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5.2k · Nov 2014
Hawa Mahal.
Avantika Singhal Nov 2014
The Royal lady's eyes behold.
The scene that is about to unfold.
The procession just outside Hawa Mahal.

She looks from one of he 953 windows.
The red and pink sand stone of the Mahal,
She feels from her toes.

She is Rajput by heart.
And inwardly thanks Maharaja Sawai Pratap Singh for this intricate piece of Art.

Constructed in 1799.
From it's windown,
The breeze flows;fresh and beingh.

Out there there are all kinds of people
Old. Young. Fancy. Simple.
They radiate happiness.
Mounted on elephants or barefoot,feeling blessed.

She smiles to herself.
And closes the Jharokha and feels excited as now,
To her friends,she has a story to tell.
Heritage poem.
Check out Hawa Mahal. It's a monument of Jaipur,India.
Avantika Singhal Oct 2015
There's a virulent disease
inside him. It pervades every
where. It invades him. The
toxic cells exist in every nook
and crevice. He starts wondering
whether his soul and body will
suffice and live through the
brutal treatments that await.
Radiotherapy or chemo. A
part of himself could be lost in the
pomposity and elaborateness
of the machines used to do so.
He lies on the bed, surrounded
by the ostensibly loved ones
who mourn now and who hated
him once. He looks back at
his life and feels that getting
back to his healthy, strong self
is a chimera. Days pass and his
bed is his sanctuary. The reports
from the doctors arrive and he is
all but stationary. He finds the
concept of reports funny. They
determine life and death in a
second and after that, life could
be jubilant or miry with hopelessness.
The reports clearly indicate that
"cancer was not detected". He
scoffs at the elaborate medical
language and sits back and
relaxes, concluding his close
call with death and an emotional mess.
Not letting the intimidation and
sinister nature of the diseases get to him.
2.5k · Jan 2017
Wine Not?
Avantika Singhal Jan 2017
I took the first sip of white wine in
trepidation for the aftermath of drunk
people in movies is not very pleasant.
I downed it all, faster than an intruder
who wiretaps an important building
somewhere in America. I had vowed to
not drown in the poison I had just consumed.
But what happened later proved me wrong.
I swam in clouds and I floated in shallow
waters for the slurs that lay on my tongue
were not something I would utter in a
sober state. I cavorted. I danced. I showed
skin. I was the frog that clandestinely dances
in the rain and hides away before the ground
is dry again. I swirled like a whirlpool. My cheeks
were red and I emitted happiness. I made silly
jokes about a plant named Wisteria and lay
in bed, twirling away in my drunken madness.
This poem is very close to my heart. Mainly because it describes my first ever interaction with alcohol. It was an interesting night on july 13th, 2016. I have wanted to get this poem published for a while now but to no avail. Thus, i am posting it here. Please leave your honest criticism and feedback in the comments below!
2.4k · Jun 2015
When happiness faded away.
Avantika Singhal Jun 2015
I live in a paltry cottage,
with a cosy fireplace
and rosewood floors.
It offers me solace
and isolation and yet
my happiness seems
to have lost its way.
Then,I gaze outside at
the brook that welcomes
the sunshine like a
ship on a dock.
I gaze and gaze and
Gaze until I can't anymore.
Across the brook is my happiness
amongst the wilderness,
that fades away into
nothingness. And here
I am, on the dark side,
with grey clouds and
thunder and how it
roars like a sad
crow who doesn't
know how to fly
Anymore. My eye
lids droop and I
want to forget that
I no longer feel joy
inside my heart.
I want to forget the
bitterness that has
resided from the start.

All I feel is loneliness.
THIS POEM INDICATES HOW SAD I AM. Mainly because Summer Holidays as ending. Just kidding. Enjoy.
984 · Sep 2016
Indelible.
Avantika Singhal Sep 2016
Her demise shook the world
And left an uprising in its wake.
She was human but the world
Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her
Skin was marred with scars of
The most gruesome kind but
Little do you know, they were
Her battle scars that she took
To the grave. Her body, a
Holy shrine was entered without
An invitation but you are not
Aware that her soul is purer
Than yours will ever be.
Her cache of memories will
Be drenched with flashes of
Hungry stares and lustful eyes
But also warm hugs and gentle
Smiles from her parents.
Something that the
Scrupulous media does not want
To reflect upon. She can’t be
A secret anymore; her caste
Cannot be a hindrance anymore.
She needs a powerful voice
And we must give her one.
As i recount this tale,
I am suddenly this girl. I
Consume her desires. I
Am her soul and spirit. And,
My fingers close in on against
Each other and I take labouring
Breaths. My throat feels like
Huge amounts of sandpaper were
Shoved into it. My eyes are watery
And blood shot and all you do is
Stare. My clothes are shredded
And little rags are my only trustful
Companions on my otherwise
Naked body. A string of wounds
Cover my arms and legs and you
Whisper about how sordid a
Scene this is. You mutter about
Me being a victim but the truth is
I am a warrior who survived an
Intrusion that was not supposed
To happen and yet, you back off
From a growing crowd and wonder
What you’ll have for dinner tonight,
Leaving me there on the ground,
Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
Lengthiest poem in the history of lengthy poems? This poem is solely dedicated to a **** victim who was not represented enough by the media because of her caste. I hope it leaves a mark on you and stirs you to action.
946 · Mar 2015
Lessons Always Cherished.
Avantika Singhal Mar 2015
Swarthy and calloused
Hands guide the fragile
And delicate ones in
The kitchen. They murmur
Words of wisdom and
Instructions for frying
The puri with precision.
The boiling oil is very
Intimidating at first,like
Those devils waiting to
Pounce on you in the
Gates of hell. Intimidation
Turns to fascination and
In no time,the puri comes
To life,filled with air and
Hard work amidst the
Golden-ish oil that shines.
The mission has been
Accomplished and one
New lesson learnt. Those
Swarthy hands are going
To be like this forever-
A mentor. A teacher.
A mother. To a forever-
Learning daughter.
843 · Oct 2014
Fire.
Avantika Singhal Oct 2014
The fire danced.
Like a ballerina does.
Graceful. Enchanting. Lethal.

It danced away on the matchstick.
It was born to ****. To burn.
Just like she did to discern.

What her passion was.
To find what she was all about.
Just like the fire. Bright. Searching. Predatory.

The fire changed colour.
Blue. Sea green. Orange. Yellow.
But not the ballerina. She was stagnant.

She is like the fire. Out to get. Out to burn. Out to amaze.
754 · Jan 2015
Haunted.
Avantika Singhal Jan 2015
Broken hearts.
Deep sorrows,
Sad thoughts.
Monotonous life.
Make up for my silent cries.

Shattered promises.,
Ugly mistakes,
Desperate pleas,
For a life never to come,
Haunts me in my dreams.
Short poem but just a thought. Isn't it like this when our life comes to a standstill and we feel sorry for ourselves? You'd think I am incapable of writing happy poems,eh?
618 · May 2014
What the Flower feels.
Avantika Singhal May 2014
I dance with the wind,
I bathe in the sun,
I lol in the soil.
My life is fun.

Humans passing by,
Praise me and touch me.
Run their fingers along my petals,
Happy and satisfied I can be.

Some humans are cruel.
They use a tiny amount of force.
And I am brutally plucked.
From the stem I called my Home.

It Hurts. When my life ends,
In the flick of an eye.
I only matter to them for only a matter of time,
And then a painful good bye.
Please comment and tell me how it was.:)
606 · Jun 2014
Overthinking.
Avantika Singhal Jun 2014
She sat,
Fingers clenched.
Thinking hard.

She waited,
With limitless patience,
For the jealousy to pass.

She pondered,
About the breathtaking insecurity,
Her chest was tolerating.

She numbed,
Because the feelings that coursed through,
Were hard to ignore.

She whispered to herself-"I fail."
This is like my condition right now.
I am *******,very *******.
Reason unknown.
Avantika Singhal Jun 2014
I stayed strong,
For the world to see,
That people who appear frail,
Can be,
Strong and bold.
Just like I proved to be.

I didn't let it show.
I did not let the feeling flee,
Of tears that threatened to leak out,
Puffing my chest out,
Just like Hercules,
Was the key.

The time has come again,
When strength can replace fragility,
But I don't think I will get that chance,
Of proving what I once used to be.

Is it faith or luck?
Treachery or bluff?
A mystery it will be.
This is random. But written with a very heavy heart for something I longed to have. Thanks.
554 · Jun 2014
She Craved a Love Story.
Avantika Singhal Jun 2014
She watches Cinderella in awe.
And wonders how her love has no flaw.

She envies her beauty;the love she gets,
The emptiness in her life she detests.

She wants a love story.
With a prince.
With a pinch of drama and secrecy.

She wants his touch,
Soft and gentle.
She wants his smile,
Bright like the sun,not dull.

She sighs inwardly,
For she has to wait.
Wait for her Prince Charming.
Galloping on the pristine white horse coming at the gate.
537 · Nov 2014
Unsettled.
Avantika Singhal Nov 2014
The tension is palpable.
Our hearts best steadily for now
But are our minds at ease?
Stomach churns.
Anticipation burns,
My bundle of nerves,
Trouble me.

I shall stay strong.
I shall not unsettle myself.
And the others around me.
515 · May 2015
Compassion. It's missing.
Avantika Singhal May 2015
The man, lanky and
Lugubrious in his actions,
Filled with loneliness and
Compassions. I watch
With absurd interest as he
Smiles, missing teeth and
Yet, a light in his eyes that
Never goes out when he
Talks to his grandson,
Beauty and approbation
On his face. I conclude
With sadness that this is
The only time he is happy.
The only time the life in
Him awakens. The only
time his soul rejoices
And yet, I sit here, just
Penning down someone's
Penurious life sans joy.
Doing nothing about it,
Replicating the standard
Human nature.
This poem holds a very trying message. We see someone in need for help and we tend to ignore that person. Why? Why is humanity missing that kind of compassion? It's not just me, it's you too. Help someone and feel good about it.
478 · Apr 2014
My Best Friend and I.
Avantika Singhal Apr 2014
She fakes it.
I am the one who hates it.

I try to hide it. Try to avoid it.
But she fails me.
Every time I try to reconcile, she leaves me be.

I portray us as a team,
But she breaks the bond,
Prefers to be individual,
I look up to her with Scorn.

She makes new friends.
She forgets me.

She is the one making dents,
In the end,I am the Culprit.
I will always be one. . .

I try to love her.
But she doesn't want to.
In the end,I have nothing to offer.
And I don't know what to do.

I expect. I expect every day.
That one day,
She will come running to me and say-
Hey! I missed you and I am sorry for my Stupid,Childish Tactics.

But will that day ever come?
When odds will be with me?

My heart bleeds,
I sink in Jealousy.
She doesn't look back to me.
She leaves me be.
This one's for my Best Friend who always makes promises and in the end,ditches me. I do not know when I will find the strong bond of Friend ship I desire.
471 · Nov 2014
Selfish.
Avantika Singhal Nov 2014
She looks lost.
The girl standing there.

I squint a little and realise.
Isn't she one of my friends?
Oh yes. She is.

Why does she look like she feels out of place? Pity.

Should I go help her?
No. Who cares?
I have my OWN friends around me.

I'll be selfish. I have always been that way.
This poem is dedicated to one of my friends who has this disposition to never help people in need. Thanks.
459 · Feb 2015
Fight.
Avantika Singhal Feb 2015
The little crack in the window,
Makes me wonder,
What lies ahead,
Beneath and under.

Is it danger?
Is it hope?
Is it love? I ponder.

The clock ticks on my side,
And my eyes fall to my school work,
Forgotten and aside.

It must be the unknown.
It could be good or bad.
I will fight it. I decide.

After all,
Strength is what leads you on.
I may be a pawn,
In the Game of Life.
It shall be the reason why I am born.

To fight.
Late night poetry writing! When my mind is the most active and well ,I don't want to study just yet. Please read and comment.
397 · Feb 2015
Oh Mother.
Avantika Singhal Feb 2015
Her face breaks into a smile,
As she sees her daughter's face.
Rotund. Ruddy. Impossible to replace.

Her face turns into one of pride,
As her daughter's pudgy hands grasp the trophy.
Gay and full of glee.

Amidst all this,
The former is sad,
As thoughts of her growing up,
Enter her mind.
Like an impending doom.
It feels like too soon.

Something tugs her plaid tunic down,
Oh,my Baby!
She says in her mind.
She grins and it's all it takes to unwind,
From her morose musings..
And accept her fate.
One way or another, I had to post this. :)
386 · Oct 2014
I Miss You.
Avantika Singhal Oct 2014
We met. We talked. We smiled.
You fell for me. I didn't.
It was only for a while,
When you caught my wrist as I was,
Walking away.
I pushed you and went my way.

Now here I am.
Missing your smile,your texts.
Your late night secrets and your soft caresses.
You calling me names and I laughing.
And then you were gone in a blink.

I needed you and I didn't know,
Your value. Your worth.
You wee drifting away from me.
And there I was,laughing with north.
For I had no idea how much I'd miss you.

But now I know. I want you back.
But oh dear! I have no courage.
To haul you back in my life.
I failed. I always do.
383 · Jul 2014
Her Fear. His Patience.
Avantika Singhal Jul 2014
She closed her eyes.
And smiled,
For she felt his hand graze hers,
Their breathing mild.

She laughed at herself,
When she remembered,
How he had proposed.
Fearful,conflicting and opposed.

She was scared.
Incoherent even,
As the love she thought never existed,
Swallowed her whole.

She confessed then.
With an open heart.
That she felt for him too.

There was Joy. There was elation.
A plot twist to this story.
Some sensibility. Some caution.

They decided to take it slow.
He would still be friends if she said no.
He was patient. He would never let go.

This is their story.
The story that continues,
The story that will have an happy end.
Devoid of stress of sorrows.
This is for a very close friend of mine. I kind if owe her very much. My Captain. Aye Aye! :)
381 · Jun 2015
Naïvety.
Avantika Singhal Jun 2015
The mistakes she made
Are like those toys she
Found in the attic. Totally
Forgotten and guilt
Ridden. As soon as she
Looks back at the terrible
Mistakes she made, she
Curses at her childhood.
She admittedly cusses
At her foolishness. She
Hates herself and forgets
It. And then one day
Again, she looks over
Her shoulder, and those
Mistakes made in the
Childhood stare back,
Bold and brazen.
Every folly she wrote
To others when she was
So innocent and naive,
Have come to haunt
Her in the form of
Lingering eyes and
hushed whispers. Oh!
Mistakes are terrible
To make but what she
Learns from them in
The end, is that she
Will never make them
Again, even though
Her chest will suffocate
With the guilt and folly.
Hello! Longest poem ever, I think? These days, spontaneity is my motto. I write poems in one go! It's stranger this poem is very personal so I won't be shocked if I don't get any likes on this one and if I do, then let's just say that you are a genius to figure it out. This poem expresses ME on so many levels and a humongous mistake I made in my childhood. Enjoy..or maybe not.
367 · Mar 2015
All Her Life.
Avantika Singhal Mar 2015
All her life she has,
Been looking for
Approbations. But to
No avail. She always,
Encounters failure.

All her life she has,
Waited for the moment,
When her family looks
At her with pride and
Satisfaction in the eyes.

All her life she has,
Fallen on the floor,
With a loud thud.
But she also has had,
The strength to get up,
With much more vigour.

All her life,she has looked for perfection and returned empty handed.
364 · Apr 2015
My Foolishness.
Avantika Singhal Apr 2015
It's like agony. The wait.
It's like a knife twisting in my gut. The fear.
It's the laboured breathing. The anticipation.
And the reason is you.
How stupid to have fallen for you.
When I could have saved myself.
And here I am,blithely stepping into the spider's  web.
357 · Aug 2014
The Game of Love.
Avantika Singhal Aug 2014
It's his eyes that catch her sight.
It's his lips that cause her delight.

It's his voice that is raw and velvety.
It's his presence that makes her sweaty.

She can't speak coherently when he speaks.
She is a nervous wreck. A challenge.
His interest piques.

She will win him over.
She's like a conquest to him.
Both play the age old game of love and sin.

For him;it's a game.
For her; it's something more.
More than infatuation that speaks.

She falls for him.
And in the end,he too gives in.
348 · Dec 2014
Not ALWAYS wrong.
Avantika Singhal Dec 2014
Is it something I said?
That made you turn,
Away from me?
We didn't get a chance to speak,
As I watched you hurl.

Is it something I did?
That made you angry,
Because of me?
Because you ran like,
There was a fire.
Within you. Within me.

It's always me,isn't it?
I think we should sort it out.
Because it's not like,
It's always my fault.
We should both scream and shout,
And let it all out.
347 · Apr 2015
Words.
Avantika Singhal Apr 2015
The stroke of the pen on the paper,
Soothes my nerves.
The very fact that I see the blue ink taking shape of my words,
Convinces me that I am alive and breathing.
This may be short but these two lines mean a lot to me. Mostly because, I write random poems in school all the time. :)
346 · Mar 2015
Sleep.
Avantika Singhal Mar 2015
She screams through
The nightmare that was
Once a dream. She stirs
And awakens from the
Slumber. She can't sleep
Anymore. Sweaty palms
A growing headache.
When will this stop,she
Asks herself. She has no
Answer and tries again,
Closed eyes,and positive
Thoughts to fight the evil,
She tries. Does she succeed?

Sometimes in life,we have
To take risks. Risks that
Make our life better and
Leave no regrets.
A new poem after a long time! Feels good to write. Oh,and this literally happens to me. Huh.
Avantika Singhal May 2015
It would be a catastrophe,
If her mother is not in the
Same room as her. Her
Shrill cries would wake
Everyone up. Her tiny hands
would fist the air
In hopes that it will bring
Her mother back to her.
The smile that adorns
on her fragile, pale
Face is too priceless.
So much so that others
Around her can't help but
Smile happily and bless
Her with the uttermost
Sincerely. She would giggle
pointlessly at others,
revelling in their
Happiness as it is contagious.
An unexpected visit by my sister brought along this poem as she brought her 7 month old baby with her. And she's priceless.

— The End —