Evolution by Harshit Pratap

Evolution

i.

There is a little marigold plantation In front of my house, across the road A woman comes there EVERYDAY In her oddly draped saaree With a sac dangling in front of it Apparently, she “owns” the plantation.

And every day, she plucks marigolds, Gold, orange, red. One by one. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. PLUCK. PLUCK. P.L.U.C.K.! Every time she does it, it hurts me.

Why haven't the flowers learnt to not grow yet. I wonder.

ii.

It's not like I don't understand What happens to the marigolds Once they are plucked.

They become. Sometimes decoration, Sometimes garlands, Sometimes offerings (divine or not). And many would say, Aren't those beautiful to be!

And they'd wither away anyway, If they stayed on the plant, For too long.

Harshit Pratap

And that's exactly what I ask, What's the point in growing, If dying is what you'll do, Eventually.

iii.

If we didn't have to wither, Would growing be worth it? Is eternity what we crave?

Well, far from it. Who'd crave an eternity of pain? Of being plucked. PLUCKED. P.L.U.C.K.E.D.! Who can guarantee me monotony? Not that that's any better.

So, maybe the joy of life is the joy of being plucked PLUCKED. P.L.U.C.K.E.D.! Some people don't see it, Others don't mind. I do and I ask.

Why haven't the flowers learnt not to grow? Yet.

Departed

Digjam Sarma

father am i making you proud i have been a real good wife, haven’t i silently taking in all the blows and burns since you betrothed me to him

the scaly belt torn in half skin branded names by red-hot poker my mark of honour my tears now feed his thirst, father more than my flesh look at me now look at me you son of a bitch look at your princess darling before this bullet thins your skull.