And it went on for days,

As the sky painted a little grey,

Things told me it wasn’t a happy rain.

The tittle under their weary holes,

Not revealing anything,

The tattle of the still folks,

Succumbs to relieving their tempting lore.  

 

As the rattles go on, 

And the bartans* become weapons. 

Her doors are locked and her voice is hushed,

Our voices are clogged,

We’re too broken for this all.

No wonder, she’s not happy,

No wonder she’s not eating,

No wonder she’s not talking,

And no wonder I’m not smiling.

 

The books are spread out,

Usually when she’s studying,

But today I knew she wasn’t.

She wasn’t working but just got worked up,

And all my know it all friends were laid around,

Trashed and stepped on.

No wonder they’re sulking,

No wonder they aren’t working.

No wonder she is looking around

From a high place in the world,

Not a cloud or a candy ring, 

As one might assume her to think,

Ready to let go but not quite so,

Because she is afraid,

And I’m afraid too,

For I fear her fear, 

Making her think she’s a coward.

 

It’s cold.

It’s cold in one of the warmest countries in the world.

She tells me it’s because

We have felt too much warmth

In the arms of our carers,

So much so that,

We haven’t had the slightest taste of the world.

Now we stand, blaming an innocent traitor.

Now we find faults in our saviour.

 

It’s a word or a dot on the wall,

That I had imprinted, not knowing,

You had water all over the place.

Now I blame the water,

For bruising my everything.

Now I blame the tittles and my rattles,

While the tattles become nothing,

But useless ash spread around the air.

I sit by the gone-out fireplace,

Staring into infinite mislay.

Now I’m scared to even find her,

Knowing she isn’t the same anymore.

 

The tattles go on.

In a fiery pit, they stand,

And sometimes they become,

The fiery pits themselves.

I didn’t want the tattlers to be the fiery pit,

Because the one’s burning had done not a thing,

To deserve such a detrimental end.

 

She whelves in her abditory,

Telling me there are matters,

Better passed over to silence.

She secretly leaves,

And disappears into mystery.

 

You know our habromania

Is no joke.

It’s a scratching tool,

And we are scratching on the sand,

For a while now,

Trying to get her out. 

*bartans– Hindi word for utensils

 

Author’s Profile- Samparna Pattnaik is in grade 12. She has enjoyed painting since she was little and has always loved doing creative activities. She started writing when she was around 14. She may be a sort of an introvert but recently, she started to open about her stuff and share her works and writings on her Instagram account.