Poetry: Ashima Syal

Ashima Syal

ADAPTATION

             They told me to adapt to the colors of Society. 

              I struggled hard but failed to understand the shade of its adversity. 

              From a distance, the societal globe seemed diverse to me, blooming in an escapade of wonder and awe.

              But as I went near, it was all blurry to me, just like a walk in the trembling mist. 

              How could I adapt to the uncertain terrain?

              When I think of it all, I was never told to adapt to the world I was weary of, I was made to learn its pace, with all its pauses, question marks and full stops. 

                 I always wanted to stop to look at all the cultural awakenings in the wake of its norms. But , it's strange how I could only manage to look through them. 

                 I knew I was blending in, but I did not know what it felt to be blended. 

                 Does blending in have to be backed by a reason? I had no answer to this. Well, then maybe I’m the adaptation. 

***

LONELY CROW

               I learnt how to see beauty in the burnt ember of old book pages, that’s how I perceived loneliness. There is a lot more to being lonely than to be lonely. You never are lonely, whether you agree or disagree. 

Your body talks to you, shapes you, awakens you, settles you, comforts you. So, you never really know what it means to be lonely, till you choose to ingrain the grain of age, just as a number. 

You never are lonely, for you are seeking solace within, talking to yourself. 

You make peace with being alone, breaking all tempered scars of material hues, you choose to hold on to minimalism to outgrow your lonely crow. 

***

COLOUR-BLIND

                         

                       The lilies which were once white, have turned crimson, 

                          Their gaze makes me wonder if they rusted with time.   

                          Either corners are gate crashed or there are no corners at all. 

                          Birds here become timid, their flight turns into flutter. 

                          The echoes of white are silenced, but white had already escaped into silence way before crimson arrived. Yes you heard it right , “ I’m color-blind”. 

***

VANITY  OF  CURLS

                        Oh! Vanity of Curls, you stare at the world with topsy- turvy intricacies. 

                         Dreams find you, with all your swirls. 

                         Your realm is a realm of chaos, you bait questions only to be tangled in   answers.

                         You are glorious, you are gorgeous, you crave for indecisive attention. 

                          As I weave my curly story, my curls simply don’t seem to comply with all my requests, complaints, regrets. After all, they are curls, too hard to love, too easy to let go. 

*** 

HAIR STRAND

                 I often feel like a hair-strand, losing bounce, falling off, being mopped on floors, being drifted off shirts. 

But sometimes, just like the wind changes its direction, I too change my location. 

At night, when the world sleeps away to glory. I make some of my featured favorites toss and turn.

But losing their patience, they shoo me away, even before I can breathe, the waste paper basket swallows me. Short- lived, I realize I’m a hair strand. 

***

    

Bio: Ashima Syal, is an Author by Profession. She published her first book of Poems titled "Canopy" in the year 2019. She has been a co-author for several anthologies such as Seashore, Snowdust, Voices of Immortal Souls. She was a correspondent writer in the anthology Ashima' s poem on "Himalayan Abode" was featured in the Kumaon Literary Festival in 2020. Ashima' s interview on "The journey and the path of Poetry as a prospective career" was featured in the Global Times. Ashima received the prestigious Rabindranath Tagore Literary Award by DRDC for her literary merit. Currently Ashima conducts Creative Writing and Public Speaking Workshops for college students in Mumbai.

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Setu, September 2024