ISSUE 3
contributors Komal Bohra Saranya Subramanian Disha Joshi Riya Nair Punya Chhajer
contributors Hitakshi Karval Raza Kirmani Zarah Noorani Anokhi Rathod Guarika Kothari
contents interface to emotions ………………………………………….. 6-7 a poem by Disha Joshi …………………………………………… 8-8 poems by Hitakshi Kerval …………………………………….. 9-9 poems by Saranya Subramanian ………………………. 12-14 poems by Anokhi Ratod ………………………………………17-18 a poem by gaurika Kothari …………………………..........20-20 Portraits by Komal Bohra …………………………………… 21-26 Raza Kirmani’s Cats ……………………………………………. 27-32 A segment on spill poetry ……………………………………34-41 Photographs by Punya Chajer……………………………….41-45
editors note Hi again, it’s me. Of course it is. We’ve got to stop meeting like this every three months, it’s getting creepy now. Once again I will tell you about how amazing it was to work with people with phenomenal talent, because well, it is the truth. This issue, in specific, is a short one. But still, quite special. Issue three has a lot of poetry and photography in it that revolves around the topic of ‘emotions’. People from all over the country have contributed by sending in their stuff. Which is the best part. As for me, I have had a busy, busy three months. I have been doing a lot of other things, apart from academics or the magazine. I’ve been trying out various options, even to just pass time. Stuff like drama, music, films. For tis issue, its te last minute touched that made it. Again, again, again, thank you for your support and feedback on the magazine. It’s still so surreal that we’re on the third issue already!
Until next time, Zarah Noorani Editor-in-chief, The Open Close
The moment I left you at someone's door step and the second you smiled at me, I decided to be nothing else but a mirror. • I watched you, Watched you smile at me when you were too young to understand what I exactly am. I saw you, trying to catch yourself and bumping your hand upon my surface and hurting yourself instead. It took me 5 years to teach you, that you don't need to catch yourself. You deserve freedom. • Then, As the years passed, I watched you draping your Maa's dupatta around your waist and throwing it back on your shoulder and again unwrapping it and again tucking it in, trying very hard to look exactly like your mother. It took me 3 years to teach you that you cannot fit in. That, you are you and not you mother, so, stop wrapping your mother's perspective around your waist and start pulling the skirt of your opinions up. • Then, I saw you, popping zits and applying makeup on your acne. I saw you contouring your chubby cheeks into sharp jawlines. I saw you dressing in red lipsticks instead of pink. But, it took me another 4 years to tell you that, I am a liar, I was always a liar And you don't have to be one. • Then, one day, I watched you, Crying in front of me like I was the reason you wanted to be dead. I saw you, cursing your stretch-marks. And then, cutting your thighs with a blade. So, today I want to tell you something, Your stretch-marks has a code language, not everyone can understand it. So, use it as a weapon. Don't cover your acid marks and burn marks with makeup, they are the medals of your survival, Wear them with utmost pride. And trust me, If you have heels of respect, vision and dignity, then you don't need a Jimmy Choo. • From, Your third parent - Mirror. I am the parent, your actual parents didn't tell you about. I am the parent, who left you at the fire-station and turned into a mirror just to watch you grow. I am the parent, who always held back all the spirits from the parallel world when you said 'Bloody Mary × 3' while holding a candle and looking straight into my eyes just to make you believe that ghosts don't exist. • So now, I hope, You don't wonder anymore that why do you look so much like me.
– Disha Joshi
FRIENDSHIP Hitakshi Karval
The pleasures of friendship are exquisite A feeling away from romances, but a feeling Down deep inside heart and soul You're bestowed by god upon me A glass of wine and loquacious talks we are ready to face our common morrow From strangers to friends and from friends to family bonding us from camaraderie Nattering nights, garrulous hours and the hours and moments like minutes passed Cherishing moments, adorning live because friends are friends, no one has to take their place Today I again soak the corner of my eyes Reminiscing a friend that always been there.
THE AMAZING HAVLOCK ISLAND Hitakshi Karval
The amazing Havlock island with the gigantic waves of the sea Washing the terribly transient feet Everybody draggled themselves with full of gusto, enjoying the sea water was reclusive again and again I recoiled myself when I got rheumy because it was dicey for me but still I idolized the island The innate ravish of the sea was like a reverie, with the ambrosia of the sand, and the island was aesthetic .
my home is a multilingual country amma reads sanskrit from the left hand side page while appa follows the tamil script on the right each of them chants out the same words with the same devotion; but the shapes of the letters contort differently for each. they are two opposing poles who comprehend the world differently but find middle ground while expressing themselves out loud. amma reads sanskrit from the left hand side page while appa follows the tamil script on the right both of them hold tightly the strings that bind the book, keeping intact the multilingual tradition that holds together our home. and two ancient languages of india find solace in my home, while outside they are used as armour against each other. if only people saw what i see: that it isn’t a battle between north and south; it’s a push and pull, a give and take compromise — a marriage — the left hand sanskrit page and the right hand tamil one walk hand-in-hand to keep the book together. amma reads sanskrit from the left hand side page while appa follows the tamil script on the right and i? i listen to both; unable to make out any difference in what is released into the air and into my soul.
Saranya Subramanian
THE REVOLUTION THAT WILL NEVER COME TO US
these four walls are exhausted with listening to our over-intellectualization of every problem. these four walls want more than our feeble words that never slip through the cracks but are instead safely held together by its arms. no, these walls want to be broken down brick by brick they want to weep all the cement out of them. they want to be demolished with our anger, with songs of protest, and our poetry. these walls want to be reshaped, hung outside down, moulded with new ideology — ideology that forces change within its very foundation. but how do you change the foundation when the foundation protects you from change?
Saranya Subramanian
IF I WEREN’T FROM BOMBAY If I weren’t from Bombay, I’d probably call it Mumbai. I’d probably hold more value for every time I smelled the colours of the sea. I’d never know how it is to walk out of my house to find all seven colours of the rainbowand the pot of gold at the end of it. How people tread on hot coals to grab a few coins, only to find some on chariots flying towards it. If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t know how it is to time travel To study in halls and connect with the dead living in walls To touch grainy old buildings- each of them storybooks, novels, bestsellers, fabling tales of War, Triumph. Of brotherhood. If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t know the fear of almost living in a warzone Watching the flames burn down our history How those flames would ignite in us anger, how we’d make history I wouldn’t see how some were crematednot by their sons, but by their own brothers wearing garlands of AK- 47s. If I weren’t from Bombay, these eyes wouldn’t wear lenses tainted with a foggy layer of condensed crime these ears wouldn’t be that of a priests, confessions wouldn’t begin with “Forgive me Father for I have sinned” If I weren’t from Bombay, I’d probably be a better person A more sensitive person. But I wouldn’t understand redemption. If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t get to see the entire world holding onto each other
I wouldn’t know how the city of dreams can become the spookiest nightmare. How these streets promising a Stairway to Heaven so easily reroute to hell. If I weren’t from Bombay, I’d probably see people as made up of flesh and bone and not how I see them nowof good, but more bad. Of love. And a little bit of war. If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t understand the meaning of ‘unconditional love.’ Of loving even when your stomach rumbles in anger Of finding an ‘I love you’ in the most creative of abuses Of pulling out love in the deeply sown seeds of hatred among bustling crowds I wouldn’t find love in the mucchi of a paanwala In the clubs and all night cafes giving love to the madmen and the insomniacs In the bark of a stray dog that just wants to be heard, and loved back. I wouldn’t find love in the streetlights at Marine Drive. Who said we need telescopes to look at the stars? If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t hear how the echoes of Om, Inshallah and Amen spiral in the air to become one. I wouldn’t understand acceptance. If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t know that Twitter can be used for #NalliSilkSaris I wouldn’t know the difference between being Modern and being Western, If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t know how it is to live in a beating, pulsating heart. If I weren’t from Bombay, I wouldn’t know how to write a love letter
in a rusted, red box on wheels All of us from different places, but the same destination. If I weren’t from Bombay,
Saranya Subramanian
Untitled Anok hi Rathod
My imperfect world, my happy place, A beautiful family; a cozy home created. My loud spirit, and an ever smiling face, None of these was ever absent, nor ever faded. Why, though, it still happened, I'll never quite understand. It was unfair, and it was brutal It most definitely wasn't frugal. Opened my eyes, left me awakened. Bad phases in life are inevitable Taught me an important lesson: nothing lasts forever Turned my fairy tale into a significant fable. The storm hit on a Tuesday night Acting like a derailing domino effect, bringing down everything that was once perfect. I had anticipated it, even had a fight. But I was so conveniently blindfolded by trust and love, Little did I know, I was about to be thrown out of my own home. I was certainly strong, I was always fine, In my life, there was always light. Even in distress, I was my own knight. But there was a sudden phasing dawn, I couldn't take the bull by its horns. I couldn't be strong, I couldn't be fine It was dull all the time. Nothing made any sense anymore A sad smile was all I wore. I was sad, I was disappointed I was hurt, I was exhausted my love, loyalty and kindness ever, all wasted. What did I do to deserve this? I never got to know. So emotionally traumatized, I could not go with the flow. My faith, my hope, my trust were evaporated Love and friendships were all I hated.
With time, I went deeper, and deeper inside. The darkness was not ready to subside, screaming 'this is where you reside!' I was succumbing to an emotional quicksand, Looking around, desperately, for the promised hand. I heard voices in the dark, Memories of which are still stark. Voices calling out to me, voices calling at me. Some were familiar, some were new. But the known were getting few and few. Some voices were of help, and some were of guidance. But most of them were a part of a game, called advantage of her silence. There was laughter, mockery, and sighs, there were whispers and taunts. There were rumors and lies; there was exaggeration, which still haunts. I strayed in the darkness, traipsing around Confused, scared and so very helpless No one, or nothing, of help I found. I stumbled and fell, Everyone saw this as well. I struggled hard to come out Wandering cluelessly about. For a duration that seemed absolutely endless. Some approached with a hand of help, Efforts made to comfort and motivate. It felt good. Indeed, it felt great! But I was so lost and beyond repair. That To them, it wasn't fair. There were people feeding off of gossip, No one knowing even the truth of it. Completely neglecting human emotions, This only added to my trouble quotient. Right in the centre, incessantly bleeding, his staggering stab, Made others think that they too had the right to dab. I was drowning into a pool of betrayals, Being brought down by countless labels. Some cared, but not enough 'stay away from her', everyone huffed.
I was kicked when I was down, I was laughed at and taunted. Once friendly faces, moved away with frowns, For all of this to end, was all I wanted. I stopped eating, I only slept, It was the only time I was at peace. And while I was not, I only wept Oh, the pain! It didn't seem to cease. I had excessive bouts; Panic attacks and emotional break downs. I slept praying, I woke up crying. It was so exhausting and tiring. My energy had all been drained, So much it pained! I sincerely no longer wished to live. It was stupid, I know; beyond the blue skies I wanted to go. But it was so much worse than terrible, that did you know? I did things I wasn't proud of, things I couldn't undo. I admit it; I did, and I do. Things I couldn't permanently erase. Made it hard to keep up my once smiling faces. I thought I was going crazy, Everything was so damn hazy My newly developed characteristic of vanity, made everyone question my sanity.
Little did they know, How badly had struck me the blow. My eyes lost the spark There were blotches on my colorful arc. My face lost the charm My always-smiling cheerful self had been harmed. My entire self became dull. My eyes no longer shone, My laughter echoed no more. The ever-so-bubbly, curly-haired fat girl's spirit had died. But no one ever really wondered why. Even several months later, an image so created. So hard to erase, My life's worst, and most difficult phase. Sometimes it still disturbs my mind, When, even now, lies and rumors in their talks I find. My silence about a few things, oh the mistake! It was my kindness and righteousness, out of sheer loyalty; but well, some people are so fake. I let myself get very weak. They all thought of me as a freak. My faith was trampled, my crown had dropped Into bits and pieces my heart was chopped. So sad it makes me, to realize it is permanent, But I remind myself that I should no longer lament. For, I've become wiser, and a better person now. Even stronger I have emerged From the darkness I found my way out. Into the light I stand firm Against all the dirty, shallow, hurtful things forged. Never again will I repeat the same mistakes For no one will I put my heart, spirit and life at stake.
you smell of broken promises and dead daffodils. you look like an incomplete maze and i can’t find my way out unless you let me melt down your walls. I see that you built a home for yourself, but is it really home if it suffocates you and hasn’t been cleaned ever since they left? i see your old self on the floor and I see the moment you let her hold your hand she tries to drag you down with her. I see how the shadows of your past have invaded your personal space, and even if I ring the doorbell of your heart till it go es out of order they won’t let me in. you are at war with yourself and every time something goes right, something has to go wrong, or you’ll lose balance and scatter into pieces. although what is balance but a mirage that you seem to not let go of? you find solace in a room without windows. words are the only defense mechanism you have but you’re running out of words as well. you are in love with your memories, good or badonly because they remind you of a time when you could feel without questioning every single thought, thoughts that have now become the sole bane of your existence. you call yourself a sad story that has been repeated so many times that no one cares anymore. you are a ruination within yourself. you bleed on paper, and keep bleeding until you figure out a way to stop, giving out the illusionthat you have a conclusion.
Gaurika Kothari
PORTRAITS BY KOMAL BOHRA
*an additional –surprise- segment, cuz ummmm, cats.
CATS
.
BY RAZA KIRMANI
MUSIC YOUR EARS WILL THANK YOU FOR Dust of the ground – Bombay bicycle club Please mr. postman – the marvelettes Udd gaye – ritviz Check the rhime – a tribe called quest Alive – pearl jam Call me – NAV, metro boomin Prayer in c – lilly bloom, the prick, robin schulz Pleaser – wallows The night we met – lord huron Road trippin – red hot chili peppers Rani – Shashwat Bulusu Rock n roll singer – AC/DC Cherry pie – warrant Batman – the who Play me like a piano – Stephen All of me wants all of you – sufjan stevens
Who We Are: Spill is an art collective Co-founded by Foram Shah and Daaniyal Sayed which aims at cultivating a healthy space for artists to hone and showcase their poetry. Up till now we have had six odd editions of the aforementioned event, all of them receiving great responses and a lot of love. Our major aim is to promote new talent and provide a platform to everyone no matter where they come from.
What We Do: This organization, since its inception in December 2016, has been aiming towards nurturing Spoken Word Poetry in India. The factor that differentiates us from other poetry slams is the fact that we don’t charge performers to perform at our event. This concept came about when one of our co-founders faced a disappointing experience of being charged money to perform. We do not realize that everybody is not as privileged as some of us are. This led to the emergence of something different; in a time when most organizations and art collectives charged performers to perform, two young artists decided to conduct an open-mic for free. Our event consists of people who are new and old in the poetry circuit. We also spend a good amount of time in a productive discussion where veteran poets and performers narrate their experiences and carve a path for the newcomers.
Photos from Spill 1.0, held on 15th January, 2017.
What We Believe In: There are so many times where we have seen organizations charge people to perform at their events, and sometimes absurd rates, at that. We, at Spill wanted to try and put an end to that. We think that art should be free of all restrictions and should be available to everyone and not to just the privileged. We also dissuade un-healthy competition among people in the poetry circuit. Everyone should have a right to prove themselves, but not in the process of trampling over others.
The idea of Spill Poetry was conceptualized on the 23rd of December, 2016. That was when we started planning our first event The idea of Spill Poetry was conceptualized on the 23rd of December, 2016. That was when we started planning our first event which was held on 15th January, 2017. Our first event saw around 30 lovely attendees who enjoyed to the fullest. After seeing this amazing response, we decided to have more and more events and include as many people as we could. Over time, we have had six editions of Spill Poetry and Open Mic events in Mumbai. Spill also started uploading videos on YouTube to give a bigger platform to artists and help them showcase their talent to a larger audience. Now, Spill Poetry takes artists all around the country to perform at various events and hone talent from everywhere. Spill is planning to go national in 2018 and operations for the Pune and Bangalore branches have already begun .
About the Founders: Foram Shah
Daaniyal Sayed
Foram Shah is an 18 year old Spoken-word artist and writer from Mumbai. Half parent of Spill, she spends her time writing about love and life and all her experiences in between. She is a staunch feminist with the ability to protect her viewpoint at any hour of the day.
Daaniyal Sayed is a 21 year-old, third year BMS student living in Mumbai. He writes Urdu Poetry that is sometimes heart wrenching and sometimes giddy enough to lighten your day. He is someone with great insight and a never back down attitude with only positive vibes.
Foram always had trouble expressing her conflicted opinions until she discovered poetry at the age of 14, and she hasn’t stopped following her passion since.
Due to his past experiences, he realized that requiring to pay to perform your own piece of art would not work out well for people from all walks of society. Thus, the founders thought that curating an event where nobody was financially disabled no matter where he came from would be a good idea.
She is someone who not only dreams, but also keeps the courage to change those dreams into reality.
Daaniyal’s poetry ranges from a number of social issues to taking a twist on how life is lived.
Emotions around us… A series of photographs by
Punya Chhajer