A heartfelt tribute to unheard poets whose words leave an indelible mark on our hearts.

SOMETHING OF AN INDIVIDUAL

“Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.”

~ Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

It was quiet. It has been, for the past few months. It’s the blue, I think. The blue of the walls, the pencases, the makeshift board, too many of the books- it’s a miserably beautiful colour. Seems to comfort you as it draws away all warmth, all mirth.

Time doesn’t move in a house so still, so devoid of the allures of charm. It’s almost cold to the touch in its immobility- one blink and the day is lost. In all this stillness, you begin to lose yourself, bit by bit. At first, it’s the water left running, the fruit peeled and uneaten, and soon enough, you’ve lost a day and never blinked. One of these days, it will be a month and I’ll be free from it. They’ll find me somewhere quieter than here.

My mother always says that a house in disorder is a mind out of order. She made sure I had an occupation, of course. Sunlight helps. So does exercise.

I prefer cleaning though. It’s symbolic in its simplicity. Smoothening sheets and sofa covers, correcting bookshelves: I rid it of all its shabbiness, in parts. Made the house look unlived in.

I often fear I’m individualistic because I’m too measly to take in the whole. That too much overwhelms me. That the room itself might seem to swallow me whole, but somehow staring at the wall proves a haven?

My frailty was often a cause of concern at my grandmother’s home. I resemble her little in features, but I carry her argumentative spirit, the will to rip out the other’s throat if need be. I’ve grown to like her less and love her more, if such a thing is possible. She’s outspoken and rude, and she’s the best of the lot.

My mother, on the other hand, I’ve only ever loved. I think it’s her that I owe this solitude to. I have no need of company, I’m a tuneful myself. I don’t know if that’s independence or being lonesome. I never could tell.

In my sister, I see a friend. She’s the one I love most truly, if it ever came down to it. More so, she’s someone to protect and shield against everything that may come. Again, it’s when I recognise these traits that I see my mother in me: a need for things to be in order, for people to stay safe and in their lane, whenever possible. In this case, grandma’s anger comes in handy.

I believe I come from a long line of women who could not do as they pleased, so they bowed their heads in failed complicity. No one missed the rage festering under the surface I suppose. They daren’t mention it though. Not if life is to go as is.

The others held their own quite well. I can’t really say the same for myself. It seems rage burns through the very medium in which it blooms. My mother took quite a shine to it. She’s rather the sole heiress of it all. Straightened them all out for good. I’m what’s left of it all.

It’s getting colder by the day. I loved the winter once. It is now a reminder at best. What is it like to be the ashen remains, with your predecessors so alive, so passionate? I wouldn’t know. All I know is that I blink and a day is lost. Soon it will be a month, and I’ll be in a place much quieter, more blue.

-Yashi Sharma