"mandap" poems - Hello Poetry

A swansong of the Indian Partition... Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge, Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge... Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out, Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations... Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se, Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se... Relations with those partitioned farmlands, Relations with those misguided young men... Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se, **Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...** Relations with the glistening soil of Multan, Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa... Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se, Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se... Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary, Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea... Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se, Rishte udhde un kapdon se... Relations with that Balouchi cotton, Relations with those clothes torn away... Rishte luti us izzat se, Rishte mari us bahu se... Relations with the disrobed honour, Relations with the slain bride... Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein, Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein... Relations decorated inside the temple, Relations written in the paradise... **********

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Aug 14, 2019

Aug 14, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC

Atul

Kal Humaare Ghar Ke Diye Bujhe Rahenge...|Tomorrow The Lamps Of Our Home Will Remain Put Out...

A swansong of the Indian Partition... Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge, Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge... Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out, Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations... Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se, Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se... Relations with those partitioned farmlands, Relations with those misguided young men... Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se, **Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...** Relations with the glistening soil of Multan, Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa... Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se, Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se... Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary, Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea... Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se, Rishte udhde un kapdon se... Relations with that Balouchi cotton, Relations with those clothes torn away... Rishte luti us izzat se, Rishte mari us bahu se... Relations with the disrobed honour, Relations with the slain bride... Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein, Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein... Relations decorated inside the temple, Relations written in the paradise... **********

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My father, he always has so much to say, you know. He loves weddings. My daughter, yes, she’s always been so smart, and we’re so proud of her. He says it like he knows anything about me. I nod and smile, and shrink myself in front of the men. What is there to do but pretend? No one needs to know about the ways that you made me unlovable, the way I spread my legs, the way I strike a match. We don’t talk about it. It’s cultural values, or something like that. Look at the happy couple, interchangeably pharmacists, physicists, or physicians. The groom smiles, the bride does too, they’re both so good. I sit there and dream of it. A mandap, a great big white horse. I would be forcing it, I knew, but I wanted them to see me in red. I wanted to walk down that aisle alone, and smile, demurely, smugly – look what I did. I got him, I wore him down. I dream like it makes it redeemable, the things that I’ve done. How bad is the punishment if I deviated with best intentions? We hold onto these tiny ambitions, the boy the buffet line and the bragging rights, like it undoes the damage.

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Oct 28, 2017

Oct 28, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC

nishades

Shaadi Mubarak

My father, he always has so much to say, you know. He loves weddings. My daughter, yes, she’s always been so smart, and we’re so proud of her. He says it like he knows anything about me. I nod and smile, and shrink myself in front of the men. What is there to do but pretend? No one needs to know about the ways that you made me unlovable, the way I spread my legs, the way I strike a match. We don’t talk about it. It’s cultural values, or something like that. Look at the happy couple, interchangeably pharmacists, physicists, or physicians. The groom smiles, the bride does too, they’re both so good. I sit there and dream of it. A mandap, a great big white horse. I would be forcing it, I knew, but I wanted them to see me in red. I wanted to walk down that aisle alone, and smile, demurely, smugly – look what I did. I got him, I wore him down. I dream like it makes it redeemable, the things that I’ve done. How bad is the punishment if I deviated with best intentions? We hold onto these tiny ambitions, the boy the buffet line and the bragging rights, like it undoes the damage.

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Hey girl, I know you are hurting, But you will forget everything,trust me. When you step into the mandap, You will forget the boys that stepped on your heart. As he slides the ring on to your finger, You will forget all the slashes on your wrists. The burning flames won't remind you of all the photos you burnt, It will stand for love, for marriage. As you go to work, to that beautiful restaurant you own, You will forget those who said, "Good she can cook, she has at least one quality of a housewife". Your books, published everywhere, Will once and for all, Diminish those voices, Asking you what your 'real' profession is. As you have pillow fights with your kids, You will forget your tear stained pillows. It won't matter that the coffee brown eyed boy didn't love you back, That everyone who hugged you made you flinch, And that you couldn't protest, You couldn't raise your voice. The accusations, the name calling, **** ***** cheat, It won't matter, Nor will the license test that you failed, Or the presentation where you fainted. My dear girl, You will turn into a butterfly, The caterpillar that you were, Won't matter.

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Apr 28, 2017

Apr 28, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC

sanjna-manoj

A letter to my 20 year old self

Hey girl, I know you are hurting, But you will forget everything,trust me. When you step into the mandap, You will forget the boys that stepped on your heart. As he slides the ring on to your finger, You will forget all the slashes on your wrists. The burning flames won't remind you of all the photos you burnt, It will stand for love, for marriage. As you go to work, to that beautiful restaurant you own, You will forget those who said, "Good she can cook, she has at least one quality of a housewife". Your books, published everywhere, Will once and for all, Diminish those voices, Asking you what your 'real' profession is. As you have pillow fights with your kids, You will forget your tear stained pillows. It won't matter that the coffee brown eyed boy didn't love you back, That everyone who hugged you made you flinch, And that you couldn't protest, You couldn't raise your voice. The accusations, the name calling, **** ***** cheat, It won't matter, Nor will the license test that you failed, Or the presentation where you fainted. My dear girl, You will turn into a butterfly, The caterpillar that you were, Won't matter.

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