Oh to be alive

https://notionpress.com/ read/sunk-in-amber So, it's finally out... Illustrated by illustrious illustrator Neena Kumar, poems penned over time by me, some that make one sit up & think, others that just let one be... Available on notion press online bookstore...

Fresh snow, light as a feather, fell in sporadic bursts. It lasted long enough to envelop everything it touched. The cold winds wiped out the sun and blue sky in just a few moments as he gazed out of the window that was getting frostier by the minute. The steaming coffee turned stone cold, time stood still a few sips later his hand remained suspended mid-air. He felt something steely cold and sharp pierce through his heart, causing him to cringe momentarily. It wasn’t the first time; there were occasions when he thought he’d suffocate as the pain drained his life energy. And then it would be gone as quickly as it came, leaving him bereft, devoid and cold. He opened the door and let himself out, oblivious to the freezing temperatures and sudden stillness around him. His gait was steady but effortless at the same time, a complete opposite to what he was going through or had gone through.     Shoveling off the snow from the narrow path and easing the part belo...

She was on her way home from home, and received a call: a call that changed everything as she had known it or knew it or would ever know it again. This may sound as a completely bizarre way to start a write up, but how many homes does one have, what is home and how and why do we call it so? Her home had just been blown away, smashed into a zillion smithereens. Her feet felt like lead and she could barely breathe, she was returning from her parents’ place, on her way back to her husband and kids, three wonderful sons, when she was told. Her middle one was no more. He had decided to call it a day, he gave up. He just left. He was all of fourteen. To many of us, home is where the heart is, to many of us it’s just brick and mortar to others it’s a place, a person or few things that smell of home. But, to an increasingly large number of people who mingle with us every day, home is only inside their head. They are, for several reasons, unable to share, communicate or just plain and simpl...

Is she the one selling flowers on a street, is she the one dancing in a bar to make ends meet? is her essence linked to he, is she a voice muffled, that fights back like Soni Sori? Is she a cry recognized after angst & pain, of one as young as Malala Yousafzai? Is she the one who stands by you, trampled & restrained over centuries, is she the one who perseveres like Aung San Suu Kyi? Is she loosely labelled a tramp or tart by men who need her more than she does he, yet sit in judgment on one of their own ilk? Is she the ‘woo’ factor in wo-men, keeping them on a leash? Whoever she is, if she fritters away her time & energy on debating ‘to be or not to be’, the world would suffer an irreparable loss the day she decides to turn her back on it all and walk away free! ©Copyright Suverchala Kashyap Sequel…as an after thought on Women’s day…2016 So then, back to the question, who is she? Well, she’s hot and cold, she’s frigid if ...

A flowing stream of light streaked in from the little nick in the sturdy, wooden door. Strange patterns played on the wall opposite his study table as he sat at an angle, trapped within the wall and the door. Well, was it just a nick or several, created by the innumerable spats the door had had with the outside world, he mused. The light trickling in and the interplay of moving images were a delight to watch. The dancing minuscule dust particles that seemed to be moving to an unheard rhapsody was fine on a cool day such as this, but in bone-chilling winters the same crevices played havoc in the room, freezing him to the core. He stared for as long as he could at the play of light on the dappled wall, or was it the dappled light on the coarse wall that created the design? He had never gotten down to repairing it, either because he couldn’t or because he shouldn’t? That was the only dilemma playing out in his mind day in and day out, perpetual, present and pertinent . Well, ...

I am a bubble, frail and diaphanous; I am a rock, solid and opaque. I am tiny grains of sand completely formed, yet ready to scatter when airborne. I am the Sun, burning bright; I am the Sun turning cold at my own plight. I am water flowing freely, or caught in the endless wait to convert myself so others, can see or feel me once again. I am so many things yet none, I am a king at one moment or just dust, ready to merge with the scum. I am who I am, so let me be, I am who I am, I am me… He stood precariously balancing himself at the edge of the wall, teetering almost ready to fall off. What others couldn’t tell and least of all see, was the steely resolve in his eyes as he poised himself. Everything around him had been tumultuous from the very beginning; at first he hadn’t noticed that it was on the inside, he always felt he was queer, perhaps different.     He levitated toward the sound a...