ISSUE 1 • VOLUME 1 • DECEMBER 2020
cosmo verses an abode for poets and their poetries.
poetries
short fiction
articles
4
letter from editors
9
his hands a short fiction
17
is life complicated? read how Kriti questions about life being complicated or is just us creating the fuss.
33
kahin na kahin classic hindi poetry because "translation ruins poetry"
we write to taste life twice in the moment and in retrospect.
FROM ANJALI CHATURVEDI AND SNEHA UPADHYAY
letter from editors Both of us have found our solace in writing-on happy or sad days. We both would turn to our pages and pen, when we didn't know how to say what we feel, to ink our hearts out and the emotions fall on the paper, gracefully. In a year like this-it has been a rollercoaster ride of emotion. We felt love, we got confused, we got anxious, we smiled, we cried and then, both of us came up with the idea of letting people share their stories with us and the world.
After spending days editing the writings, deciding the color palette, and designing the magazine. We are finally sharing our Issue 1 with each one of you, your stories, and others for you to read. This issue is really close to both of our hearts and we tried our best to put the best out there. We hope you have fun reading this!
SUBHARTHI CHATTERJEE
am I good enough? Like an illusion I am and I am not, Searching for self like words in the essay of failures. Walking down the streets with only the shadow of my guilt to follow. They say, “if winter is here, can spring be far behind?” But then, what about the fallen leaves that will never feel the warmth of the sun on itself? The deafening shrieks of laughter thrown at me pins me down. To ask myself, who am I? what am I? why am I?” Every cell of my body seems to be giving in, The wings of passion seem to be butchered. But then, With the dawn came the light, With every insult came the power to fight back, With every failure came the resolution to work harder And hence, A broken will found its shelter.
his hands SHORT FICTION BY CARISSA
“Can I look at your hands?” A warm, nostalgic haze surrounds him, making me feel like nothing is too strange to say. Twenty minutes left until lunch ends. Our friends are deep in conversation on the other side of the tree, so it feels as if it’s only us. “Sure,” he says, and stretches slightly towards me. I take his hand into my grasp. Memories are written deep within the lines of his palms, lines I’ve glanced at, but never truly appreciated. As I focus on every detail carved into his hands, I am transported into the moments I’ll never forget. “Hey!” He calls out to me, a stranger at that point in time. I turn to face him, yet my eyes are drawn to what lies above his keyboard. Battered bullet casings beneath a layer of faded ivory cloth, pulled taut. His hands are disgustingly beautiful.
We meet again months later, the same sort of warm haze embracing the cross country path every afternoon. It bathes the paved segments, beaten down by our mud-encrusted sneakers like an avant-garde tribal stomp. It bakes the cotton tufts on the field. And it ignites us, opening our souls and pushing our bodies further. We run together, he and I, revealing truths that everyone feels but never talks about. In that moment, I realized that he was the most fascinating person I’d ever met. I wanted to know more. I walk out of the auditorium, realizing that everyone had someone there waiting for them. We all want that, someone who will always wait for us. My so-called friends were long gone; I knew they didn’t care at all. I start walking to class anyway, trying not to care, yet caring too much. And he was there. He fell into my rhythm. And sometimes we’re on different wavelengths, but he’s never left. Our arms both fell to our sides, weighed down by our shared hatred for middle school. His were thin, ancient rakes, fanning out at the wrists with half-rusted, knobby tines. Mine were strips of taffy, outstretched by a young child’s eager hands. An unlikely pair, yet side by side we remained.
Months went by, and there was no more
Wrapped around two roses, asking me to be
space between us. We sit together on a street
his Valentine. Striking the keys of a
bench, hand in hand for the first time. He
typewriter in an antique store on our second
was blasting “Burning for You” by Blue Öyster
date, oblivious to the racket he’s causing. I
Cult on his phone; I was looking at everything
laugh, and he is happy. Tucking the hair
around us at once, wondering if he chose that
caught in my face from dancing wildly behind
song for a reason. I’d always thought his
my ear, and kissing me on the cheek as
hands were like shards of metal, too brash
“Dancing Queen” explodes from the speakers.
and perilous to be loved. I was wrong; His
In all of our memories, it’s his hands that I
hands were clay, fresh out of the package
remember.
and chilling to the touch. I run my finger pad in small circles across his thumbnail, trying to carve shapes into his soul. Cavernous were scored into his palms, though faint, like the creations of a long-dead sculptor.
there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
NITYA AGGARWAL
inequality “If my arms are weak and skin is tender, Why is it presumed that I’m from a weak gender?” Asked a little girl to her mother. Unfamiliar of this patriarchal society, She wondered why only women surrender, To the so-called tough and macho gender. Her mother didn’t utter a word but smiled, Again the girl popped in with a question, Why she and her brother have different life situations? Why he always got to go outside and play, While her life shrinks to the kitchen and seems black and grey. Nobody understands that being a girl, she had ideas, dreams and goals, Her life was much bigger than societal gender roles. “But her gender isn’t the only one suppressed, Sometimes even the men are oppressed.” Blurted out her younger brother. For they could never express their emotions, Let alone the justice to all other notions. Men have to act strong, Even when they are broken inside, Despite being their emotions, they never get to decide, When to express, and when to conceal, Even they want the right to reveal what they feel.
Their innocent intentions are mostly mistaken, For their true identities always remain hidden. Mother considered both of their views, Seeing their maturity at this age, she was secretly amused, “My dears, you are two individual genders, Both of which are equally remarkable wonders. The stereotypical pillars of this society are spread everywhere, Where biasness has expanded to an extent even worse than a nightmare. Men and women are two separate entities, Both of them with exclusive qualities. All I would want you two to learn is, Let us not be tied to the gender role hooks, And let the concept of gender equality not just be trapped in books.”
SIDRAH YAMEEN
vultures Vultures, Oh, The vultures are waiting outside, waiting for the opportunity to caress my body to its deepest ends and scratch through my skin till it opens. They are looking for the moment to prey on me, ambush me with their masculinity, drag me in the dark and take pleasure in my misery. They are holding back till the night becomes all gloomy and when it’s time, they’ll jump out to assault me and leave me in agony.
“Oh Mama, the vultures caught me today, unleashed their filthy desires on me, and left me to bleed with an unending pain ?”, Cried the little girl. “Oh, My sweet pea, I promised to guard you but I failed miserably, I just wish to take away all your suffering and give you a life that comes with pride, again”. Hushed the weeping mother.
HAMNA ADEEL
september night The wind blows on a September night, And softly whispers your name in my ear. The leaves rustle on a September night, And mimics the muffled voice of yours. The streetlamp glitches on a September night, And reminds me of your honey-colored eyes. The crescent moon on a September night, Depicts the curve of your mouth when you smile. This rusty and forlorn night of September, Gives me flashbacks of us being together. As every object around me, Seems to be the silhouette of you. Oh! How I wish this night would end quickly, Before I turn out to be knocking at your door.
DARSHINI POOLA
qualms The drop didn’t trickle down my cheek, Not this time. The frozen pang of rejection, Etching its cruel gash on my skin. As it painfully ripped my conscience, Shredding pages of my identity. A diary I could never call ‘mine’, A quill ne’er left untethered. Blotting in a hand that feigned, Beneath the pretty vizard of assent. Deleing fragments that embodied me, To play a character I perceived not. A chameleon who lived for the nod of validation, Switching shades to the point of pallor. I’d waxed into a stranger, An alien in my own empire. Apologetic for being myself, Engulfed by reckless abandon. A girl who worshipped truth like a child, Was here, blatantly lying to herself. Fatigued by the wont to fit in, Fearing to be deemed as a pariah. I’d contorted till I could bend no more, My joints locked in distortion. Moments of confounding emotions, The twain of hope and agony. My marrow needed healing, my soul, solace. Shackles splintered by the psyche’s ire. Outraged by the injustice, By abuse, by shame, by guilt. A deafening cry thundered in my head, A call that still echoes today, “You are enough!”
fantasy is hardly an escape from reality, it's a way of understanding it
RITIKA SONI
three days In the dark night, I saw those eyes Sparkling like glitter The only thing that reminds me of them Is the moon, along with its shimmer. How can I forget the moment When I saw them for the first time, Now every poem makes sense, Even if it doesn’t rhyme. Those 3 days with them Felt like heaven Even if I know I won’t see them again Those 3 days felt like seven. Not every person gets to love Not every person gets to feel Even if you leave me, my love I would one day heal.
VRINDA V. K.
a recipe for regret Pigments of iridescent promise Figments of delightful malice Boiling in her wicked chalice Of tamarind summer dream roots And carotenoid lost love stems Stirred anti-clockwise many times Add crushed chlorophyll memory leaves Garnished with syrup of honey nostalgia Roasting buttered soul in charcoal Toasting cyanide films of anguish Dash of raspberry flavored reminiscence This bloody concoction roiling They burn my tongue with A bitter taste; only to be left with Black promises and white noises In hope’s haunted house
NANDITA MADHU
gallery I have a gallery of broken friendships With each photograph for a different friend. I’m guilty of driving your head to the wall With late-night texts and exhaustive calls, Crying over the lack of tropical warmth When I lose the attention of countless lovers But I’ve always been a sort of hopeless sucker For escapes from genuine platonic bonds.
I craved for wild and passionate loves, So much that I forgot, and didn’t much care, For the comfort found in these hugs of yours, Or about how you genuinely felt. The answering machine remained unattended, Even though you knelt on your knees for help. I stroll around, and stare at portraits, stopping At another heartbreaking picture of us, Your arm slung around me, smiling, Eyes twinkling, while I twiddled my thumbs, Waiting for a response to a late-night text That I sent to someone whom I claimed, I ‘loved’.
KRITI GAMBHIR
is life complicated? Is life really that complicated? Or it’s just us? Over-reacting on every single thing Creating all the fuss. Sometimes I feel, Life is so simple. There’s no need to panic, It’s just a pimple!! xD Hearts filled with bitterness, Disguised as fake smiles. Can’t even trust the closest one, And people talk about miles. Be practical in this fantasy world, Love here is an illusion, And forever is a lie. Misunderstandings rule the world, No one interested to find out why!! We say! Everything happens for a reason. It’s too hard to believe that People today change faster than seasons. Always in search of love and care, And finding someone to stay, Betrayed by a few, We push them all away. People always believe what they see, No one cares how you feel, Once the trust is broken, Scars take forever to heal. Is life really that complicated? Or it’s just us? Over-reacting on every single thing, Creating all the fuss.
poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
ISHIKA PARUTHI
a safe haven of reassurance Literature has always been dominated by heterosexual characters. The acronym LGBTQ+ has been expanded over the years to include as many different sexual preferences and identities as possible – so while the community appears to be attempting to represent the vast nature of our species, it seems that literature may be falling behind slightly. Until recently, there were not many gay characters present in any genre of literature. Characters were simply made heterosexual; meaning that they experience feelings only for the opposite sex. And this is not at all a reflection of our society and what’s happening in it. The lack of representation of LGBTQ+ characters in literature is inimical to the wellbeing of the youth who question themselves as to why they are different and their identity. If incorporated properly in literature, gay characters can provide a haven of knowledge and reassurance for those whose feelings stray from the ‘normalized’ biology of human beings. It is wrong that only heterosexuality is promoted and is shown as the first preference among humans; overshadowing other types of sexuality has become an increasingly irritating cliché. Not only the youth, but people of all ages alike need to know more about characters and relationships which are not heterosexual. To allow inclusive representation for all sexualities, authors need to defy the boundaries constructed within romance, fantasy, sci-fi, comedy, horror, mystery, and so on. Furthermore, many authors may fear writing LGBTQ+ characters, as sexuality is such a personal and individualistic experience. Moreover, references to LGBTQ+ characters in literature need to write only good things about them as to not upset the LGBTQ+ community and receive backlash from them, and this may add to the factors due to which gay characters are not properly represented. However, LGBTQ+ representation has not been completely disregarded within Young Adult books. Authors like David Levithan, Rainbow Rowell, and Becky Albertalli have all written books which feature characters that would be considered part of the LGBTQ+ spectrum. Albertalli’s novel, Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda features a gay teenage boy as the main character. In 2010, John Green and David Levithan’s book Will Grayson, Will Grayson be published, and it became the very first LGBTQ+ novel to be featured on The New York Times list. Not only is the broader perspective of sexuality being presented in the literature, but it is also gaining critical acclaim and being rewarded, rather than being published and dismissed by society, literature having gay and other characters of the LGBTQ+ community are more than welcome. And the abovementioned things spring hope for the future of representational, inclusive literature soon.
HAKEEM LUCAS
let me hide Tonight, let me hide in this poetry of mine, In my own universe, where you and I could wander freely. With the moon shining bright in the the darkness of the night. Dwelling in each other’s past, mending each other’s hearts. Staring in the deep blue ocean through your eyes. In the summer breeze, one could never resist but drown into. Tonight let me hide in this poetry of mine. Where something extraordinary happens, somewhere you and I exist. A wandering soul, trying to catch the light of hope. Stumbling upon the rock of life, saved by the reality of you. Along with the darkness, you shine bright like the moon. Guiding us in the path of uncertainty, and ready to conquer fears.
RITIKA SONI
three days In the dark night, I saw those eyes Sparkling like glitter The only thing that reminds me of them Is the moon, along with its shimmer. How can I forget the moment When I saw them for the first time, Now every poem makes sense, Even if it doesn’t rhyme. Those 3 days with them Felt like heaven Even if I know I won’t see them again Those 3 days felt like seven. Not every person gets to love Not every person gets to feel Even if you leave me, my love I would one day heal.
UMASHREE AKHAM
insomniac Though dark the sky came, Though time ticks by, Those teenagers who toss and turn In the bed of their stories, Awaken are their hearts , With the 2 am dreams every day. Lost, are their counts Of sleepless night. Sometimes awoke they’re, Out of a fragile sleep. Finding it hard for them, To listen to the voices of society. Of family, of neighbors, Of friends, of beloved ones, Of the sweet words from Honey coated mouths, Peeping to sting. Thoughts in millions, Catch them hard. While minutes ticking until dawns. Why sew their lips And chain them down. They need to be understood, Help them! Take their buried voice, Out of the grave. Because they might be dying every day.
RANMEET SINGH
now. never. forever. Now, Now I stand at the verge of a trench. Behind me is a trench of 17 years. I crossed and know every inch of it. I climbed and reached on the top with both my hands pushing my body and uplifting it. As soon as I got up, I see the dazzling light approaching from every point. The points which I didn’t know I was destined for. Standing on the verge, coming this up and far, now I had to follow this light and believe wherever it takes me. I started walking following this light. At every point I reached, the light got stronger and brighter than before. Walking and walking, following it for three months. I thought the destination has come. But what did I know? Never, Never I knew that the light emerging from the brightest point was coming from the distant part of another Trench further. When I reached the verge of that another Trench I saw a depth of Four years. The Time was ticking and the Destination was calling. I had to catch up with the light or it’d have gone far away, missing it. So I jumped, not even thinking for a second I jumped. On reaching the bottom I found my mental state wounded. Also, from down there I realized that the light was waiting up above, for me. As if she wanted to take me along. I got up, started climbing again. Again with sheer will and all the stamina in my blood. As soon as I got up to the verge the light started moving forward with its pace doubled. So fast that I had to run to keep up with it.
RANMEET SINGH
Running and Running I again encountered a Trench. But this time, it was not much deep and I could see the bottom, but long enough to cross. Also, there was a signboard quoting “Do not touch the bottom or you will be stuck for a Lifetime”. This time, I could also see the source of light, the destination, at a far distance. I always believed in the notion that to reach our destination we have to face struggles, struggles to climb every trench. But what did I know? Forever, Forever I had known skill of constructing bridges, bridges to dodge barriers along my way. The only reason I didn’t dodge until now was I had been taught not to, I was confined to a mental ability that to achieve something there must be hindrances and you must struggle and cross those. The day I got stuck on the verge of this last trench to the light source destination. I decided not to face hindrances but build a bridge to cross the trench. . I threw two ropes with a hook, on the trailing edge of the Trench. These ropes were the pathways to destination. And then I step by step placed and tied each and every plank to the rope, creating a whole bridge. Well, it took me 5 years to build one. While I was going through that bridge a lot of people were stuck down below in that trench. They looked up at me and I felt pity for them and they felt doubtedly happy for me. They only knew why they had doubts, I just continued. . .
RANMEET SINGH
As soon as I stepped on the trailing verge, my intuitions which always pushed me to move forward, became happy. I could sense that from within. I could see the source of light, the destination. I took a walk of excitement with that the little smile on my face. And when I got there, I was handed over the light, the torch, the gift for traveling so long to fulfill my journey to here. And as I turned around I could see the journey, all of it. From even before the ‘Now’ happened, the ‘Never’ traveled and till here the ‘Forever’ I have. I could only sense blessings from all over. But with a thought that no other person who comes to this path, this journey, has to suffer what I suffered. So the only thing I did was took up the light in my hands, went all the way back at the leading edge of the Trench before ‘Now’. Stood for a person to follow this path and waited at every point until he catches up the light and not run behind it, as I did. Well, it’s his story now, ‘Now’, ‘Never’, ‘Forever’.
the poet is the priest of the invisible.
KIRTI KALRA
uncertainity What do you fear more than death? The thought that cripples your insides, The agony that terrifies your mind You won't see it coming even if it's close Could be the happiest day or the worse, You'll question, does it empower me? Or leaves me destroyed? The inability to find the answer Will make you paranoid. It's like an unsolved game of puzzles You won't know which box fits who But you'll wait to discover. Because unlike death, uncertainty Travels with us throughout our life No one knows what will happen tomorrow That's where it's power lies, It could be a beginning or a goodbye.
KYRIE RADIANCE MATEO
seasons of love What a blithesome hymn of springtime! Where flowers blossom and trees yield leaves, Where butterflies cushion the air with a sprightly rhyme, Where two hearts cross each other’s abode and cleave. As the molten sunlight of summer skies sprang up, I desire to live within the warmth of your heart and always call it “home.” Romantic sunsets reflected onto a coffee cup, Embraced by your ardent arms, sweet as a honeycomb. My withered branches kissed by autumn frost lie lonely, Searching and quenching my unbearable thirst. A falling leaf, a fallen tear, waiting to be showered by love thoroughly, Just like how I loved you first. Now all that’s left out of love is a stone-cold heart. Unkept promises and shattered dreams harmonized with death, Shivering in an isolated place, glancing at the winter’s aesthetic art, A love story told with a frozen breath.
SADGI CHANDRA
healing At the end of the day You are the snap of the strings Holding my heart together, The hastily wiped cheeks With angry fingers, At the end of the week You are the ache of forgetting The words of my favorite song The grief of losing a book I haven’t finished yet, At the end of the month You are the trembling of the windows As the storm blow outside, Destructive, chaotic and relentless In your memories,
At the end of the year You are the straitening of my spine As a certain song comes up on the radio And the almost mad dash of my fingers To turn the volume down, At the end of the decade You are the dip between my brows And the second I took to Place a face with your name As someone asked about you, At the end of my life You will be just another accumulation of Bones and blood and tired organs Held together by a cover that bleeds when cut, And I’ll be wondering why I thought I couldn’t survive losing you.
PHILIP CRESSLER
picassos Poets, performers, Picassos, slaves of their arts, their muse The mistress known in the art, held clouded, unconfined by given name Mutilated, ashamed, savaged from flesh to core by abuse Pawns pushed forward as a sacrifice to complete her vengeful game She speaks in whispers of horrid fears, brought forth in the nightmarish vision Her victims wail and writhe, as they drown in fear of Cimmerian night Though likely as an airborne sow, these men made their own decision They signed their souls, such poor fools of guile and delight As hemlock she is beauty, luring men onward to her grasp And there she lies as she waits, hidden in her woven word A viper, quick as silver, she forwards the lunge to clasp Vanishing, she resumes her sojourn, not as a viper, but as an innocent songbird She is promise, she is want, she is aspiration, life, and chance She weaves her golden web and watches as her victims dance.
that is part of the beauty of all literatureyou discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. you belong
RABEA
green gold Wish people around me would pass like shadows. Instead, İ ponder about some of them. What is he thinking, where is he coming from, where is he going now, what are his goals – personally and at this moment. İ paint scenarios from conversations that İ happen to listen to. When shopping, on the train, while my neighbors are talking in the garden. İ wanted to be a daydreamer, lose my clear head. İ am not really present at any moment. Even in conversations that İ do with myself, İ drift away and spend time in my head. Alone in my mind, Where İ don’t create a nicer world but live in a different everyday life. İ like my reverie. Make the best of the moment, my way. İt’s like İ’ve picked the good sides over time. The good sides. How exaggerated. Actually it’s just about the absence of my thought and the simultaneous clarity of my mind. There and away. Free in thought and yet participating in life.
CHIRAG WADHWA
kahin na kahin मै तु हे कह ना कह हर रोज़ ढूं ढ लया करता ँ , कभी पुरानी याद के पुराने पटारे म, तो कभी सुब ह के पहले उजाले म, कभी तु हारे ही गीतो के श दो म, तो कभी तु हारे हाथ से भरी कताबो म, तु हारी त वीर दे ख कर चुप के से ब तया लया करता ँ , मै तु हे कह ना कह हर रोज़ ढूं ढ लया करता ँ| अखबार क तारीखे बदलती चली गई, और तु हारी याद थोड़ी फ क सी पढ गई , ले कन आज भी वो ठ ई सु ब ह भु ला नह पाता ँ , मै तु हे कह ना कह हर रोज़ ढूं ढ लया करता ँ ||
thank you for reading along!
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2020
COSMO
VERSES