Writer's Clan

We, the society

Is it a person or a group of people?
Or is it just another illusion as God?
Though fear is related to so many things,
Religion, caste, tradition, supernatural and mystic;
Society is one word which tops it all.
Who forms it? Who rules it?
Who makes the laws to abide by in it?
No one knows.
But behind every flutter of a short skirt,
Or every person trying to live on his own terms,
Somebody whispers,
Like a gust of wind flowing by;
‘Society’ is watching.
‘Society’ is criticizing.
From the breaths of every transgender
To the kisses of every bisexual,
Everyone who is different from a man or woman,
Ignoring the ones who don’t deserve to be human;
‘Society’ is counting,
‘Society’ is abusing.
Be it the loose flesh of a heavy body,
Or the bones poking from a lean sculpture,
All who are tall or short,
All who is fair or dark;
‘Society’ is noticing,
‘Society’ is laughing.
The girl there, oh she has stopped going out with her own brother,
The man there, oh he now avoids helping even a single girl.
Because one look and somebody judged,
The girl was too young to have a boyfriend;
Because one helping approach and somebody felt,
The man was too sweet to not be a flirt.
Who is this ‘society’?
Tracking our each step,
Measuring every word we say,
Knocking us at every fault,
With an invisible comment
From an unwritten rule book.
Who is it?
If you ever stared hard at the homosexuals,
Or avoided talking to someone just by looking at them,
You are society.
If you ever thought low of someone because of his broken English,
Or of someone’s old-fashioned attire,
You are society.
You are society in every moment you feel something is not according to you,
Someone is not the way as expected by you.
Learn that you don’t decide who lives freely here,
This world is yours and so is theirs.
Stop being the society.
Stop others from being it.
And someday, everyone will be doing what they wish to.
There will be no suicides, no hatred,
No judgments, no comments,
No fear, no deliracy;
No anxiety,
No society.

Writer's Clan

Favourite Poetry

Your colour may be fading,
Or just seem to lose its lustre
As the golden rays have set towards west.
But don’t let your heart shiver.
Your beauty is not only by the yellow tint on your cover,
It’s the shine from within
Which stays bright throughout sun and moon.
It cannot be violated by the vile of night,
It cannot be burnt by the rays of morning.
And no matter how many people
Read you,
Appreciate you,
Distort you,
Tear you,
You’ll forever be my favourite poetry.

Writer's Clan

Incomplete Affairs

No matter how many times they tell us not to,
Let’s risk it all on one flip of the coin.
Come, let’s walk on these dark alleys of my heart,
And shine a little bit.
Do away with this layer of immaturity,
Let your naked heart feel the winds of sin.
Afraid of hurting me while you let your breath to live,
Let’s tell each other to peep at the hidden injuries.
I won’t ask you why you got that scar on your belly,
Or that burn on your thigh.
I’ll just allow your soul to seep into mine,
The warmth from my heart to melt the ice in you.
And when you get restless with the fear of commitments,
We’ll change the nomenclature too.
Just be here with me as the sky changes from violet to blue as it always does when we’re together,
Listen to me as I sail from the waterfalls to the lakes in a second.
Hold my hand as the rocks change to pebbles
And I swear, I will never announce this love.

Writer's Clan

My Love Story With The Dark.

Anxiety had hit her badly, once again, as always. She felt her mind running into darkness, towards some strange land of confusions. She is running aimlessly and doesn’t know where to stop. Trees and bushes passed but, there was no living being around. Out of her imaginations, in reality, she was sitting quietly in the corner of the room. She felt tired without doing anything. She just wanted to hug someone and lay quietly. Alas! There was no one there who could hold her, make her believe that she is enough and tell her to try again. She fell on the bed, all curled up to herself, supporting her sinking soul. Her body shivered. Not with fear, not with sadness, not with any emotion. It was all black, all blank and the emptiness was engulfing her. Numbness took over. But the worst part was, she had no clue why all of a sudden this was happening. So much pain, out of nowhere. And just then, one of her best friends texted. “Hi.” To just a greeting, she wanted to blurt out everything. She wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. She made herself believe that he himself must be undergoing exam stress and study pressure, so she must not add to his tension. “Hey. How are you?” She replied with a strange hope that he would say he wasn’t doing well. She wished that he would start telling his problems so that she could also reciprocate. But prayers sometimes take a little while to be granted.  “After many months, today was spent as a great day. All of my cousins came home. We played games, ate and danced. It was a great day and I’m so happy.”, came the reply. “Wow man! My day was good too.”, she again started her favourite routine of faking. She let no word slip her mouth, for her friend was happy after a long time. And her mood wasn’t capable enough to overpower the love she had for friends. Laughing on screen, she quietly ordered her mind to start running again, towards the black home, towards the undefined emptiness, to finally perish someday. It wasn’t that she liked running back to her numb side, it was the fact that now she felt more homely in dark than the light.



Writer's Clan

Imagination vs. Reality

In my head, I had imagined a thousand times how it’d be like to face you again. In my diary, I wrote a hundred times of those fictional adrenaline rushes. I wrote how someday while walking on the road or roaming in the mall, I’ll lift my head and see you right there. I had decided to walk away stealthily if you didn’t notice me. I thought of ignoring you if you saw me but we both know what a tough moment that would be.
After all, what does a writer do? They feel things, even imaginary, so deeply that they create heartfelt masterpieces. But today, when I saw you again after forty-three days, I realized that my writing had become too shallow, too vague. There were no panic attacks, no fast heartbeats, no rush in the stomach. It was all blank. I turned my head in the traffic, and there you were. Right beside me, looking straight in the eyes. And it was tougher than I had imagined it to be. Your lips twisted into an arc and heartfelt pain made it, its trajectory. I turned away. It was not possible for me to look at that face for long, the face I knew that had been sitting right beside me, two months back. Now, there was silence in my world. I felt numb, just those tears fell incessantly as I saw you speeding away on your bike and going out of sight. You were wearing that red t-shirt I always said I hated. I then noticed my clothes and I could feel nothing but my tears and severe heartache.
Did you notice, I was wearing my black t-shirt, the one you loved the most? Did you notice that it was the one I was wearing when we shared our first kiss and your hand roamed all over it, and when we first tasted each other’s bodies? I was wearing the watch you gave me on my last birthday. Our love didn’t die, but it was definitely lost.

The sound of screeching cars and bikes started making their way again, into my head while the tears ceased. My head felt heavy and a strong urge to fall down and weep loudly constantly hit me. But then again, it was all gone. At the turning, I saw you waiting on your bike, calling someone and looking at me again. I saw you looking at my t-shirt, I saw you looking at my hands and I saw you looking again into my eyes. Why do you do this? You shouldn’t have stopped. You shouldn’t have looked at me. Had we not parted ways? Then why are they intersecting? I shivered with fear, fear of nothing but the very next moment. What if you stop again and call me? What would I say? But why will you? Amidst all the confusion and sadness taking over my head, I was unable to think anything. But now as I wonder, I realize it was so different than I had imagined. In my diary, it was always a roller coaster ride but in reality, it was a black hole which just engulfed me slowly. No chaos, no wails, just pure silence mixed with tears and pain. And now I know, no writer can touch your heart with a fictional story. If you’ve been through those depths, you’ll never relate to them. But the one inking realities will always be your favourite. Trust them not when they say it’s all fictional. It never is. It takes a very tender heart to engrave all the sadness on itself and then give words to some of them, which directly land on your heart. No writer ever writes fiction, they all write truth by twisting the reality.