Ibaadat

Mannat ho tum,

Dua ho meri.

Raat ke saaye se nikalti,

Subah ho meri.

Chaahat ho, amaanat bhi,

Shiddat ho, ibaadat bhi,

Lahu ke rang sa,

Wafa ho meri.

Rooh ke silvato se lipti

Wo yaadon ki shaam,

Baaton se bhari mehfil mein

Khamoshi ho meri.

Khud se zyada,

Khuda se zyada,

Beintehaan mohabbat ki,

Saza ho meri.

- Sayantani Sarkar. 

One Last Dance

Dancing with her drunken mirth,

He lifted her softly

And buried himself

Beside her noisy skin.

All she could recollect

Was lying in his arms

In a blurry haze,

Listening to his heart race.

She'd said things

She couldn't remember,

And wished

He would forget.

He whispered her name,

And traced his own

On her warm palms

Cursing the hourglass.

She breathed him in, knowing

His was the face she wanted to

Lose sleep to every moon

For the rest of her days.

They watched the night escape

In pieces of their laughter,

They chased its chariot

In polaroids of their promises.

The clock struck dawn

And broke the spell,

Leaving behind wings and

Ashes of their one last dance.

- Sayantani Sarkar. 

The Highway

At times I wish I could unmeet you. But then I wonder what kind of a life that would be.

I wouldn't know how it feels to have someone look at you till your knees melt. I wouldn't know what it's like to have your lips memorize someone's name. I wouldn't know that someone's terrified shoulders is where I'd find peace; that you could be deliriously happy enough to touch the sky and have the stars fall on your lap.

I wouldn't have known it’s possible to love someone with every shattered scattered smithereens of your being. I wouldn't know what it's like to have your skin crawl under this weight you're carrying; to scream so loud that no one hears you. I wouldn't have known heartbreak and gut-wrenching pain, but I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way. And if I could, I'd do it all over again.

So, let’s go back.

Let’s go back to the start.

Watch our story unfold with all its ripples.

Point out our favourite chapters and repeat them.

Let’s go back to the start.

Let’s go back. 

Crucible

The same nightmare

Flamed every night.

It burned in my eyes,

It burned too bright. 

Screaming and clawing at

The thick air trying to

Catch the shadows

Breaking my wind chimes.

Your hands playing on her waist,

Twirling to the tune of our song.

Dancing the dance whose

Steps I practice in my sleep.

I shudder awake with

Fire on my forehead and

Blood on my sheets

Painting my throat red.

I tear away from your smile,

Concealing the

Multitude of oceans

That drown me.

Your soft brown eyes,

Holding  infinite questions,

Arresting the answer

That chokes all my words.

Why is loving you like

Fighting in a battlefield?

Like being wounded in a

War you’ve been leading. 

You’re the touchstone

Clasping my feet;

The ink of my Great Crucible

I refuse to erase.

- Sayantani Sarkar. 

Something Old, Something New

It was evident from afar; the fairy lights, the echo of chatter, the incense of the holy fire. The happy air of the wedding about to take place was spread across the city and beyond. What was hidden, though, was the anxiety of the brown-eyed girl who couldn’t keep her feet still. Samaira stared at herself in the mirror, the silk draped around her like a dream. A few spiral staircases below, she could hear the priest getting ready to chant the vows. The bridesmaids were gearing up to sprinkle the flower petals. The crowd was waiting to witness the ceremony. Everyone was ready. Everyone but her.

Her heart was pounding in her chest with the secret she couldn’t hold in any longer. She had to see him, and she had to do it now. Samaira tiptoed across the floor garnished with blouses and pearls, and made her way out. She opened the door to his room, and there he was; standing tall and handsome like always. He gave her the smile she’d lost her heart to ten years ago.

“Isn’t this considered bad luck?” he asked with a smirk.

“That’s just applicable to the bride and groom, silly.”

“Oh, right.” They both smiled.

 “I can’t believe I’m getting married.” He said with an averting gaze.

“None of us can. Didn’t you just get your driving license?”

As she watched him laugh, she knew she couldn’t evade it anymore. Drawing her breath and saying a silent prayer, she blurted out the words.

“I love you, Adi.”

“I love you too, Sammy.” He replied effortlessly.

“No. I…”

Hesitant, she continued, “I lied. I lied to you before. All those nights ago, when you asked me if I had feelings for you, and I denied, I was lying.”

Halfway through brushing the wrinkles off his shirt, his creased eyebrows waited for an explanation.

“… I had no other choice. It was either my love or our friendship, and I chose us. Of course I did. How could I not? I knew I would tell you someday, and that someday became your girlfriend and then your fiancé and now your wife-to-be. That someday became everything I wished I could be. I’m sorry I chose that someday to be today. Today of all days. Today ten minutes before your wedding.”

He turned to face her, and stood still. Ten years of friendship and ten thousand conversations later, this was the moment that got them both silent.

“I know it’s all irrelevant now and I don’t mean to confuse you. Believe me, but, I had to tell you because you’re my best friend and I tell you everything and my timing couldn’t have been worse, but I had to tell you. You can hate me if you want to, but, please don’t. It’s just…”

Before his silence could choke her words, he saved her midway and buried her trembling arms into his, and she drowned. She drowned till her kajal left a stain on his shirt and her tears left a mark on his breath. He wiped them away. The mistake, the guilt, the ignorance.

Adi looked at his best friend’s embarrassment and asked with his quivering voice, “You’ll still be my child’s godmother, right?”

With gratitude reflecting in her eyes, Samaira lightly punched his arm, and they laughed. They laughed because they knew everything had changed and everything would change and the only thing that would remain is the memory of their laughter.

“Come on, I have a wedding to be in.” Adi nudged her forward.

Holding each other’s nervous hands, they stepped outside, leaving behind the world that was just theirs and would always be, with an unspoken vow to return to it and escape.

The route to the stage welcomed the charming groom with gasps of breathlessness. Giving his palm an assuring squeeze, Samaira prodded him towards his new beginning, while she joined the bandwagon of admirers. As Aditya saw his bride approaching the altar, Samaira recognized a familiar spark in his eyes, the spark she had every time she looked at him; and that’s when she knew that her best friend was happy. So, she let him go.

She let him go because she had to. Because it was killing her. It was killing her like nothing else ever had, and nothing else ever would. She knew she would wake up with nightmares in her eyes and blood in her throat. And it would keep killing her till she had no more life left in her to love. But until that moment came, she promised to love him. She promised to love him till the voices in her head stopped screaming, and her skin couldn’t hide the pain. She promised to say goodbye with their dreams and his love echoing in her mouth. She promised to meet him in the beyond, hoping then, she would be enough for him. If not, her remains would survive with the half-rainbow of his memories. But for now, she had to let him go.

माँ

Kyun tere haath ki chai

Lagti itni meethi hai,

Kyun swaad tere chulhe ki

Kahin aur nai milti.

Maa, tu kyun itni achhi hai?

Godi mein tere

Jannat ki hai chaav,

Aanchal mein teri

Sukoon hoon paati. 

Maa, tu kyun itni achhi hai?

Khamoshiyon mein chhupi

Baatein sunn leti,

Chehra dekhke

Dil padh leti.

Maa, tu kyun itni achhi hai?

Ghar hai tu, duniya bhi.

Aaina hai tu, parchhai bhi.

Hasi mein tere hausla hai mila,

Dard mein paayi duaein teri. 

Maa, tu kyun itni acchi hai? 

- Sayantani Sarkar.

Anatomy of a Reader

In all my mortal years, the one question that has followed me everywhere is, “Why do you love reading?” and I’ve never known how to answer that. It’s the same as asking why do you love a person; it’s because, you just do. It’s not just one reason, but thousands. Reasons you can fill parchments with, reasons that can transform minutes to moons.

When I was 5 years old, my father gifted me my first fairy tale. I stayed past my bedtime reading about the ill-treated girl who found her magic slippers and her happily-ever-after, and since then, there was no looking back. Stories became my home and my escape. When all the other kids were attending soccer games and ballet lessons, I was devouring pages and pages of The Golden Trio’s adventures and Ruskin Bond’s mountain escapades.

Words capture me, words liberate me. I stand in front of my bookshelf and admire it for hours. I set the trolley overflowing with new releases in spite of already having unread titles. I wish to bottle up the smell of old pages and sprinkle them across the mundane Muggle world. I disagree that Classics are more important than Young Adult Fiction, because that is a fight between my two families and I’m not ready to pick a side. I refuse to choose between J.K. Rowling and J.D. Salinger. I’m dejected because Hans Hubermann deserved to live. I’m disgruntled with Eleanor and Park’s unfinished letters. I’m distressed over The Little Prince’s journey coming to an end. If you were to rip my heart open, you’d find words swimming in the galaxy of hardcovers and paperbacks through the lanes of romance and dystopia and among the bookmarks and sticky notes, with my tombstone reading, ‘Just one more chapter.’

We readers are peculiar beings. We’re the ones with the creepy smiles on the subway, brooding over that twisted ending. We’re the ones in the cafe too lost to notice that our tea has gone cold. We’re the ones with the slightly heavier bags because that book just had to be fit in. We can sit beside you, and still be far away. We’re in the crowd, and yet distinct; our crooked glasses and fandom halos accompanying us. Our big books consume our tiny universe, and we carry our favourite stories in between the dust jackets of our souls. We wish phone calls would replace the continents between us and our beloved authors. We never forget the characters we befriended; the characters who became our friends and mirror and confidante. We’ve had our hearts conquered by Mr. Darcy and Augustus Waters in ways we’ll never recover from. We’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and taken the Hogwarts Express and discovered the magic wardrobe. We’ve seen reality and fiction mingle. We’ve known too much to trust easily, and read too much to lose hope. We’re the daydreamers, the believers, the survivors, the chosen ones.

We, are the readers, and this is our story.