Sharmila Roy | Featured Poet | April 2016 | Issue XV

Article Posted in: Featured Poet

Introduction to the Poet:

Sharmila RoySharmila Roy is a Final Year Masters student of English Literature. She tries to pen down her random thoughts through poems. She believes, in order to live happily one must be at least slightly, aware of the philosophy of life, which is best understood through reading poetry.

Reading and writing poetry provides her with composure and stability. It is the source of peace for her.



A Dream

Enough tears she did shed

Grief swoon the little maid

She is a loner, lonely is her pain

Impregnated with hope

She reared it, nurtured it,

Glitter did her eyes as she bore it

All in vain.

Shivered her thighs,

Water ran down her eyes,

It crashed, destroyed, broke,

Yet not a sound heard

It was Her Dream, her zygote

Who laid dormant forever.





Deceptive God

I call him master though I have not seen him,

I call my master though I never found him

I starve for my master in his worship

Yet he never brought me a morsel

I decked him up in flower

But they always stooped in an hour

I stood in the queue

For a morsel of worshipped food,

The mediators of God raised their eye brow

When I bent to touch the feet of the manly god

The hot sun up my head caused me to sweat

The hounds relaxed their eyes on my cleavage

The food was not even salty as my sweat.


I walked down the my path

Decked in bits and pieced of the un eaten stuffs

The struggling dogs fought for the last bite,

The child’s rib starved for the site

God never heard me, never did I

Never did I see him never did I found him,


I walked down a shabby lane

Clean yet dimly lit and it looked sane.

Many a Goddess stood decked in jewels and flower

Under the sun even under the shower

Even for night long hour.

Rainbows of colours went up and down,

Some had red lips, some had a frown,

Some chewed betel some shook their bangles

In scent or sounds they did entangle

Are they the Goddesses I Worship?

My insane mind question!

They are the indecorous women

Not to be worshipped but

They harbour the ship in war

Not to be loved but to be made love,

Not to be made wife but

A must- have in spite of a wife!


God is never indecorous residing in shabby lane,

I saw him in clean tidy pedestal,

I heard a sound as loud as labour pain

Running down a dingy drain

I found a door half open,

The woman settled her hair,

The man produced a few shillings and note

The tears ran down her throat,

He walked out the door in a flaunting air

The woman ran down to the fair

I followed her until she stopped

Near a pickle shop.

With small pouch in her hand

She walked faster than the air

And reached the end of the lane

The pickles she brought enlightened the face

Of a bed ridden child on the surface

Was it salty than my sweat

Was the name of god engraved

Was it served with flowers and bribe

Or simply as a mean to survive

I know not what magic she did

A sight as imploring as the weed

The answer I did not get

Who was to love and whom to hate

Who was the good who the evil

Which is heaven, and which is hell?

The upraised could not bring smile

With the worshipped bile

The indecorous women lost her all,

To enlighten the little soul.





Erase my memory of you

From my heart, nerves and sinew

Return my time spent with you

Those little walks on the dew

Return my ardent devotion

Motionless rendition,

Of irrepressible love.

Stab the promises that you bestowed

Holding hands under the banyan shadow.



Those nights of cold and thunder

I with you, your limbs asunder,

Those days you barely walked by the stream,

Under the morning beam,

The only shadow other than yours

That walked the glittering stream

Is left abandoned in the abyss

Her acid- burnt face chooses to cease,

Her existence in the societal niche.




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