Poetry

‘Being Pleasant- A Forever Myth’ and other poems

By: Suchismita Ghoshal

◾Being Pleasant- A Forever Myth◾

I don’t want to survive. I want to badly live.
I want to live as pleasantly as a wide sky,
that has no limit, and can express endlessly.
My heart makes a thousand-volt wire
to burn everything down.
My vocal cord now makes a cacophonous voice
as nobody gave a shit to its harmony.
I am extremely angry and my cheeks turn red
when I hear people living in pleasant circumstances.
I feel ‘pleasant’ is an illusion for me except everyone.
I was six or something when I didn’t know the definition of cantankerous parents,
and at the age of eight, I grew to know that.
I forgot what being pleasant means!
I was nine or something when I didn’t know what a newly made dearly uncle does,
and at the age of ten, I grew to know that,
I became the prey of child abuse.
I cursed myself and asked God how to be ‘pleasant’ in such a ransack?
I was twelve or something when I wasn’t alert that bullying would be introduced soon,
and at the age of thirteen or fourteen, they came as a horde to knock me down to the abyss of despair,
I wasn’t even in the condition to solve the riddles of how to be pleasant.
I was fifteen or something when I had no single idea of the word love,
and at the age of eighteen, I had a whole new definition of love, coming with the extra perk of heartbreak to collapse my soul,
Now I was asking my fate what the need was to show me a trailer of being ‘pleasant’ and dissolve it as a joke.
Everything started appearing blurry as if I lost the chance to have a clear view.
I was twenty or something when I didn’t know ahead or tell of depression
and at the age of twenty-one, it struck so hard that I remember it except everything,
I was vaguely confused if there is something called “pleasant” and happy that I got its exact opposition
as depression.
Life can be full of voids but the voids, not always to be filled with hoax pleasure.
What makes me smile now is the pleasure of writing.
Now at the age of twenty-two, I can realize
that writing has the hidden treasure of unboxing
perdurable serene,
as in the background of peculiar rush,
people fall out of reality at eighteen
and of permanence at twenty.

I don’t want to survive. I want to badly live.
I want to live without chasing the momentary pleasant like I used to find in others and ended up cursing my entity.
I was hollow then, now I am complete.
At the age of twenty-two, I feel satiated,
I feel self-wanted.
There’s no confusion gauging out, no scar for
scratching pain and no reminiscence to brood over.
I am free and ready to explore the taste of peace;
‘Peace’ – a lasting truth and more stable
than being pleasant- a forever myth.

###

◾I Am A Saviour in A Parallel World◾

And one day I won’t wake up from the languid
sleep of this euphoric world anymore,
my dreams will take me to a parallel world
where I am given all the superpowers.
I have the power to omit all the vices,
I have the power to prevent disasters and natural calamity,
I have the power to remove the sufferings of mankind,
I have the power to erase the struggles of nature,
I have the power to make blood mongers relinquish on wars,
I have the power to snatch the struggles and traumas of children,
I have the power to insert the taste of literature again,
I have the power to set an example of companionship,
I have the power to uplift women to sing the unsung lullabies of empowerment,
I have the power to swish the demons of betrayal and lust,
I have the power to save the unconditional love,
I have the set the equilibrium of poor and rich,
I have the power to stop religious fights,
I have the power to let people understand the purity,
I have the power to disappear all the diseases,
I have the power to make people see the beauty of blessing through its evanescence,
I have the power to right every wrong,
I have the power to throng all the positivity
and every power that sets the world in the right place.
And one day, I won’t wake up from the languid
sleep of this euphoric world anymore and witness myself ready on a journey of a savior for this earthly world.

###

◾When My Head Turns In A Moving Library◾

My head turns in a moving library somedays,
it reads the books a face is unable to tell,
the books some hearts are never able to express
the books a few brains stopped reading in between.
Somedays I turn into books in dusty bookshelves,
unwanted, underestimated and shrieking at the top of my voice to let people know about their insouciance behavior.
I feel extremely disappointed and wish to jump from a cliff of the sea as if nobody is preventing me from this.
Somedays words are my only savior, embraces me
from my own desperation,
telling me my journey as the half-written book that needs to be finished as soon as possible for other desolated souls to read.
Somedays I feel an urge to plunge from my bed,
to see the beautiful nature I’ve missed for long as my glasses muffle the beauty of enjoying sights,
and to my surprise, my souls feel a mystifying yet
modest healing that it skipped for a gap of the period.
My moribund entity gathers courage,
to write more books that my brain captures,
and read them when they turn as memories.
When someone asks, “Why do you love reading books?”
I grin like a child, but my answer is a bit mature,
I say, “To find the most beautiful termination of a story”.
If I said that my dream world definitely would look like a library,
What would be everyone’s answer?
I feel the most pious pilgrim is the library that
allows all the religions together to dip their souls
in the lunacy of the book’s divinity.
Nothing makes me wrathful until I feel my books
are the companion who taught me to fight with the worst anger ever with the sword of tranquility.
My head turns into a moving library somedays
capturing all the morality to decorate the most beautiful stories- nobody ever read, ever touched or ever seen!

###

◾PAPA HIDES DEAD BODIES IN THE KITCHEN◾

“Papa, you should stop hiding dead bodies in the kitchen now.”
My mind shrieks with the grumpy thoughts,
the ceiling fan of my room seems near to me,
wants to hug me to death.
I wake up dying from a forlorn sleep.
Every morning maa wakes up
with a body, mostly dead and
heads towards the kitchen,
Last night’s fight went worse
then the other days.
Her hands are burnt,
not more than her entire life.
She still manages to cook,
the splendid aroma of mixed spices,
the scent of mustard, fish, curry masala, lentils
muffle the air that stinks of her dying soul.
Papa is a strong man, full of robustness,
pays his gratitude to my goddess-like maa
in a completely different way.
His throat is a garden of vulnerabilities,
skillfully hidden when he kills
maa with the harsh abusive words,
his hands are cursed for being the carrier
of sins, and he hides it killing maa
with several strokes of slaps,
and his soul, the heap of judgments
which conceals flaws by stamping my mother
with the stereotypes like,
“Women are made for the household and kitchen.”
He pays his regard like this, hiding all the tenderness in the graveyard of his heart.

My house is a storehouse of hidden things,
hidden childhood,
hidden mischiefs,
hidden love,
hidden stories,
hidden fights,
hidden emotions,
hidden grudges,
hidden dead bodies too.
Papa has lost everything in hiding,
and he also stands as winner of the ‘hide & seek’ game, with a starry sparkling winning cup.
Now I have also started playing this game,
hiding the old soul of me,
pretending to cope up with the new one every day
and leaving behind the desires of living.

“Papa, you should stop hiding dead bodies in the kitchen now.”
My heart throbs harder to hide
the voids of my exasperation,
and my soul wants to kill me to hide its anguish.
My mother heads towards
the kitchen every morning
with an almost dead body,
yet hiding it behind
the tears of her warm eyes.
She dies every night, for what she deserves never gets,
she dies every night for my father never makes true love,
she dies every night for she buys bangles two times a week knowing they will get broken every week,
she dies every night for she doesn’t want to wake up to only cook and drape saree around her body,
she dies every night for she never saw me drawing her happy pictures when I was a toddler,
she dies every night for everything gets vanished in front of her eyes,
and she dies as dying means the compulsion of getting alive the next day.
Kitchen witnessed thousands of dead bodies of my maa.
Every day she leaves her one body in a row.
Thousands of days in melancholy,
thousands of days in utmost pain,
and thousands of days in the sinful game of hiding.
Now I follow my footsteps
out of the fear of losing them too in this hiding game.
My house is the storehouse of hidden things
beckons my maa to die a little more
and my papa to hide his tenderness beneath his skin!

Categories: Poetry

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