Category: Blog

Ft. Nishtha Konwar.

 

Lying in her Bare Minimum,

Her Insides Growl –

In Revolt. She Hadn’t Tasted A Morsel,

Since Ages Now.

She Flickers Between Consciousness,

And Nothingness.

Slowly, The Darkness Starts to Dawn,

Once More. But She’s Determined,

To Cling On. For She Knows,

She Might Never Come Back,

If She Does Let Go.

Every Breath She Inhales, Feels Like-

Drawing Fire, Straight From,

Mother Earth’s Fiery Core.

As if She’s Only Fueling a Raging Fire,

That Slowly Devours Her Own Bloody Soul.

She Licks Her Parched Lips, Gently. Barely,

Holding Her Bruised Eyes, Open-

As She Stares Onto that Dreadful Door.

He’d Visited Her Today.

In the Morning Or-

Was It the Noon?

Time had No Place in This Room.

For She Had Long Lost its Track,

And Surrendered Herself –

To A Timeless Existence.

Only When He Came In,

Did She Start to Count –

The Seconds, on Her Skeletal fingers.

Her Nails- Bloodied. Bruised. Broken. From-

Scratching Futile Prayers,

On the Hard, Stone Floor.

She Wonders If It Really Is,

Worth Fighting Death Anymore? Wonders,

If It’ll Someday Be Her Messiah,

Who’s at the door.

It’s Only Hours Since He Had Gone.

And Yet again,

The Wicked Wooden Door, Parts –

To Reveal A Ray of Morning Hope,

That Coldly Ricochets,

Off the Cuts, Burns, Stabs, Slashes,

And Slyly Escapes. For It Knows,

If It Lingers Any Longer,

Shall It Be Devoured,

By the Darkness,

Like her. For-

It Too Is No Savior,

But a Survivor. Like Everyone Else,

It Flees as The Devil Walks In. Casting –

It’s Evil Shadow,

Upon the Sad Remains of Her Tattered Body.

Covered in Red. Blood. Like A Wounded Animal,

That She Was.

More Dead Than Alive.

A Little body, Slogging-

On the Cold, Hard Floor. She Looks Up,

To See A Monster Licking –

His Fangs at the Sight of His Frail Prey.

As He Gets Down on his Knees and Caresses –

His Little Maiden’s Head, Her Innocent Eyes,

Meet His Gaze. She Desperately Hopes-

To Find the Loving, Candy Sharing Uncle,

He Once Was, Hidden Somewhere,

In His Cold Stare. But in Vain –

As He Quickly Looks Away. Ashamed.

“My love”, He Says,

As He Slides His Hand Down Her Hair,

Onto Her Bosom. And Sets Off –

About the Same Sinful Ritual,

Once More.

She Wants to Snicker in Disgust,

But He Had Left Her Jaw, Broken.

As a Small Token-

Of His Appreciation, For the Fight-

She Put Up the Last Time.

She Couldn’t Dare-

To Do It Again.

So, She Shuts her System out,

As He Enters Her.

Forces Her Eyes Down Tight, And Counts –

Back from 660, 659, 658…

As She Clenches onto Lost Faith.

Praying Yet Again-

For the Savior,

That Never Came.

She Used to Count a 1000,

But Then the Fact Dawned:

Unlike Her, His Manliness,

Puts up A Rather Frail Stand.

Ironic, She Thought. Is It Really Worth,

The Humongous Ego,

That This Little Motif of Masculinity Holds?

She Doesn’t Think So.

At 300, The Pain Numbs.

Thankfully, He’s Done. The Devil Departs.

The Door Comes to a Close. The Darkness Reigns.

And She Is Back in Her Solemn Solace.

And For Yet Another Day,

She Survives On.

–  Ish.                                    

 

 

 Art by Indrani Phukan.

I Am Art.

A Living, Breathing Piece,

Of Excellence. Guided-

By a Fragile Lil Heart, I Walk.

Wielding A Frail Little Light,

With An Undying Flame, Fueled-

By Passion and Pride.

I Can Walk Till the Land’s End. Walk-

All I Want.

But I Am Not Satisfied. No. For,

I want To Run. Gallop,

Like A Strong Steed-

Down Those Sly Streets,

Where Men, With The Workings of a Machine,

Toggle Down Their Routined Ordeals,

In This Town Of Automated Appliances.

Stained All Over,

Their Souls and Minds,

Is a Gut Wrenching Stench,

Of Stale Grease,

And Unburnt Gasoline.

The Familiar Fume,

Of the Unbecoming Of A Man.

The Becoming Of A Machine.

Their Senses Numbed. Minds Tamed.

They Don’t Think No More. They Follow.

Follow Orders. Follow Rules.

Follow Like The Timid Sheep,

Blindly Loyal To The Herd.

Whipped Around,

By The Master Shepherd,

And His Mighty Hounds.

None Dare Try to Run. For They Know,

He’ll Hunt Em Down. And Hang Em.

On A Stake,

By The Gates.

Right Beside A Sign,

That Says:

‘We Prefer Our Art,

Machine Made.

Those With A Creative Soul,

Better Stay The Hell Away.’

But To Those Monsters,

I Yell Back:

I am Not Scared.

Of your Words. Your Whips.

Not Even your Guns.

For I Am Art.

Not the Copy Of The Monalisa. No.

Perfectly Printed. Down To The Very Twist,

Of That Same Sly Smile. That has,

But Mesmerized.

A Million Eyes. No.

That Ain’t Me.

I am Not Machine Made,

But Modern. An Original,

Transcending,

Dimensions in Degrees-

Not Yet Perceived.

I have No Colour Schemes To Follow.

No Set Lines To Tread Along.

I Extend Boundlessly,

Beyond the Boundaries,

Of Black and White.

Yes. I Do Have A Mind.

And A Heart. And A Soul.

Yes, A Bloody Soul!

I Don’t Think You Even Believe,

In Its Existence Anymore.

But You Better Be Aware.

For I Am coming To Get Your Kingdom Come.

I Won’t Walk In,

Through Those Crooked Doors, Where,

Your Shooters Await. Ready –

To Riddle Me With Holes,

Right Into My Core.

Mercilessly. I shall,

But Break In Through-

One Of Your Walls,

That So Proudly Guard,

This Institution Of Machines.

And Wreck Havoc,

Into this Broken System,

You Call A Society.

With A Rumble,

Like Thunder-

Shall I Come,

Crashing Down Upon Your Pillars,

Of Prestige and Pride,

And In A Flash,

Reduce Your Regulations,

Into Ashes and Dust.

Undefined. Unborn. Unreal.

And From Them-

Shall Rise a Phoenix,

Of The New Dawn.

Who Knows Not of Castes,

Nor Class or Creed.

Like Lady Justice,

Blind and Impartial,

True Only To Her Duty.

And Under The Luminance,

Of His Flamboyant Flames,

Shall We Rekindle A Civilization,

Independent Of Your Social Standards,

And Limited Goals.

Which Can Be Perceived,

Through So Much More-

Than Mere Scores,

And Crude Numbers,

Handed Out On The Basis,

Of Who Can Mug Up More.

Where Knowledge Needn’t Only Be Learnt,

Or Known;

But Rather Be Explored.

Rewrote. I Ask Not,

To Bend The Laws of Science.

Nor Change History. No.

What I Demand For Is Independence.

The Free Will Of Choice,

To Choose Their Own Future, Fearlessly.

To Carve Out One’s Own Path.

The Ability To Grow,

In Whatever Way One Yearns To.

To Outgrow-

The Shadow Of Social Mockery.

To Break Free-

From These Social Moulds. And Be,

Who They Really Want To Be.

Independent. Empowered. Eclectic.

An Original. Like Me.

For, I Am Art.

I Have No Beginning. Nor End.

Just An Immortal Ceaseless Existence,

Similiar To None other.

Since Years Bygone,

Have I Swirled to the Rhythm,

Of My Own Unique Tune.

And For Years To Come,

So Shall I Continue to Do.

Unflinched. Unhindered. Unsatiated.

Until Thy Eternity’s End.

 – Ish.

 

Last Night, Strolling-
In My Solemn Sojourn.
Under the Street Lights,
I Saw a Dog Hide.
Scampering for Cover,
At the First Sight,
Of Human.
I Wonder, Why?
I Wonder,
Of the Fear,
That Lies Inside-
That Stray Soul.
Lying to Myself.Trying-
To Drown in Denial.
The Answer,
To The Question:
Can a Human Heart Really Be So Cold?
Faking My Ignorance. Emboldened-
I March On.
My Loud Strides,
Drown the Dogging Thoughts, But-
Its From the Memories,
In My Mind,
That I Couldn’t Hide.
Warm Nostalgia Flows.
The Bygone Teenage Angst Grows.
I Can’t Feel My Face No More.
I am Back Home. Sipping on Tea Talk,
As my Relative Walks In,
Through the Door.
He talks. On his face, shines-
A Victorious Glow.
‘Just Pour Boiling Water.’
His Solution To Chase A Stray Dog.
Tells Me, ‘That’s How You Teach ’em a Lesson.’
So That the Stray Knows,
Not to Mess With Him No More.
My Patience Hits the Floor.
Adolescent Me Wasn’t As Kiddish,
Anymore.
Imagining His Scalding Soul- Steeped,
In the Same Water He Had Poured.
I Could Feel My Sadist Self Show.
I Remember Saying It Out Loud,
Oh! I Was So Damn Proud.
And ‘Snap’.
I was back to being,
A 19 year old,
Out on an Evening Stoll.
Reminiscing-
On My Fearless Soul.
I Was Still Seething Within,
But I Had Lost My Bold;
The Raging Fire
Had Gone Cold.
“Someone Else Can Raise Their Voice.”
I Whispered to My Soul,
As I Made Another Clichè Humanly Choice,
Moving On.
And Like Ever Other Theist,
Blaming Everything At God.
I Dissolved My Conscience,
In An Adulterated Social Solution,
And,
I Took The Next Metro Home.

                                – Ish.

The Winter Wanes-

Away,

Like the Leaves at the Onset-

Of the fall,

Blazing Into Nonexistence,

In a Summery Infero,

Leaving only a Lifeless-

Aborted Body Behind.

Damned to Its Death.

Only To bloom,

Once Again.

In the lap of a Lusty Spring.

Rebirth.

All Arranged In Line. Marks the End-

Of a Decade, a Century, an Era.

The Perpetual Cycle of Life.

Life and Death.

The Two Most Wrecked Mysteries,

The Extremes of Emotion.

The Crests and Troughs,

Which, Scripts-

History,

In It’s Undue Course.

A Relentless Saga,

Of Tragic Ends,

And Euphoric Beginnings.

–Ish Aan.

Dear best friend,

I know, you’ve asked me,

So many a times- to write,

Of you.

And I always pretend, like-

I’m just a few words short,

From hittin the perfect spot.

But the fact is,

I rather don’t want to.

Cause, I am scared.

 

Scared, that someday,

You’d move on. Find,

Better friends.

And we’d lose the connect,

That we’ve always had.

And these verses, would stay:

An aching reminder,

Of our glorious days,

As the memories slowly-

Erode away into tragic oblivion.

 

And then, one fine day:

I’d look at these lines,

And it’d hit me hard, unexpectedly. That-

There are no tears,

To hold back;

Or moments,

To retrospect,

On. And now,

My worst fears,

Have come into play,

And the lines stay:

As Mere Words.

Black on white. Nothing more.

Nothing less.

 

That, would be a truly tragic end,

Dear friend.

 

Hope you understand.

 

Love,

Ish.

 

– Ish Aan.

 

 

Man of Steele,
Built to kill;
Born to serve,
Has supers skills;
World to save,
The dangers grave;
But he got the back,
Of human race.
So don’t ya worry,
Take a break;
He gonna keep,
All shit in place.

Cuz he is superman,
The mightiest of the mighty man;
Sets the order,
Works the plan;
Shit goes down,
He gonna take a stand.
Real strong,
Real brave;
Always there to save the day.

But superman’s been lying,
Saying everything’s fine;
Beneath that skin of steel,
There’ a sorrow that he hides.
Trumpin’ all evil-
But it’s the war within,
He can’t fight.
He might be the superman,
The mightiest of the mighty man;
Acts like shit’s all-
Spick and span!
But beneath the calm face,
It’s a mess;
Overworked,
Overstresssed;
But there ain’t nobody,
To hear his crass.

Cuz expectations are sky high,
“Superheroes aren’t supposed to cry.”
Says who?
I wonder why?
Why can’t he have some,
Alone time?
It is just too much to ask?
For a ear to hear,
His story;
For a hand,
To wipe his tear.
Is it all the cost of his glory,
That he’d forever have to bear?

Does he have to go-
On & on,
On & on;
Emotionlessly-
Actin’ strong,
Like shit’s ain’t all so frigging wrong!

~Ishaan Phukan.

Today,
I woke up to the news of another rape;
And looking at all the protests that rage,
All around.
Its almost funny,
How nobody gives a damn;
About ahimsa,
And protests and slogans,
That we relay!
And its so easy to say,
‘We are walking for change.’

But, I wonder,
If you have wondered,
That hard;
To notice that,
We are the own counter statement,
To the statements we make.

Why do we watch movies,
Where the woman,
Always gets nabbed?
Why is the hero,
Always a man?
Who the hell to blame?
The shorter clothes,
Or the smaller ‘soch’ ?
Don’t ask the politicians,
Cuz they only do shit for votes.
The police,
Are too busy tryna guard these unholy souls;
As they move from places to place,
With their expensive escorts!
Making promises they don’t intend to keep,
To people who don’t mean,
Nothing to em.
What a shame!
And yet, we line up like fools,
Outside the booth;
Every election day,
Believe on the same shit they say,
Year after year,
Every damned way.
I wonder what to say.

I wonder what to say….

I know,
An eye for an eye,
Ends up making the whole world blind,
But keep using nonviolence,
And we shall all die;
A sad death:
For change that never came,
Progress that still stays the same,
In Gandhi’s name.

But those were different days,
A primitive age,
When Independence was all,
That we used to crave,
For.

But this in a different century,
With lesser lives to spare,
And more rights to care,
For.

I wonder if you are listening,
Cause it’s time;
To play the Sinners in their own game.
Skip the blame,
Start the uprise;
Violence can always be justified,
To stop something that a billion people think,
Isn’t right!
So, I urge you,
To skip the candles;
Raise the voices harder,
And fight.
It’s high time,
Raavana has to Die.
Justice cannot be even delayed,
And not just denied!
There has to be the same fear,
In the eyes,
Of every rapist,
That lies,
In the eyes of every women,
Going out at night.
It’s time.

It’s Time….

~Ishaan Phukan

What I am going to talk of now,
Maybe absurdly preposterous;
But if you see what I see,
You would notice a paradox;
Hidden beneath,
The shadows of progress;
Beneath,
All the hollow hype;
Underlying all the social stress.

What if,
I tell you to stop doing,
Whatever you are.

Tell you that it is almost futile.

Don’t react,
Relax;
And listen,
For a while.

I ain’t no firm believer,
But Buddha got his basics right;
The eight-fold path,
And his words of profound delight.
And of his blissful preachings,
I only borrow a part;
A humble piece,
Of the master’s impeccable art.
The words about greed,
To be precise.

You can go on and on,
Working your life away;
Working harder,
Progressing farther and further,
But the fact is:
Excitement is like the shine,
Which fades away with time.

The car you worked so hard to earn,
Doesn’t feel right no more;
Cause there is a better one,
Behind those showroom doors.
Your dream home,
Needs a replacement too;
Cause Bigger the better,
Now seems just so true.
There are a hundred examples,
And these are but only a few.
But my point is:

It is all a circle.
It all goes round and round,
Around the same white lies;
And excuses,
Bout how happiness is on the other side.
But the fact is,
Happiness ain’t no destination,
But the ride;
It can’t ever be achieved,
But only be realised;
Sans any requisites,
At this very moment,
Without a restraint of space and time.

All you need to do,
Is believe and be humble;
For all the joy you have ever had,
And for the sorrows you have overcome.

For in acceptance,
Lies the glorious victory;
And in humility,
The greatest success.

Now, change is inevitable,
Desirable rather;
So, please don’t take my opinion,
As a calling for laziness to reign.
I desire not to stop the motion,
But only redirect it.

To break the circle,
To set the line.

                                               – Ishaan.

Tell me where my worth lies?
Is it my body,
The face;
My hair,
The eyes?
Cut the chase,
Skip the lies,
Cause I have been through this shit,
For like the hundredth time.
Don’t tell me you like talking to me,
When I can clearly see,
That all you need is a head,
Or maybe a wild night.
Someone to give you the thrills,
The joy ride.
Someone to hook up with,
Someone who can be treated like shit,
But still be there,
Till the end. Dancing –
To your rhythm,
The beat. Grooving –
To your lies,
But believe me, shit has changed,
I am just not your kind,
Anymore, Ever-after.
So, tell me where my worth lies.

A humble request.

– Ishaan Phukan

It’s class 12,

And school’s almost come to an end;

Finally, I don’t have to pretend,

About how I like it;

Act like I don’t actually despise it,

From the core of my heart.

I am so glad,

Finally, our ways part.

But then, as I retrospect,

And ponder,

Into the years that rolled by,

I wonder-

Of the root of all the memories,

I made;

And unexpectedly,

It turns out to be,

The place I used to hate –

All these years,

The reason for my morning nightmares.

And the jitters,

I used to get;

Waking up from my bed,

With a sleepy head,

And the splash of cold water,

Gosh! Don’t even mention that.

But, then:

It’s within those four walls,

That most of my memories,

Were etched,

Among dynamic foes,

And transient friends;

The lessons I learnt,

The old bridges that we burnt,

And the new ones we built.

All captured,

In vivid stills,

And reminiscing smiles;

In the minds,

And eyes,

Of every single soul,

Who was once a student.

Ask each one and you’ll know,

Of the value it holds in every heart;

They’ll tell you it’s much more,

Than just big books and lengthy notes;

Ask of the fun they had,

They would tell you tales of glory and galore;

(Some may be censored out tho)

And look into their soul,

Observe –the excitement that flows,

Within em,

The passion,

That oozes out from every pore;

That would be the true face,

My friend,

Of this boring place,

That we know as school.

 

• – Ishaan Phukan