Today, while I was cleaning every corner of my house with an unused cloth, a thought came in my mind.

"Suppose I would do this in an orphanage, or some NGO, and upload a photo of it. I’ll be in the good books of everyone. People will like me."

The thought didn’t last though. But it was there. Sweeping just four rooms of my house, for one day, and it was there.

Whatever things we do, we do it for recognition or money.

If you don’t believe me, take a few examples from your life. From mine, I’ll point out a few. Writing this post: recognition. Education: money. Buying fancy clothes: recognition. Learning how to invest: money.

These are just clear examples. Nothing brainstorming here. Dive in a little deeper, and you’ll know that everything is related to these two. Recognition and money. Recognition from girls counts, too. Okay?

Now, look at your mother.

Look at the nameplate of your house. Is there her original surname on it? Or even her name? No? Recognition— cross.

Is she a housewife who works at least twelve to fourteen hours a day? Yes? Does she make money out of it? No? Money— cross.

—

Whenever I come across a term called woman, I cross it down. I replace it with mother. And when I glance at this word now, I see everything.

I see the whole goddamn world in it.

Because why not? She’s the one who doesn’t work for recognition or money, she works for the love she has for me and my family. Nothing else.

As a closure, there’s a Hindi excerpt that’s very close to my heart. I’d like to share this with you.

"Akhsar dekha hai maine

Purush kavi hota hai

Daarshnik hota hai

Filmkaar hota hai

Chitrakaar hota hai

Bahut bechain hai kuch rachne ke liye

Kyunki wo kabhi jeevan nhi rach sakta

Kyuki wo kabhi maa nahi bann sakta."

Translation:

I have seen it too often,

A man is a poet,

A philosopher,

A director,

A painter,

He’s very restless to create something,

As he can’t create a life.

Because he can never become a mother.

#review #Saviour #random

| A Song Of Sorrow |

My soul is singing like a bird
A song of sorrow I once heard
A nightingale perform one day
When Lady Love had flown away

His was a sad and sorry plight
A pretty poor pathetic sight 
He seemed ~ as such, resembled me!
Since I myself know misery

For loss of Love's a tragic thing
As troubadours would often sing
In pain-filled, medieval times
They’d pluck their lyres, recite their rhymes

Composed laments of long-lost love
They penned, as pleas, to God above
For healing of their heart and mind
(They saw in God, the caring kind)

Their verse performed would touch and tear 
Of broken hearts the wounds lay bare 
Their lyrics moved the king and queen,
Who’d sat before like stone, serene

And peasants wept and so did lords
The soldiers’ tears would wet their swords
While priests would pine and chant and pray
As men possessed ~ like me today!

Whose soul is singing like a bird
A song of sorrow I once heard
A nightingale perform one day
When Lady Love had flown away

#review #poetry #Saviour

‘Are you serious? You haven’t developed feelings for me, ever?’

It was mid-of-Jan and we were walking along the river embankment.

She was a little worn out with her boyfriend and when that happens, she always asks me such silly questions.

‘Tch, tch. Friends don’t develop feelings for each other.’

I said matter-of-factly and observed her expressions. Her expressions were as steady as my grandma’s old wooden chair.

‘I mean… not even once? Please don’t say you never felt a thing for me. And if that’s the case, then why you got jealous whenever I’d talk to other boys?

And as she said that, I turned my gaze upwards, mulling for a sharp reply.

The clouds had just turned jet-black and the sun was sinking in the river ever so slowly, just like an ice cube sinks in the water and becomes a part of it, ever so slowly.

"You crazy? The hell I cared with you talking to other boys.

I always wanted you to pick one of those Romeos who were always running after you. Liking your photos, awww so pretty, I’ll do your assignments and saying much other creepy stuff, too.

Thank god you came in a relationship with one of them and I’m free now.

There’s a hell lot of peace in my life since you’re committed."

I replied in a fit of rage.

And later, I couldn’t make eye contact with her after that.

I lingered at the ground and thought myself being that ice; sinking in her love ever so slowly and becoming a part of her, day after day after day.

‘Oh!’

She sighed, just sighed, and we kept walking in silence for a couple of minutes.

But catching me off-guard, all of a sudden, she slowly reached for my hand and held my little finger not like a friend, like a lover.

For one second it felt like someone kicked my heart with a golden boot. Though, the pain was peaceful.

‘Hey! What the hell? What do you think you are doing? Are you dumbhead or what?’

I almost yelled at her as a flush of nervousness rose to my cheeks.

I tugged my little finger off from her grip and slid my hands into my pockets, refraining from any further embarrassments.

‘Haha, you can’t even lie properly, can you?

You’re so in love with me, right?

Right?

C’mon then, propose me right now!’

She giggled like a baby and kicked me hard on my right ankle.

Now don’t shy away like a village girl and propose me now.

C’monnnn!

She said and started laughing her lungs out.

#Saviour #prompt #review

| A Poet True |

If I had wings and poet's skill
A Muse at hand and time to kill
I'd scribe for you such noble verses
About the beauty Nature nurses
Inside a bud, on bough with leaf
Where wonderful is the motif

I'd take my pen, like Bard with quill
Pour forth a stream, sublime and still
Place pleasant poem on the pages
A song of love that never ages
As old as moon and starry host
Or sea that creeps along the coast

If I could be the dew at dawn
Lay down like jewels on leafy lawn
I'd sparkle with the Muse's magic
Rewrite those rhymes of truth so tragic
Have Hector and Achilles yield
Bid both lay down their sword and shield

If I composed like kindly Keats
Laid lines where earth and heaven meets
My poems would be less pedantic
They'd bloom like rustic rose romantic
Then I would be a poet true
And I would touch the heart of you.
#review #poetry #Saviour

Ah! How we all long to be a poet true.

You’re drunk.

It’s a birthday party and everybody’s dancing. You have drunk off your limits and now you’re searching for a room to relax a bit.

You finally find a room and the door’s already open.

But you see there’s a girl in there. She’s holding her forehead with both her hands like she has committed a dark sin.

Maybe she drank, too.

‘Excuse me. Do you mind if I sit in here? Actually, there’s too much noise in the hall.’

‘Sure.’

You sit beside her on the same bed and venture what’s wrong with her.

‘I’m drunk and it’s my first time,’ she says, mulls over something, and continues, ‘I shouldn’t have had so much.’

And, as she says that, the light goes off.

The power supply’s cut.

‘Oh, my.’ She mumbles inside her trembling lips, picks herself up, and sits afar from where she was sitting earlier.

‘My cell phone’s in the hall,’ she says, again within herself.

She’s not afraid of darkness. She is afraid of a man in darkness.

You sense the gravity of the situation and leave the room, straight away. And a few minutes later, you return with a flashlight on.

‘May I now come in, madam?’ You say in a sarcastic tone.

‘Haha, how sweet. Come on in.’ She says to you, with a small, warm smile.

‘Not all men are same.’ She says, this time to her inner-self.

"Build a character in such a way that even in a dark room, a girl feels safe with you."

#Saviour #review #random

I was with my mother at the best shoe shop in my district.

‘Ma’am, tell me, how can I help you?’

‘Do you have some men’s sandals for him?’ mother asked and craned her head towards me, to hint the shopkeeper that she’s talking about me.

‘Yes, ma’am. What’s his shoe size?’

‘10.’

‘Just a minute, ma’am. I’ll be back with the bests we have.’

He went to the other room, swarmed up the ladder and brought 5–6 best pairs with him. Like he said.

‘Which one of those do you like?’ she asked me, once I was finished up trying them all.

‘This greyish one. It has a trendy look.’

‘Okay. What’s the price of that grey one?’ my mother asked the shopkeeper in a polite tone.

‘Just 1100. But since you’ve come here for the first time, ma’am, there’s a 10% discount for you.’ He budged his fingers onto the calculator, just to show us the 10% calculation.

‘Here it is ma’am. Only nine-hundred-and-ninety rupees,’ he said.

My mother’s eyes first flickered, then lay down on the floor for a couple of seconds. Mulling.

Then all of a sudden, she looked at me dubiously, waiting for my reply.

I read the tangling lines on her brow and said;

‘I don’t want those Sandals, Maa.’

I paused, took a deep breath and continued, ‘The red one seems perfect. What’s its price?’ I asked the shopkeeper while looking straight into his eyes, without any shame.

‘550 including the 10% off.’

‘Pack that red one.’ I said while holding back my tears, not because we couldn’t afford it. Because my mother was humiliated as she didn’t buy me those grey sandals.

She didn’t say a word but I sensed it from her eyes.

We’re middle-class people and we have to think twice before buying anything expensive.

But hey, rest assured!

Time changes.

And mine will change pretty soon, too, I can promise you that.
#review #random #Saviour

| Poetic Death |

My poor, poetic stream has ceased
The poet in me has deceased
Within my garret's graveyard gloom
He rots like corpse in toxic tomb

My poems now are paltry things
They're weak and worn and wear no wings
Caked hard, with cruellest, crystal crust
They crumble into dirt and dust

My stanzas set like stagnant sun
With rhymes, they have no race to run
For ink has curdled and congealed
Set hard as sword or soldier's shield

My compositions cannot flow
Compacted, as they are in snow
Ice-bound inside a glacial glade
In shadow land of sunless shade

My poor poetic stream subsides
Turns off like tap and turns like tides
The poet, in me, meets no more
With muse upon her sacred shore

She says she cannot make ends meet
So sells herself upon the street
Says all her dreaming days are dead
Now poet rots alone unread.

#review #Saviour #poetry
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