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  BENEATH

  Arunima Mehrotra as Jindotekina

  Copyright2016 Arunima Mehrotra

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  Centre of The Universe

  When you look at the leaves falling

  Or the Silhouette of beams and railings

  Or the drooping Stars,

  Does the inevitably of it all not scare you?

   

  How your bones will crumble away like Pastries and the Blood in your Veins just bloom to rot again.

  How the galaxies you long held, fall apart like old magnets and the dreams coiled underneath your collarbones spring out only to be faded away.

   

  Does the fear not grip you?

   

  Does something not pound against you chest as you look at your toes and nails and tremble at the revelation?

  How your own truth; You being the Centre of the Universe, seems like a whisper among the howling stars.

  Coward

  Who are you?

  Really.

  You don’t look like a Protagonist, but talk like one.

  You don’t laugh when the crowd laughs; Your pupils darken at the sight of the sky; You yearn for touch, but reject it nervously;

  Such a Coward

  Why do you look at me like that – like you are about to break?

  Why do you Cry yourself to Sleep?

  Why do your hands seem so Humane – while you tread apart from it (oh; so tenderly ) ?

  You look like you are on the verge of disappearance, but its an intriguing sight.

   

  Sometimes, it seems like you have wings.

  But you Shred them yourself when you smile.

   There is Tremendous Beauty in your grief.

  You can never be free from yourself, can you? You try to mellow yourself down, soften your eyes, think less. But the darkness always win – and somehow you love yourself for it.

   

  You can never be free from yourself. And so you wonder if you can ever be happy.

  But then- why?

  Why do you smile at the most unprecedented of all times ?

  Why do you applaud for all the right things ?

   

  And even past all the cowardice, when you brush your hands on your pants, and rise from the flecks – I swear I see Strength.

   

  Then why do you even pretend? Why do you put a view of mediocre over your crown ?

  Why do you keep Heroism hidden, and clamor past the Mud- Holes.

   

  You are a Coward because you fear you will never fit in.

  I am repulsed by your attempts, and awed by your naivety.

   

  Some things are meant to be ,

  let them .

   

 

  something about The way.

  There is something about the way 

  A person needs to be seen

  With awe and with tenderness, bare and godlike.

  There is something about the way

  A person needs to be touched

  With soft, trembling fingers touching the sun-soaked skin.

  There is something about the way

  A person needs to be interpreted 

  With the raw, gnawing truth, scratching at the inside of your heart.

  There is something about the way

  A person needs to be understood

  With little white lies and straightforward eyes, and strong palms.

  There is something about the way

  A person needs to be heard

  With arms open and eyes closed, and the scripted answers on the tongue tip.

  There is something about the way

  A person needs to be loved

  With pure silver and tinges of copper, hatred, and submission and dominance and running away and pulling closer.

  With wondering hands and quiet solitude of his embrace.

  Bury Her Love

  She is a builder.

  .

  A tiny little house on the Moon,

  The tendrils from her hair,

  dripping stardust on the curtains,

  Her fingers trail behind the doors,

  leaving galaxies crumbling

  under her

  touch.

  The darkness of the Sun,

  will bury skeletons

  deep inside her

  cupboards,

  and save sea shells

  in her drawers.

  She is bleeding

  comets from her pores,

  each

  running after her

  half awakened dreams.

  She is building a house on

  the moon,

  she is a

  Sailor Among the Stars,

  her boat

  tumbling down the nebulas,

  back into time

  and space.

  She is leaving.

  She wears the stars

  on her body,

  like a queen.

  Is this what empowerment feels like?

  Is this enough?

  Too bury her love, in the Moondust?

 

  Nomads

  All of us are nomads.

  We don’t fit. We don’t belong. (somewhere, anywhere)

  We got an old soul, a soul of a wanderer, a person in search.

  Hold us down, and we soar higher.

  Hold us down, and we explode.

  Please, don’t hold us down.

   

  We keep running.

  Wildly, definitely, we search all nooks of the world.

  Tired, restless, with empty eyes, we still,

  Run.

   

  We have the soul of a traveller,

  with the heart of a poet and the hands of an artist.

  even if the world spins in reverse,

  even if the Sun threaten to burn us black,

  we keep running.

   

   

  running.

  Remember?

  remember the days when we spilt the sun in two and smeared the sunlight on our cheeks as war paint?

  remember the day when you freed all the butterflies coiled beneath my collarbones, and watched them as they flew away?

  remember the day you pulled me underneath the ocean and draped little fishes and pearls over my lying body?

  remember the day when we flew in for the moon and landed among the stars, and you combed out the stardust from my knotted hair?

  remember the days when the shadows from the leaves left trails of words over your face and I decoded each and every letter?

  remember?

   

   

  (I don’t.)

  Questions

  lets dance in style,

  lets dance for a while;

  heaven can wait,

  we are only watching the sky.

   

  all of us are waiting.

  Waiting. Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

  Waiting for the world to know us, for the universe to recognise us, how brilliant we are. All of us, shining, shining brighter than any stars known to us. And so we wait, swallowing our own pain into patience, the silent noise of time deafening us.

  this waiting, its killing me.

  I. I don’t want to wait. I want to let the universe engulf me.

  I want the stars to align, to make a place for me.
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  I want the galaxies to spin the other way, the whole essence of immortality spread thin over my skin.

  I want to wear life as a perfume, so that even the ground I tread upon shimmers beneath me.

  is that what we all want?

  to live a breathtaking life.

   

  What I do want , Oh what I so terribly want that my heart is breaking, is a word yet to be spoken. It is at the tip of my tinge. But it just won’t escape.

  Do you Hear that.

  do you hear that? that is the sound of 

  my universe expanding,

  the stars realigning,

  the nebulas breaking,

  for more spirits to 

  tremble in.

  do you hear that?

  that is the sound of

  the sun falling,

  and the ashes rising,

  and gears rewinding,

  as I walk towards You.

  do you hear that?

  that is the sound of

  your hand touching mine,

  my skin, bursting,

  under your sweaty 

  touch.

  do you hear that?

  that is the sound of

  my eyes growing wetter,

  the world getting luminescent,

  the shadows growing

  longer.

  do you hear that?

  do you hear the key working

  its way into me,

  the sound of

  me unlocking.

  and its tremendously terrifying.

  The Night

  in the golden blaze

  of the night sky

  which seemed to shine

  on those tears.

  drunken from the

  stars in the dark,

  when the night came

  and she seemed to

  be remotely alone

  in the silence of

  the sheets and the

  comfort of teardrops.

  fingers trembling,

  lips mumbling

  and eyes drowsing

  on the verge of

  agony.

  the gold seemed too

  bright on her skin

  and the moons smeared

  on her dress

  she curled up on the bed

  a trusted bear by her side

  guarding her from the

  demons under the bed

  and the ones inside her head.

  she wished,

  oh so terribly she wished

  that all gravity will die

  the ones between her and the earth

  and the ones between

  the tears and her cheeks

  and she would fall into

  the gold moon and the stars.

  and never come back again.

  this drunkenness;

  this fear;

  this world.

 

  A Queen

  She was a queen for the way

  She walked in the trenches,

  Blood and gunpowder spilling everywhere

  In the battlefield. 

  She was a queen for her head

  Never shook with pain from the

  Shoots she took, her hand just

  Trembled with rage.

  She was a queen for bearing the red cross

  In the battlefield,

  Tumbling and stumbling on the

  Corpses of her once breathing love.

  She was a queen for she never looked back.

  For her compassion, her driving passion,

  Her ambition, her strength, Herself.

  She was a queen in the battleground.

  And she never looked back. 

  Crow

  She had a Dragon tattoo 

  Scraped behind her

  Back.

  Her hair cut short

  In chops,

  Thin veils

  Rolled around her neck.

  So that everyone 

  Can see

  The broken shards of 

  Light

  She used to scatter

  Everywhere.

  Her crow like wings spread

  Apart, ominous black feathers

  Spring viciously from her

  Shoulder blades,

  Which she sets on fire.

  She loved herself and

  Despised herself terribly.

  Twisted she was they used

  To say…

  But honestly, she was just free willed.  

  What Happens Next

  These timid rebukes of yours;

  I brush them aside foolishly,

  With a slight of hand-

  And your face crumples

  And crumbles;

  And I smile.

 

  Dizziness

  Dizziness

  As i inhaled

  The room got bigger

  And i got smaller

  And diminished

 

  Pressed Flowers

  she was like a 

  pressed flower;

  so beautiful and

  fragile

  with her petals

  curling at the

  ends

  shades of grey 

  and pink and brown.

  she never seemed

  to age

  never seemed 

  to get dirty

  never seemed 

  to cry

  never seemed

  to smile.

  that flower never

  tasted the sunlight

  on her light

  petals.

  the rays never

  seemed to

  reach her.

  as she was

  trapped in

  this tender

  page she thought

  to be her home.

  and with

  her blank eyes

  she looked blankly

  at the meadow

  with a small

  bundle of

  flowers seemed

  to sway in the

  scented breeze.

  her heart,

  that had ceased 

  beating a while ago

  would squeeze.

  a horribly

  painful feeling

  at the back of

  her throat.

  and when ever

  she reached out

  to those evil

  bright colors

  a devilled hand

  would pull her

  back…

  in a world of

  more creatures

  like her,

  all pressed

  under the weight

  of pages and those

  hands.

  they would

  urge her to

  sleep,

  and she slept.

  today

  tomorrow

  and the days after that.

  and her mind

  would have felt

  nostalgic for

  the scented breeze

  on her face,

  somewhere deep

  down her heart.