I am a " f o l k l o r e " picking flowers of Gulmohar and stories from a hundred street corner where lovers separate in the name of religion and class. I press those stories and flowers smelling like goodbye in my diary for generations to imbibe because Heer and Ranjha were too young to sleep forever.
I am a " r e n a i s s a n c e p l a y " singing public rebellion against the rich monarch when the libraries of my town were set to fire suffocating history to death . I reverberate throughout civilisations that no Henry VI can reduce truth to ashes.
I am a " n o v e l " waking up with preface to remind everyone that like Oliver Twist you too can run off from a workhouse of captivity to London barefoot , to make everyone believe that you are only an imagination away from becoming a protagonist and then I fall asleep with epilogue making you smile like your hero.
I am a " w a r p o e t r y " being written inside a trench where the peers I shared my lunchbox with are dying without an elegy. I wake up every morning with sirens and fight until the sun sets. Thereafter I return home to sip red sweet wine and dream of castles and roses for me and all those soldiers who died before and after death.
Whenever I triumph over time I become " l i t e r a t u r e "
On a dark night, With flickering street lights, Clutching her bag very tight, She walked on the roadside. She walked with hue of fright, Ignoring all those malevolent sights. Soon, throng of evil wight, Were walking on her right. They tried to snatch her pride, And laughed at looking at those eyes of helplessness with delight. She cried hard, screamed aloud and blamed herself for getting in this plight, But couldn't find even a single ray of humanity on that dark night. They held those tightly combed hair and played with her pride, They ripped her clothes, turning on their flash lights. She bleed through her soul and her kyte, Questioned her fate, what was her fault, that she got this breathtaking life? Listening to the screams of a girl every night, I question myself, can we even survive? _ Nikitha Sharma