Emergent Voices: Poetry

PARASITIC JAEGER by Sagar Baidya

A Parasitic Jaeger, floating solitarily on a great gaping grey sea,
Is watching the amber sun getting swallowed 
Little by little by the grim water to welcome the soothing twilight.
In time’s lapse, he observes the bright full moon brimming with light
getting hazy behind the ominous clouds of cloaking night
Reminding him of his own hologram, flickering now and then
To disappear, sooner than later.

With his fragile wings he attempts to swim.
The harder he swims, the more he sinks
And feels the eternal silence of the sea
That chokes the soul from his breast
Stranding him in a loop of hyper-consciousness.
Many times, had he heard about Darwin's survival of the fittest
And now, looking at his quivering reflection in the languid water,      
he broods over these things.     

He is the freest, yet the most captive, in a cage made from his own lost mind,
Lost in the noise of other mortals,
Or perhaps in his own echoing words.
Too frail is he, to gust against the whirlwind 
And rise up from the misery, that knows no end
But retains the unwaning faith in the very Protector
For His love extends far beyond a mother's, for her child.

Seasons, they have changed; leaving the leaves behind —
Some as dried, crunchy, and pale, with a yellowish hue,
Often, he sees the leaves as fresh in green, as if rejuvenated
And with words unspoken, he yearns to migrate to a season of winter —
A season of frost and ice, yet it does not keep him cold
Rather gives a hug of warmth of a bird's true nest.

In leisure, he would like to take a pause
Not on any man-made ship
But on nature's own white icebergs, nature's own green meadows.
In tranquillity he longs to walk 
On a noiseless Arcadia —
Far from any whirlpool of artificialities,
Far from the stalking vultures, gossiping parrots, life-sucking leeches.

He desires to fly in the bright blue, boundless sky,
not high like Icarus,
Rather, far away, across the rotten moor,
Then beyond a big fertile farmland,
Then maybe over the Swiss Alps,
And eventually fade away into the Highest Sky
After circling the Sacred Blackened Cube, once protected by those Ababils.

For now, stranded on a dormant volcanic land
That can erupt anytime and make him extinct,
The Jaeger is in a sabr for a Dove —
Who is not illusioned,
Who is aware,
Who does not get snared so facilely,
Unlike those Butterflies.

•  Parasitic Jaeger – An arctic skua bird.

• Sabr – An Arabic word meaning patience.

• Ababil – A kind of small, swift bird that flies in flocks.

The Stories We Carry by Navratra

It was around six-forty in the evening.
The hills outside my window had turned greyish blue,
and the sky was wearing its first stars
like shy thoughts before sleep .

I sat at the dining table,
an apple in my hand—
the kind of apple you find
only in the markets of old hill towns,
where every fruit has a story.

I had worked all day,
not on anything important, really—
just the sort of things that fill a day
without filling the heart.
Tired, I leaned back,
and before the apple touched my lips,
sleep came quietly,
like it often does in the middle of thoughts.

Somewhere in the stillness,
I heard someone call my name.
“Eve!” they said, not harshly—
as if they knew me,
or thought they did.
I opened my eyes
and found myself in a garden—
not one I knew,
but one that seemed to remember me .

The trees were heavy with fruit,
and one tree stood taller than the rest,
its apples shining like old secrets.
I walked toward it,
tempted, but uncertain.
And just as I reached out,
a serpent slid across the grass,
heading for the man who had called my name.

I tried to stop it,
but the garden faded—
and I was somewhere else,
somewhere golden.

A hall of mirrors, music, and murmurs.
I was in a gown—strange, lovely—
and beside me, two women stood,
both glowing like they belonged in a story
someone’s grandmother once told.

Someone placed a golden apple in my hand
and said I had won .
Won what?
I didn’t know.
But before I could ask,
the scene shifted again.

Now snow fell gently,
and a cottage stood beneath the pines.
Seven small chairs, a warm fire,
and silence that felt like kindness.

A knock at the door.
A woman stood there, smiling too much.
She offered me another apple—
the same kind, red and gleaming.
I shook my head.
“No, thank you,” I said,
more out of instinct than wisdom.
Her smile turned sharp.
She threw the apple at me,
and it struck my head—
lightly, but with meaning.

And then—
something changed.
I was no longer a girl,
but a boy again,
sitting beneath a tree I somehow knew.

The garden returned,
and the sky above me
was the softest shade of question.
What force, I wondered,
what story was tying all these apples together?

And just then,
a voice—familiar, amused.
“Pardon, dear,”
my mother said.

I blinked.
The hills were dark now,
my apple still untouched.

She smiled at me,
a little laugh escaping her lips.
“My dear Gulliver,” she said,
“do eat your apple—
and come back from your dreamland.”

And so I did,
though part of me stayed behind—
in gardens, in snow,
in golden halls and quiet cottages—
where apples grow not just on trees,
but on stories
we carry in our sleep .

I’M TIRED OF PRETENDING by Shrinka Mitra

Each morning, I wake up,
and wear the same practiced smile.
Acting like everything is fine,
just blending into what the world expects.

People catch the light on my face,
and never doubt if it's borrowed.
But they never realize-
how my hands begin to shiver,
how my chest feels unbearably heavy,
how miserably I'm holding myself,
how fragile I'm from within.

I keep repeating, "I'm fine."
hoping those words
can hold the weight of everything 
I refuse to show the world.
that I'm tired,
tired of stitching the fragments of my heart
that keep on breaking.

I want to be honest,
at least for once.
I want to stop hiding behind the mask.
I want someone to look at me,
and see through the smile- 
to see the wounds it conceals,
and the weariness it carries,
and ask me, "Are you alright or just pretending?"
and mean it.

If not the Mothers, Who do we run to? by Areefa Ashraf

When night peels back its gentle veil,
And fear creeps quietly from the dark,
When walls no longer feel like home
If not her arms then whose?

If not the mothers, who will sense
That brave girls cry when shadows grow?
That even Sun can lose its splendour,
And Lions limp with tired feet?

She spoke not a word, just placed her hand on me,
As if to chase away the dread.
And in her lap, the world became a haven,
A mother’s love restored the night.

So tell me truly - When all is through,
If not the mothers…
Who do you run to?

Fade Away by Ananya Saha

I never really realised when you slowly began to fade away. 
No longer do I remember your voice,
Nor do I hallucinate about finding myself in your arms.
No longer do I yearn for that one climactic embrace,
And no longer do I smell your misty fragrance. 

You have become so blurry, that you are fading away.
From the mangrove of memories which I had once woven.
The stitches are coming off,
But there's no blood, no pain, no scream, no anger.
The last canvas is painted black, your last souvenir is set aside,
Maybe it was me who had been cast aside
Now there’s no anguish, neither sorrow
I only feel regret...
What if I never saw that face?
And what if I never held your hands?
And what if you never masked affection?
Or what if I never believed those lies?

Your love is fading away,
into the liberating air
I feel I have wings, to fly away from my misery.
But my love never faded away
It was just a game of hide and seek
Finding me after a tiresome day
And I blended into its caring arms.

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