Note: Nupur has written a couple of prose pieces that could easily be classified as poems. They have a discernible rhythm, and, instead of telling a story, they capture a moment. It’s her first literary contribution to Mehfil on Substack, and I hope for many more in the future. I specify ‘literary’ because she has been with us since the very beginning as the designer of our logos and headers. - Rahul Singh
Forgotten Amidst Troubled Waters
I was never meant to be here.
Perhaps once I had a purpose. I must have carried something important—grains for a hungry family? Offerings for the gods? Or maybe just the weight of a labourer’s daily toil? I was held, used and valued. Hands that once gripped me with need, loosened their hold. Now discarded, I am left to the mercy of the winds, the streets, and finally the river.
Now, I just drift.
The water laps against my torn edges, pulling me deeper into the slow-moving currents of the Ganges, the river that has carried the hopes, dreams and sins of millions for generations. But I'm not alone. I float alongside souls yearning for redemption, trinkets lost from trembling hands, and ashes of the departed.
All come seeking purity. But what do they leave behind?
The air vibrates with chants, the ringing of temple bells, the voices of a million souls converging at the Sangam. The waters merge here, so do the lives of those who seek something.
I see them all, the pilgrims stepping into the water, shivering then surrendering. The elderly, their hands clasped in prayer, their bodies frail but their faith unshaken. The ascetics, their matted hair and ash-covered skin tell stories of renunciation.
All believe that the mother will wash away their sins, and she accepts them as she always does.
Yet beneath the murky waters, stories sleep, stories that no one tells, stories that no one sees. I pass over the ruins of forgotten civilisations, where once proud palaces and temples now crumble beneath the weight of time. I glide over the bones of nameless souls, carried away by the currents, into the arms of the deep heart of their distant mother. Shadows of the past glide through each wave, of warriors who once rode into battle, of lovers who once made silent promises on these very banks, of lost children whose cries were swallowed.
The Maha Kumbh will end. The crowds will leave, the echoes of prayer will fade into distant memory. But my mother will carry everything into her womb.
As I continue to drift in her arms, a forgotten piece of faith’s aftermath, lost in the ebb and flow of time. Always wondering - will they ever truly see me? As the sun sets, I am left with no answers.
Only the slow, inevitable pull of the currents, carrying me forward, deeper into the abyss of stories that no one remembers. Yet, I am just a sack.
Golden Stillness
The amber liquid sat poised, half-filled, listening. It had grown accustomed to these quiet nights, the kind that invites contemplation softly turning—the murmurs of an unread book, and the silent company of a potted plant. There was something poetic about their existence, a companionship bound not by movement, but by the stillness they share.
“Another evening, then?” Amber mused, its surface catching the glow of the dim light above. Tiny bubbles clung to the inner walls like distant stars refusing to let go. Countless nights like this, where time unravelled slowly, where thought weighed heavier than actions.
“Yes,” sighed the book beneath it, its spine stretching slightly, tired from being left unopened for far too long. “How do you live?” by Genzaburo Yoshino, glowed faintly under the soft night lamp standing beside it. It was a question as old as human consciousness, one that had been asked many times, never a perfect answer.
The succulent plant chuckled softly, “you two dwell too much in waiting,” it said, its thick green leaves basking in the muted night light. “I simply exist. No expectations, no worries. Just growth.”
“But what is life without longing? The desire to be read, to be understood, to leave an imprint on someone’s soul?” sighed the wise book.
Amber considered this. Was that not its own fate as well? To be lifted, to be savoured, to disappear sip by sip, leaving only a trace of warmth behind? Was that not, in a way, its purpose?
“Perhaps,” the succulent murmured, “but existence itself is enough for me.”
The conversation settled into a comfortable hush. The night deepened, the shadows stretched, and the air grew thick with quiet companionship. Somewhere beyond them, the world carried on – people engaged in conversations and the city pulsed but here, within this moment, time stood still.
Then, a presence. A hand reaching for the book, fingers brushing against the spine before hesitating. Another hand lifted the glass, tilting it ever so slightly. The amber felt the familiar pull, the anticipation of fulfilment. It warmed under the touch, knowing its moment had arrived.
The night stretched on, embracing them all in its velvety quiet. The amber, the book, the succulent, and the reader—bound together in this ephemeral moment, sharing a silence that spoke louder than words.
For now, they simply were. And that was enough.
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