bad learner.

– Saheen Rahman.

the other day i got a tattoo
and it reminded me of you.
i didn’t love you,
the calculations of holding hands,
the angles for the perfect kiss
the equations of likes and dislikes,
all of these,
goes above my head.
i was never good at math anyway.
i didn’t like you,
the oceans of your freckles
the country of your fake accent
the earthquakes of your temper,
i never understood any of them.
geography wasn’t my forte either.
so you see,
i don’t wish for you to be back.
i don’t hate you for leaving me
for the other girl.
ours was a summer romance,
and there i had a fling or two,
and a relationship which lasted three springs long.
life comes full circle,
with its own adjectives:
enigmatic and somewhat bemusing.
it all started with my search
for an escape.
it all started with you.
i found you,
then him. and then that other guy.
so when i seem desperate to you
or when i call you
once, twice, thrice
or knock at your door
a little too hard,
don’t run away
or don’t come too close,
neither. neither.
you’re not the only one i miss
you’re not the only guy i kissed.
my sleepless nights,
my losing appetite,
all of these
and all of that,
is part of my pursuit for
happiness. contentment.
you’re a part of it.
all of them are.
but goddamn,
i don’t have explanations
to this insatiable hunger
to this unquenchable thirst,
and answers to
why my mind keeps going back to you
why my body craves for yours
or why ever word i utter sounds like your name.
i was never good at learning
or knowing things.

life comes full cirlce,
and didn’t my life start with you?

prescription for a heartbreak.

by Saheen Rahman.

In Frame – Saheen.

don’t take his name, or name him something pretty,
like the poets in love do.
don’t dictate stories about your love,
or make poetry out of your love for him.
don’t gulp down some cheap whiskey or
smoke up weed in his remembrance.
don’t ask the waiter to put two cubes of sugar in your coffee,
because that’s how he liked his.
don’t spend another of your nights
trying to find ways to help someone
who is broken.
don’t make his bed, if he doesn’t let your love rest.
his arrival, unannounced like november rain,
unwanted like unplanned pregnancy.
he got you caught up in a tornado.
he showered on your life,
so harshly, so mercilessly,
with repercussions so many
that you must’ve lost count now.
don’t let him win.
close your doors today, bolt it proper.
tomorrow, don’t let your pen write another word for him, about him.
mend your own skin.
fix your own heart
before trying to save him from drowning.
write poetry about your breasts,
or your kindness that knows no bound.
drink wine to celebrate victories,
more so to acknowledge failures.
drink your coffee exactly how you like it.
two cubes of sugar hurts your teeth anyway.
make your own bed, let your love rest.
fill up your own body,
here’s a gentle reminder that you can’t pour from an empty cup.

EXPENDABLE.


I am an Assimilated Effort,
Of Twenty Bloody Years, Of-
Sweat & Blood,
Smiles & Toil.
And So is my Persona.
I Am Not Picture Perfect-
Far From It Rather.
My Nature, Nothing Close To Noble,
My Blood, Far From The Dynastic Blue.
But That’s Alright,
Because I’m Not Trying-
To Compete with You.

Maybe I Hardly Have a Social Standing.
If I Count my Friends, I Reckon-
It’ll Barely Amount to Two.
My Marks Mar My Life,
Like Tragedies In Plath Poetics.
My Thirst of Companionship,
Beats that of Adam’s Ale, Sometimes;
As My Anxiety Numbs My Judgements,
With Over Thought Instances of Fabricated Truth,
And Well,
That’s Alright too.

I’m Sure the Lover After Me,
Has Helped You Achieve-
The Contours Of Pleasure,
I Never Could, Or The Friend,
I Was Replaced With,
Leaves You Shook, In Peels of Laughter,
In The Same Humour, That I once,
Misunderstood.
And That’s Alright,
For Change is Always for the Good.

I am Happy for You.
Yet, Before I Depart,
There is Something I’d Like to Do.
Something, Which Bugs Me,
Far More Often, Than I’d Like It To.
It’s that Frustrating Realisation,
Of Never Being Able to Live Upto You.

And For It I’d Like To Offer My Explanation.
You See, I Tried.
Tried To Live Up To-
That Flawless Fantasy,
You Picked Straight Out Of a Hollywood Rom-Com,
But You Can Only Chisel Me So Far,
Before I Am Another Fatal Mistake,
None Can Undo;
And Like Every Other Piece of Trash,
I’m Discarded Too.
Well, Do I Look Like An Expendable To You?

But If It Is So,
I’m Afraid, That’s Not Alright.
For, Maybe,
I have Let You Bend-
Me, Like One of Your Rubber Toys,
You Don’t Play With Anymore.
Once Your Favourite Thing,
It Lies Untouched, For Far Too Long Now.
And I Know You’d Outgrow me Too,
Like That; Like Your Rhyme-
That Used To Be Your Jam.
Heard, You Only Listen to Pop Now,
So Here’s a Few Lines Off JB’s Song for You:
‘Cause life’s not easy, I’m not made out of steel;
Don’t forget that I’m human, don’t forget that I’m real.’
And I hope It Sticks the Same Way,
All Your Favourite Tracks Do.
I Hope You Remember,
That my Kindness was for Love
And Not A Perpetual Virtue. For-
I’m Human Too.

I am No Expendable,
Easily Fitting In, Into-
One of Your Social Moulds,
Casted of High School Romantics. I Wonder-
If You Really Did Love Me For Me?
Am I Even in Trend Anymore,
Or Do You Call Me A Bore?
Was I Another Failed Loser,
You Thought You Could Change?
Is My Dressing Sense Too Drab?
Are My Insecurities Too Feminist-ically Misplaced?
Do The Reasons For My Fears,
Sound Too Fake?
And The Questions Go On…….
Like a Symphony Sans an Ending,
Till I Question,
If My Entire Existence Was Wrong?
Can I Put a Bullet To My Head,
Like Another Eminem Song?
That We Stan On,
Only This Time-
It’s Real.
But No.
The Worth Of My Existence,
Is Not Simply To Fit Into A Socially Normed Box.
I am No Expendable,
And I Refuse To Believe So.

So Go Right On, My Love.
Tell The World,
Of My Obnoxious Fears,
My Skewed Insecurities,
And Faux Trauma.
But Leave Out My Reasons,
Just To Make Sure,
The Mockery Is On Point.
Go Right Ahead, For-
I am not scared of your Social Antics,
And Late Night Gossips, Anymore.
The World Wasn’t Around When I Fell,
And The Ones Who Helped Me Up,
Are Far Too Busy With My Dramatics,
To Give a Social Damn To Yours.

You know,
It Takes Only Four,
To Carry The Palled Box,
Down The Last Walk of Life,
As The Curtains Of Existence are Drawn;
Well, I Have Mine Counted,
I Hope You Have Yours.

-Ish.








change.

o brother!
i know the news of our nation,
makes you anxious. watching-
the land you graced as your own,
maligned by majoritarian testaments;
or your own kin, slain-
for their choice of-
taqiyah, turban or vestaments,
unnerves you. as you offer,
your prayers today, i hope-
you pray for them, and-
silently remember,
to raise your brethren better!


o sister!
as you walk down the aisle,
adorning a grand dress-
a salwar, gown or lehenga,
i hope you remember,
of so many others, like you-
who met a very different fate. dragged-
though the same aisle,
that you today tread on,
and put through a forced ringed ordeal,
i shall not be afraid to call-
‘RAPE.’
simply because her social groom was-
cast out of the same caste dye,
as her own consanguine race.
as you take your vows today,
i hope you avow to sire the next generation better,
no, you don’t have to say it aloud.
merely abide by it,
for your conscience’s sake.

and all the privileged members,
of the majority masses!
i hope you remember, that-
rama is the hero of his epic,
because he stood for his ideals,
not because he demolished,
some demon king. so-
every time you chant his name,
I hope you take it to make peace,
not prejudice. for-
nothing shall elate a king better,
than to see his subjects break bread,
as brothers.

you see, the change starts with you,
and it shall never start,
until you do. for-
if little drops of water,
can make the mighty ocean;
we are a collective of 1.38 billion,
empowered individuals.
it’ll surprise you-
what a little effort from each one,
could do.

Ish.





I Want To Kill Myself.


Some Nights-
I Want To Kill Myself.

Hold A Knife To My Wrist,
And Slice Right Through.
I Know, Occassionally-
You Do Too.
Some Nights,
It’s The Betrayals and Heartaches. Others,
Worse Weekday Blues.
I Know You Have Your Reasons,
I Assure You, We All Do.
But, Don’t.
If Not For Yourself,
Then For The Toil Of The Ones,
Who Raised You.
If Not Them, Then-
The Millions,
Whose Death Dawned On Them,
Before Maturity Did.
Who, Never Had The Choice Of Life,
Like You Do. Who,
Would Sell Their Souls,
To Salvage The Light Of Another Day.
The Same Life, You Choose To Erase,
In an Unceremonious Way,
Just Because, Someone-
Did What They Did, While Others-
Ignored Your Cry For Help.
But, Don’t You Believe,
It’s A Victory Of Those Turncoats,
If You Chose To Recede,
Into An Eternal Stupor,
Six Feet Underneath?
I Promise You, There’s More To Life,
Than This.

So-
On A Sorrow’d Night,
When The Devil Knocks,
Beckoning Your Soul,
Steep’d In Tragedy,
To Grace His Feast Of The Fallen.
I Hope You Find The Courage,
To Tell Him,
That You Shall Live,
To Die Another Day.

For-
The Goal of Life,
Is Never To Simply Cease To Exist.
We’re Not Poultry, Friend.
Our Value Doesn’t Begin,
At Death. If You Think,
You Could Do No Good Living,
I Assure You, You’d Just Be Worse Off,
Dead.

Now, Calm Your Heart,
Know Your Worth,
Cherish Your Survival,
And Go Right Back To Bed.

Ish.












Little Body.

red-and-brown-paint-splatter-2030236

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.                                    

 

 

I Am Art.

20200512_124724

 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.

 

I Saw A Dog Hide.

animal-beach-cute-2252311.jpg

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.

New Beginnings.

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.

Writing of You.

best

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.