Ode to my Morrie, Ms. Bindu Sharma

Ode to my Morrie, Ms. Bindu Sharma

-Avleen Kaur Lamba

maam

I’d name this an ode

As it’s a tribute and

Not for its metre and rhyme

Because a radical inhabits in me

And the theme sublime

And the person in mind so divine.

 

My mother dear pursued literature

and so did her mother in her times

After following dad’s software steps,

Accounts and Economics were also given a try

Thus, with apprehensions, I chose literature.

 

But with a glowing lantern in the starry night,

She wiped clean my blurred glasses’ sight

And boy, I fell in love.

 

People say love involves people,

She was there,

But I fell for prose

and I fell for verse.

 

While students cried and mumbled why

It had been three days she hadn’t commenced the syllabi

But couldn’t they feel, couldn’t they yearn,

Life is what we came to learn!

 

She started with music, lyrics and odes,

And then strolled in essays and plays,

Which needless to say,

Clearly swept us away.

 

Donne, Coleridge, Sydney and Bacon,

Are all what they mean to us because of her.

Her words

and her stories.

 

Sitting on the teacher’s table in her crisp saris

This maverick hypnotized us

And we reached a heaven full of

Greek Gods and English Romantics.

 

Tears cover my eyeballs

as I sit to write about a Goddess

remembering times when my hands

won’t stop scribbling every word she uttered

And then times I would just sit awestruck

Now I lie down on the winter grass,

Wondering how God could bestow me with so much luck!

 

Her words and life lessons

Are a part of me now

And they shall remain within

wherever I go.

 

For how love always wins,

For the phoenix riddle,

For death ending life, not a relationship,

For Tess and for Sorrow,

For Wuthering Heights and their terrible morrow,

For all of that and so much more,

How you’ll glow within me,

Forever and some more.

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Scared? Scarred.

With terror in bold,

With love striked out,

Chauvinism italicized,

Like the sound of a whip underlined twice,

“Sudha!”, he screamed,

While she hid in the closet,

The one behind the big storage room,

At the rear end of their ugly mansion

Which led to the open, suffocating verandah

Where hopes and dreams lay with the dead in the tomb,

Garnished with flowers of gold.

 

ED SURPRISINGLE

He was the pied piper of our stepmotherland,
no one knew him and knows him still.reading_letter
But what would you call someone who didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve,
but offered it to everyone he passed by
unknowingly, unacknowledged,
he was blessed by souls worldwide.
He talked in manners lovers would,
but not with one, instead anyone who passed his sight.
With his beliefs he travelled the world,
and left little notes at every cycle, park bench,
every little spot which didn’t possess a postive vibe in his view,
And left that spot with something more.
A treasure of smiles and warmth for the random stranger
who came next.
He spread grins and twinkles like sunshine entering a dark room.
Little handwritten notes, full of positive one liners
or just words, but WORDS.
Enchanted, magical, he waved air with sparkle.

Is no pain my pain?

Maybe my pain is staying alone.
Waiting, is that a pain too?
Maybe it’s not a heartbreak,
But being too happy being single,
Is being happy a pain too?
Maybe it’s not refusal, rejection,
But never being in love altogether?
Maybe it’s not growing grey with fear of death or losing power,
But being fearless since forever?
Or maybe this quest for pain,
Is the pain to be in no pain my pain?

Pact Unpacked

Of the same dough we belonged,

Got the same amount of sugar and flavor,

Went through all processes together

But sooner put in different moulds,

Of the same tray, thank God.

I kept moving up in bubbles to peek at her,

To see whether she was feeling as hot as me.

But soon the warmth felt good,

Knowing she was just beside,

Sooner we were packed into packets of six,

Being the seventh one, I belonged to another pack

But the god loving machine had a fault,

and I was pushed in her pack again.

She was happy that a kid would love the surprise.

Yet when our pack was opened,

The kid bit into her, rejoiced her taste

I couldn’t bear the pain anymore,

Wanted to be torn apart and mix with

her, lessen her pain.

But she was gone and I was dipped

In milk and I preferred dissolving there.

Her Pyre and His Tomb

Her Pyre and His Tomb

-Avleen Kaur Lamba


He tells me I belong to fire,

and he to the Earth.

Ritual of my death reserved for a pyre,

While he be buried quenching land’s thirst.

And that’s why we couldn’t love.

But one day both’d be forgotten,

When nothing of us would remain,

Why can’t we carry on our shoulders our passion,

And bury together our egos and pain?

A love story of a Hindu girl and a Muslim boy. The girl doesn’t understand why should their religion affect their love when the only difference they share is in the manner of their deaths? She belongs to fire as her body will be burnt while his will be buried in earth. The futility of the trivial question of inter caste marriages which are made a hullabaloo of are portrayed. And when they are disposed off, nothing of them would remain to be cherished. Why can’t they carry passion on their shoulders like Hindus carry bodies and like Muslims bury their loved ones why cant they bury their egos and pain?