can still taste the iron
driving nails in my mouth.
Reminding me
of my traditions, cultures and heritage,
which I no longer wish to follow.
For often when you fall into the sea,
It is not pearls that you seek,
but survival.

And decades we have tasted metal.
It is time,
that the broken dandelion seeds
are searched for again.
And an orchard made of despair,
With Ivy molded upon it of hope.

Because I still dream
that when I tell
the leaders of tomorrow 
there would be lights seeping through
milky white clouds.

And the teacup that shattered long ago,
would have come back once for all,
and universe would contract to give place,
to those that never fit in. 
Searching for identity,
among frozen photographs pasted upon walls.
Those with dignity held high
when questioned 
and gender specified
Because male and female defines nothing
But genitalia.

In that time
there would be shelter for,
those that stand unaware and breathing poison.
And death holding their palms
would be saved.
And there would be light in eyes 
and hope in smiles, 
no different from a newborns.

I am still standing on the cliff,
Talking to the void.
Don’t call me crazy.
For where we are from,
there is no sun.

And I will tell stories
of darkness, of despair,
when light will finally be lighted
and fire burnt in every home.
Because House never means home
and victory seldom means peace.

I would teach them,
the children of light ,
that this generation
crushed and cursed 
with a hope still
gave birth to beauties
in the womb of beast.
Because where we were from,
there was no sun.
there is light

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