Origin of hope

I thought that the difference was impeccable,

like the soft drops mildewing the meadows,

of the far away sheep and the nearby crooks,

from ablaze daylight.

the eyes barely changed,

from the passionate full moon that it once was,

The origin of hope.

The heart though, is intertwined with

reality suspended in fantasy galore.

I know for sure that the familiar haven is abandoned.

But the raucous figure refuses to budge.

The underappreciated warriors


I wonder if you all are aware of what the teachers are going through right now. I know a few things because I see my mother running around the house like a lunatic, with all the extra work load, because of the pandemic. In her school, classes are not taken through platforms like Google Meet or Zoom. They shoot their videos on a smartphone and upload it to a platform called Vimeo, so that students would not have to follow a particular timeline. She then goes out in search of a microphone, to cut off audio disturbances. Most of the time, she is walking around in a saree, as there is a dress code for the videos. In a week, she takes about seven to eight videos, without switching on the fan as it creates an unpleasant helicopter effect. ‘Sweaty’, does not even begin to cover her image as she looks bathed and baked. In the first few weeks,she had to reshoot a lot of videos, due to many factors. For one, she forgot to put the phone on flight mode; followed by deteriorating battery health, phone storage issues and her forgetting to check if the video was actually recording. I have seen her almost in tears, at times when all her efforts were in vain. It was not easy for teachers to grasp the technical side of things, when all they were used to was the traditional mode of teaching. She compresses the videos, which takes quite some time, and that is exactly the point of time when our wifi decides to give in. My mother already had a whiteboard, and the teachers who didn’t have one, had to worry about that as well. There are google meets set up, to understand if the students are following her lectures. At the time of thesemeetings, there won’t be any direct complaints. The indirect whining starts coming from parents, who sit and listen to these lectures along with their kids. They particularly, don’t find the sessions interactive enough. These are not even video calls, people!! How would you like for them to interact? Maybe the idea is to pause, in between lectures and ask ‘ Did you understand, children?’, while staring at the wall. Some others have complaints with the pace of her completing twopages in one lecture. Remember the fact that this is not something they ask the teacher to look into, when she puts in the effort to understand their problems, but shoots in as concerns from the principal. The option of calling her and asking doubts is also not an option, even when offered, as they still want to find issues with the uploaded videos. Parents, having issues with the method used in classes is not the problem, the real issue here, is with how they react to it. I also wanted to let you know about the time it takes to set up google forms and spreadsheets, for different classes at a high frequency, when complaining about a question not having a question number. The current social scenario, is taking a toll on teachers’ mental health as well. Try to appreciate their efforts maybe?

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The struggle

I stared at the pile of letters sitting on my desk. Most of them were threats, because I tend to blast off my roof with my rad tunes. But some of them were letters that had deeper layers of dilemma that I had drowned out with my music. People move and fall apart. Everyone is fighting their own battle at their own paces. I never gave a second glance to these letters, never seemed important. I could hear the tone of a very bitchy person complaining about anything and everything in life, without even opening the seal. ‘I am no Big Bang, I’m just a sad black hole.’ She was literally begging to disagree with others’ notion of the headache, she was proving to be.The words started ringing inside my head now, with a vicious background beat. Tears that should have been shed long ago, when I should have flown to her aid, found the time to roll down now, as everything shifted to a different scene. I heard the others whispering about how cheerful and well built her life was, and how no one had any clue about the whirlwinds blowing in her head. I knew. Maybe some other whisperers knew too. But everybody had put up good acting shields . I put one up too. ‘I never knew’, I joined in.
PS: A very personal opinion- Stop putting up funeral posts, if you don’t actually feel the loss. Sometimes it is pretty evident and really annoying.

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When I talk to myself….

Hey, you up for a good day?

The grass is glimmering,

The sunflowers are glowing,

Reminded me of when you were flying off the charts,

While right now, you are just watering your warts.

Credence has a certain flair about her!

Don’t you think?

Oh, wait! I believe you were her mother,

In a fair many things.

Ditch the hood; lift the mood;

I would say to you, my love!

But the monologue is daunting,

Shooting holes in my hub.

Self love is love at it’s best,

The riches at the end of a lot many tests,

I know you are in there, let out a deep sigh,

I’m out here, in case if you change your mind.

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The palette

The perpetual motion in my head is a disaster. The very idea of not being able to vent out emotions to a reliable source is as frustrating as it gets. Then there is the dramatic entry of the kind of people who swoop in like a whirlwind, sweeping you off your feet. They claim to be a replica of superman or superwoman if you will. These people have a palette of remedies for the impenetrable nightmares which keeps you twisting and turning at night. In their defence, they actually, genuinely believe that they are helping. Kudos to humanity! But if we kindly point out the futile nature of the presented palette, we are acclaimed to be a socially accepted nutcase. This superperson does not fade away, but is a constant pressure provider, as we have to dig up our ‘normal’. They love us, but wants normal, sane. Insanity is a choice, clearly. They transform into something unrecognisable, sometimes taking shapes, giving my nightmares nightmares. For them, speaking is an art. They are ready to absorb the outbursts, but when you actually perform the heavily burdened task, resentment is the outcome. No worries! Positivity is around the corner. I have that kind of perpetual belief as well.

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Drowning is glorious. I can feel the water submerging my organs, except that it’s not water, these are my thoughts. My mind plays a loop of events in a particular order, driving my nuts to nuts.My words could never make you feel what I encounter, for me it’s a mountain that I cannot conquer, but I carry it inside my lungs, making it difficult for me to breathe. The air that I let in could be part of a team conspiring against me to put me in a place that they think I belong to. But I don’t think like them, because for me, I deserve the world. The world which runs on sociopaths, and in this world, I am trying to breathe. How is something so light, like air, a big dilemma?I am driving my body through obstacles, with a mind that has lost its impulse, a mind that has refused me fresh breath.

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A single label

‘Twisted things they are!’ ,I would say;to anyone concerned about the lack of good fortune cookies. I like to confine it to a simple label, in lieu of giving it the time and attention needed to fatten it, which will lead to a false sense of vitality. It needs to be aware that it’s a parasite,a meek one,which I can crush with the weight of my disregard. This disregard comes from a transformed Iron heart,which was once as soft as the freshly fallen snow. Feel free to take the other option. The option which will tire your spirit in a million little ways, but will train you to comprehend the game on your own, which is a plus.Waking up, with your own unique recipe for life, is forever tempting. .

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The colors and my bag

This is a tiny tale, where I take you through the various items in my bag. It is quite heavy, but it is me; it is the core of what I am. There is pink. A lot of pink. Pink is what I am supposed to have, if I was a happy little girl. But I embraced blue as well, when I started snatching away my brother’s action figures. The colors started lining up around me, and it made me happy. I was surrounded by rainbows. Then the rainbows gave way to storms, but they do come back. The Blackness fades away when the sun rises the next day. But I’m not sure if it rose in the east, as everything feels upside down. Sometimes, when I open my bag, a dark force swoops me in, and I relive. EVERYTHING. It has funny and unfortunate. The unfortunate overrides the funny, and I start to have a desperate need to refill my funny. It is a very futile attempt, as it fades swifter than ever. Then, I realized what it is- it is the humanness of it all. It is all part of a never ending alliteration, and I carry it in my bag. .

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The hood

The sky had a hundred million working patterns that day. It flashed and demanded attention in the ever so majestic way. The ground was moist and heavy, from the creases of the weight that people could not hold. The ichor was caked around her, while she wept. The tears which soaked the mark of sin, carried the soul of the action to the hooded figure. The lacerated apparel, which she held on to, could carve out a sizeable holocaust one day. One day, the hood will melt in broad daylight, echoing all the screams from a very rainy day.

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we go far, far below the deep rooted hope.

The hope which stood among the woods, the birds and the hated sun.

The hope which clustered among those with an inexplicable void.

The hope which chased away the ashes of sins from far beyond.

The hope which rendered you helpless as you saw them fall apart.

The hope which made you swear to pull apart a million strategies.

The hope which gave space its color.

The hope which makes your skin glow with passion.

And yet we are rooted far below it,