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Poems by Sonam C

Sonam C


Delhi

After Rafael Campo’s California

I used to dream of living there, I used

to carry tons of bags to claim spaces

that I wish were mine when barricades and

tight securities meant patrolling in

places I considered free, I was left

to ponder exits and entry points in

case our hostels were attacked, in case an

intolerant grabbed hold of my door, or

thrash’d glasses on the floor, I slept with eyes

wide awake, on some other days stood

staring at vacant sky, as fear clinked tight like choker on my neck, nobody knew how

to stay calm, perhaps the corridors knew my hushed steps, or the moon heard my silent wailings,

as this was nothing like the Delhi my sister told me about, partial truth never

filled emptiness except new meanings of suffering, I thought how foolish was I

to think of escaping to Delhi, when

others think of running to the mountains,

I chose Dilli- of poets and mystiques- and

am left answering its weather, the

hues at night time. In nostalgic moorings,

I remember how this city welcomed me,

right now as I look outside at sunset

and moonshine, I recall Delhi's kindness

in welcoming wanderers, and half poets

like me. I wonder if these thoughts had

occurred, if hell hadn't broken loose, if

I was able to close some doors and begin

exploring new baroque windows. I am

imagining incidents, I see myself dreaming

of forging a new mountain tale, of

staying hopeful of living in Delhi again.





An elegy (visual poetry)


I

have always

wondered how my parents saw

the mountains as their own, curious of their abilities

to care for them as if they were siblings. Heights incomparable,

dark green cover filled with junipers, juxtaposed with another range of pictures,

the mountains look vertical in pictures and real-life, one mistake and off you go down

the aisle of death. I have always

wondered why deities filled the voids, in our hearts and

forested zones, perhaps they had forecasted a death bigger than the extinction of their kind. When the mountains were cut and tunnels strewn, my mother

didn't cry as she did when her cattle died, but whenever we crossed the tunnel, we always turned the window up, to avoid the stench that smelled like carcass

of the mountains we once loved. I have always wondered if we’ll ever get the chance to roll down the windows and slap fresh air across our faces; alas, it is one

of my dreams that'll never come true.


 

About the writer:

Sonam C (Instagram- @_s.tsomo_ ) belongs to the hills. She is currently a postgraduate student of literature at JNU, Delhi. She surprises people with her love for the mountains, food, dance and anime.

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