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mydesirelines Oct 10
though he looked calm
he was worried all the way
as his sons carried him on their broad shoulders.

the dead brahmin, finally smiled
as he was laid
on the funeral pyre
made of finest sandalwood 
from the forest around.

that was his last wish to his sons,
you must use chandan and nothing else.
don’t give me to some low-cast corkwood
even before sum of my deeds is calculated,
i know, on the pyre, it will burn me, to the hell.
cast has created division in indian society for thousands of years, it so deeply rooted that even today it still shows scars of past and deeds of presents
three two one...
at the edge of the dark alley
i stopped,
and they broke on to me.

before they could touch me
i handed them my body
and i ran off.
ran off, in such a despair
to hide myself safely
in my mother's fearless tears.
voices out recent violence against women in India
mydesirelines Sep 29
In their eyes
she, is the holy river
and I, am a doubtful sinner.

I drowned myself
deep in Ganges.

Now she, is a holier-than-thou
and I, am a confessed sinner.
Ghats of Banaras, in India, is a holy place where Ganga river is washing sins of many from thousands of year.
एक अभियंता
होता है ऐसा
सृजनशील
मानव
जो पृथ्वी के
खजाने से
खनिज लेकर
बना सकता है
देव और दानव।।
Shashwat Garg Sep 13
I remember going to Taj Mahal lying on the banks of Yamuna river.
After having a glimpse, I said “It is the best monument ever!!”
It revealed the exquisite Persian architecture and mystery,
Built by Shah Jahan, The Mughal Emperor of history.

I was amused by the beautiful garden leading to the lanes
Of huge multifarious fountains.
And the intricate carvings of the magnificent Quran
Represented the emperor’s glorious clan.

The monument of love made of white marble
Showed the greatest love story possible.
It was where Shah Jahan and Mumtaz lay
Showing their love for each other every day.

I took a last glance on the epic dome
Because now it was the time to go home.
I, very sadly farewell bid
And stared at the monument until from sight it completely hid.

The Taj Mahal’s motifs, calligraphy, love story makes it a wonder true
Under the skies blue with an orangish hue.
When I see Taj Mahal through my eyes
The beauty of the whole world in it lies.
Lalithya Rao Sep 9
Coming from a typical middle-class Indian family is always hard and on top of that, she is a GIRL from INDIA.

She can never be open about her dreams nor her feelings.

Her life is like a bird in the cage.
She is well-taken care off just like the bird
But the bird is born to fly high yet it is kept in the cage
Likewise, this Indian middle-class girl is never given a chance to fly high, It is caged, bounded to the so-called Indian ethics and culture.

Just like the Bird, she is provided with all the amenities but not given the ones which are actually needed, FREEDOM.
It is the same with her, freedom is never given to her.

Even if she is given freedom by her family the society never fails to get her down, just like the bird which is always targeted by the huntsmen.

......
Will continue it later.......
when the monsoon came
she cursed. She had been asking
those folks in the co-op
twiddling their thumbs and licking
the edges of their rupee notes
from the maintenance bills,
she’d ask them
to repair the terrace aching
and wheezing with water
from the early drizzles but
the treasurer preferred a Kashmir scarf
and the chairman a new scooter,
secretary painted his living room and added twenty rupees
for a samosa for the loyal watchman
and so she slept beneath flickering lights
hoping the wires didn’t blaze up,
consuming her whole.
I just started a ko-fi page for my writing, Lenormand readings, and more. Check it out here: Ko-fi.com/kelseybanerjee
kiran goswami Aug 15
I walked down the snow-covered land.
It was windy but I could not breathe.

As I walked, the snow under my feet whispered,
'there are lovers more in love than about who Shakespeare wrote,
but such stories once heard get stuck in the throat'.

So, there I lay down on the snow,
the snow felt warm.
It narrated the story of a man and a land.
How the land love the man and the man loved the land.

The man's love was the one that would last forever.
It was not the kind that would sink into your heart
but float right through it so your waves long for more.

The man loved so much that,
the cold snow on the land made the man's blood boil
and the land stayed warm.
The land loved the man so much that,
her rocks became his stage
and he acted his last act with love.

The man love the land and so much that,
his breath made her tricolour hair fly.
The land loved the man so much that,
her shrieks turned him into an artist
and he painted it all red.

The man loved the land so much that,
his blood left his body to embrace her
just the way Bhagirathi descended on mother Earth.
The land loved the man so much that,
she embraced him tight under her snow blanket to protect him.

The man loved the land so much that
his body lay on the land
while their stories loved each other.
The land loved the man so much that
she let the man lie on her
while she was crushed under all the weight she held.

His body was still holding the land,
the snow was still red.

The man loved the land so much that he died for her.
The land loved the land so much that she lived for him.
Satvik gupta Aug 7
If running was the only option left to escape awful situations  

Then

Beleive me

Our athletes would have been the most happy persons alive
Something to change
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