What was formerly the writing department. You get it.
And after the storm
The light is gone
The curtains are drawn
And the sky doesn’t mourn.
Rain falls in droplets
Washing away teary regrets
Steel skies and storm clouds
Falling on sinful ground.
Ripples on water’s skin
A mournful gray from within
A quiet breeze, a rushing wind
Thunder rolls, sunlight dims.
A lightning flash in the sky
Dreams unfurl when heavens cry
Hate it, I dare you to try
Peace reigns and devils die.
– Yasmin
He cheers for the weak, but sneers at the weak
He smiles at the rich, but pets the rats in the sewer.
His father sits in his chair, and criticises politics
He agrees wholeheartedly, yet buys their fake gimmicks.
He’s a second generation hypocrite.
She pretends she loves simple, but her wardrobe says otherwise
She doesn’t believe in religion, yet is often mesmerised.
She stands up for causes she hasn’t heard about before
She pretends she’s on the ship, when she hasn’t even reached the shore.
She’s a second generation hypocrite.
They laugh at their own jokes, but don’t know the meaning of fun
They can barely see out of the cave, yet pretend to touch the sun.
They scoff at things they don’t understand and then agree with a jester
They hurry on with their thin bandages, and then let the wounds fester.
They’re second generation hypocrites.
– Yasmin
A chapter from Pourna’s new, to-be published fan fiction.
War was brewing. Terror and anxiousness clouded the air; we could sense it growing day after day. The wise claimed it to be ancient magic brought up from the legends and books of yore of which they knew not. We rallied up forces, and forged new alliances with the elves and the men. The dwarves tinkered endlessly. It felt like a threat which wasn’t proclaimed, just hanging in the still air which could crush us any time. Orc raids became more common, and strange creatures wandered in the wilderness. Times were hard, but there was still happiness in our hearts.
I woke up groggily and cleaned myself. The hunt the previous night had left me with mud caked on my feet and on my sleeves. I grabbed my sword and hastily went to the Great Hall.
Lake Town had become a thriving kingdom and was the hub of all communications. Now, it was unusually silent, and the men talked in hushed tones. I was the messenger between the Kingdoms of Middle Earth. I spent my time traversing the vast lands and sometimes hunting.
The Master recognised me and nodded to me. He raised his hand and beckoned me forwards. I moved reluctantly; something about the vibes in the Hall made me edgy.
When I closed in, I could see the Master’s face, beaded with sweat. The usual cheer in his eyes was stained with gloom. His face was pallid and his lank black hair was plastered on his face with his sweat. Something was clearly wrong.
“I have bad tidings for you,” he said, while casting his eyes upon the crowd before him.
“What is it, Master?” I asked, all agog.
His voice turned to a whisper and he said, “The ruins of Dol Guldur—something stirs there. We believe Sauron is resurrecting there.”
I was dazed; a train of thought came into my mind. I had to warn the others.
“Who brought you this news, Master?” I asked, reverentially.
“An elven messenger from the Mirkwood bore these tidings yesterday, and since then, I have had no sleep! Take these words to Erebor and be hasty!” the Master said, without pausing for breath.
I nodded and ran to the inn. I packed my bag with some apples and bread, a bottle of water, and a blanket. The sword hung on my shoulders, hidden beneath my cloak. I stepped out and took a horse. Speed was paramount!
There was a yard behind the house. It belonged to a tea estate—a vast expanse of cement that burned in the sun. A long roof of dried coconut fronds stood at one end, and under it, on weekdays, sat women wrapped in faded sheets. At the end of a day’s work, sheets of small brown seeds lay on the cement, drying.
They went there one afternoon. The sun would set in a few hours. They ran across the cement to where two women stood, bathing in green petticoats. There was water everywhere, and the air felt as if it had been raining. The women bathed from a plastic barrel, laughing and calling out to the two children. Two walls stood perpendicular to each other, and in this sheltered corner was a world of its own. There was a slab of raised cement with a rusty tap and a pipe. A pile of old things—an old thermos flask, dusty plastic bottles, empty rice sacks—stood in a heap nearby. A large room-like space with three walls and one side open stood opposite the pile. Everywhere was dark and cool, and water ran from a bright green pipe and all over the floor.
A long time ago, Sitara used to write to Subhadra Sen Gupta. During the course of their communication, the author sent her a copy of a story she wrote. This is it.
Basheer picked up the knife, sniffed unhappily and thought, now why did Allah create onions? Couldn’t the human race have survived without this smelly, pungent vegetable that made him cry? Then with a loud sigh he brought down the knife on the horrid purple things and felt the tears trickle down his cheeks. One day, thought Basheer dreamily, I’ll be the chef, the bawarchi of a nawab’s kitchen and I’ll never chop an onion again. Ever.
At twelve, Basheer was the junior-most worker in the kitchen of Nawab Karimullah Khan, one of the richest nawabs in Lucknow. Basheer did all the chores that no one else wanted to do. He peeled potatoes and garlic, sliced onions and ginger and ran errands to the market to buy spices and vegetables. He also had to grind the spices in the heavy iron mortar and pestle, pounding away at the turmeric and the coriander. He even had a title in the kitchen—he was called the masalchi, the person who made the masalas.
I see the stars upon the sky,
Wondering when the time will fly
And when it does I will hearken,
To the warm voice from yonder,
See the world darken
And leave it barren.
To the world of my dreams will I go,
And see the happiness with me grow!
Wandering in the woods and caverns
And merry-making in the taverns.
Oh! That is life.
But I choose to return
To the remains and the desolation.
To rebuild my world
And have pride in my nation.
Far beyond the universe, so high up in the skies
I see the shimmering stars, blinking as a sign of welcome
But why? And where? are the questions running in my mind.
Then I realize, they want my company
So I turned around for my moped in haste, just in case, I don’t want to miss them.
Now I’m wheeling past the stars,
Feeling the gush of cold wind running over me, from nowhere in the world
They want me to press on and accelerate, still doubting my driving abilities
But I don’t want to do that, I wish to take my own time
Admiring the beauty of nature, ’cause it’s a once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity
To take my moped where I want.
How I wish I could!
If the stars lost their shine
And the moon didn’t glow
If the sun dimmed its light
And the rainbow didn’t show
Then you’d be looking at invisibility.
If the rabbits stopped their scampers
If the birds lost their voices
If all the animals fell silent
And the trees couldn’t rejoice
Then they’d be looking at invisibility.
If everyone set aside their complaints
And stopped; turned to see
Even if the world stopped turning
And I couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see me
Would we be looking at invisibility?
– Yasmin
Endalaus 