From my window seat


Of all the countless stars I see
And the dim lights across the field
And the stations carelessly passed
I finally breathe.

When you’re rushing, rushing
against time
And then you look up at the sky
Of all the countless stars you see
One shines bright.

Across the moors there is a frail
road; a lone bike stands by
Staring at the passing train
The calves graze on
Unperturbed, .

A dim lantern keeps its stand
Protector of the muddy homes
Kingdom under thatched roofs –
Of all the darkness that I see
I see you, if I close my eyes.

Sleepless night of sleepy eyes
Herb and water sits by my side.
The train halts as dawn
Creeps in.
I order two butter omelette fries.


When you lose your poetry

When you lose your poetry to the wind,

it hurts.

Rendered voiceless, you

lie on your bed face down

and let your tears burn holes on the

pillowcase. The unwashed stink sneaks

stealthily and knocks rudely. You hush it


The street lamp stares at you. It doesn’t

know where your poetry is. A single frail

page. GOT watermarked. Blue ink on old

paper. Where’d you go?

Documenting 1.3 : Our Story by Antara and Sourjya

Hi everyone!

Recently, Papercup held its Poetry Slam 0.5 at Oxford bookstore and me and Sourjya decided to participate. This is my second time slamming and Sourjya’s first. Hope you guys like it. 🙂

Love, Antara.

( )


There were fights

When I was 6.

Angry slurs and misinterpreted

Dreams. Big words in the big world.

I used to cry a lot

And my brother held me

Hugged me and promised that

Everything would be all right.


He was right.


When there were people

Eating me up with their

Inquisitions… I

felt like packing my bag

My crayons, my books, my toothbrush

And just leave. They were bad people.

Nosy people.

Breaking my globe into two pieces.

Probing us to choose sides.

Brother scolded; knocked

sense into their heads.

They left me alone.

No buzz in my head anymore.


Brother, the savior.


I was 13 then. I’m 20 now.

We’re grown adults.

My 30 year old brother still

Saves me when

I’m grasping for air.

When the demons are back.

When I have accepted the raging war

to be my own. He shakes me as if

waking me up from a bad dream.

His shoulders droopy from the world’s weight

His eyes sunk. His lips battling to fake a smile.


I can see his tears when I fight back.


We don’t talk about friends,

lovers or troubling matters.

We don’t take cigarette breaks together

We don’t get high. Our shoes are

rooted and caged to the ground.

We don’t need to talk. He


He hears without me saying.

The moment I slip. The moment

the life-ending thoughts pour

into my veins… I know

he’ll rush and grab my hand

And pull me out of the sealed jar.


“I’m messed up.” I croak.

“I know. But I’m still here.”

May 3 – The Little Things

A little thing.

A few days back, when my exams were still on, as a routine, I asked my dad to iron my kurti for me( since I didn’t have time and was busy revising stuff. Bleh 😛 ). When I came to my room, after my shower, I found (along with the ironed kurti), two little handkerchiefs neatly folded and ironed on my bed.
It made me happy.
As simple as that.
These lil acts of care or whatever you choose to call it, matter to me.
In all probability, I would have hurried and picked up a creasy handkerchief and left. But the fact that dad notices things…and helps me out by doing his bit, means a lot to me. He needn’t have. But he did. And even at 60, he does everything to make my life easier and better. My old man makes me happy. 