There is a little voice That lives in all our heads. It may be your parent or your sibling or your friend. Everytime you think something That little voice becomes the censor with scissors. It judges you, it praises you, it even berates. Sometimes, it becomes louder and irritates. No, it is not your conscious or the voice that tells you right from wrong. That voice is a quiet whisper This voice is loud and strong. This voice is about people pleasing. What will he or she say. That voice doesnt care about people It only wants you to do the right thing everyday. No doubt, our folks want the best for us But they human too, Everything that scares them, they will tell you not to do. Their right and wrong is about how safe you’ll be The greater good they sometimes dont see. So, remember that the world we live in today, Our parents couldn’t even imagine yesterday. So take their advise but dont live by their fear of the unknown For had our scientists or inventors listened to that voice Human kind wouldnt have progressed or grown. – Shailaza
Malashri Lal believes that poems help in healing one’s self because when a poet writes pure emotions. She feels that everyone is a poet though everyone may not be Kalidas or Valmiki. To her, Bhopa singer dancing in Rajasthan is as much a poet as a person who is reciting poetry in the by lanes of Shanti Niketan.
Malashri Lal has been writing poems for decades. She feels that poems help in releasing all the emotions on to the paper and letting go.
How does poetry help in healing the heart?
I have been writing personal poetry for a long time. Poetry helps in healing because you write your emotions out of yourself. When you look for words, it helps and then you need precise words. So, if someone is writing about losing a friend, he will not look for a word like sorrow which is quite common place but he will use words like angst or anguish or trauma. In doing so, I think you actually enter the premises of healing. A prose needs narrative but a poetry doesn’t. It just needs images and phrases. Personally, I think every one is a poet in some way.
You seem to be very fond of Sita. Many poems in the book talk about her.
Sita has seeped into my consciousness ever since Namita Gokhale and I wrote “In Search of Sita”. It was the first of our Goddess trilogy books we did. When we were working on our book on Sita and we were looking at her as a figure of strength, intelligence and decision making, she sort of became a part of psyche. We were getting into her mind and thoughts and therefore giving her dialogues, conversations and scenarios. I wrote this poem at a time when there had been a fair amount of discussion in the newspapers regarding Sita’s rasoi which was an area which was found during the excavations in Ayodhya. It struck me at that time that generally we think of rasoi as being the centre and the heart of the mother’s domain. Sita in my mind stood for equality, fairness and justice, I could just imagine her sitting and making rotis not only for her two children but also for a third orphan child who would be a playmate. There was a mix of what I had grown up with that you play with the children your age, doesn’t matter what caste or community they come from. That is what I had seen in Jaipur. The notion of mathematical equality is very different to woman’s idea of equality because emotions always have a part to play and that is what I have tried to portray in this poem.
//Sita’s Rasoi
“Maternity calls for justice, no favourite child.
Sita’s rasoi, a stone slab on which warmed single mounds of flour rest. Rotis dance into a shape, flat, brown-edged, uneven rounds.
Take one each, Little Bakha, you too. Be sure it’s an equal share, not a morsel must exceed anyone’s due.
What did you say— the rotis are not exact rounds so what is an equal share?
That puzzles a mathematical man Who may know enough to solve this query. Uneven jagged edges, uncertainties they might mull over as Father, Priest, Teacher. “//
But Sita seeped into your consciousness so much that she even followed you to Italy in the poem Bellagio, Italy?
I don’t find that strange at all. You see, Namita Gokhale and I had a joint fellowship at this place called Bellagio which is a residency run by the Harvard University. It is fully funded, month-long residency. We got the opportunity because we had finished writing our manuscript (“In Search of Sita” and we were now editing it. When you are editing, you need to be together much more. We applied for this residency and we got it. It was a huge, beautiful estate on the banks of Lake Como. So, Sita was with us in Bellagio. It was February, the trees were covered with snow. They had icicles, some of which had melted while some were still suspended on the trees. Sometimes, the sun would sparkle through these icicles. We found a grotto there during one of our daily walks. Interestingly, no one knew what it was or who it was for. It didn’t feature in any of the material that we had read about the place and history. So, we did our own research and came upon the history of this Celtic Goddess whose name was Belisama. She, like many ancient goddesses including Gaia was linked to the earth. It was then that this link happened between Sita and Belisama in my mind.
//Bellagio, Italy
“Belisama’s shrine and Sita’s exile, Met strangely on the hilltop of an ancient manor house Villa Serbolini, Bellagio, overlooking Lake Como. “How did I come here?” asked the prisoner of Ashoka Van ”Was it the power of a writer’s pen that propelled this journey?” “A Goddess lives beyond time and geography,” Said the deity of the Lake Remembering hoary Roman times Celtic chalice of stone and water from secret wells.
Sita of my imagination followed me Through the snow-clad landscape of pines Pendent with glistening drops of ice Sita murmured to me of her travails and her choices Sita was completely at home in what I thought was an alien space For she and the Celtic Goddess had a common sisterhood In Endurance and in Hope.”//
Your poem “Hawa Mahal” talks about some latent desires.
I wrote this poem for two reasons. One it was such an obvious tourist spot. Second, the from the very childhood, I had always wondered why would any one put up a façade with nothing behind it? Then I used to talk to my father about the architecture and purdah since he was history person. Purdah is not just about certain clothes, there are different types of purdahs like there is a Janana Mahal and Mardana Mahal where you have segregated domestic spaces. Then I realized that it was made so that women could sit behind those jalis and look down upon the procession that happened along the Jauhri bazaar road. I imagined this whole idea of a very restricted childhood and adolescence of girl children growing up in traditional Rajput homes. You see all this traditional pageantry, this beauty on the walls of the havelis where there are so many paintings. So, you see a lot of romance depicted around you but it is prohibited in your life till you are married off to someone who you hardly know or don’t even know. A lot of my MGD classmates were Rajputs. So, this whole idea of watching from behind the veil with desires playing up since you are young woman. You dream of romance and see so much of it depicted around you like the Rajput paintings. It is all about of longing and desire.
//Hawa Mahal
“Who sits behind those tiered windows Arched like Ram’s bow Waiting to tremble into action For a hunt yet to start? A princess in royal blue The colour of Diwali Peers from the shadows Looking eagerly at the carriages below Thirsting for a paramour Not yet known.
Cloistered girlhood, Guarded puberty, Controlled womanhood How did she learn to dream Of love and desire? Was it from the legends of Krishna Intricately drawn on the walls? Was it her prayers which held hidden meaning In pursuing the call of the flute?”//
Shila Devi to me is a metaphor for migrant identity. Actually, at one time I was seriously thinking of doing a book on the link between Bengal and Rajasthan. Shila Devi is one of the earliest examples of how a stone image from Jessore came to Raja Mansingh in a dream (as the legend says). Along with her came the cooks and the pujaris who were and still are Bengalis. Half our school teachers in MGD were Bengali. Many doctors were also Bengalis. All of these came because of their jobs and settled here. Both the worlds (Bengali and Rajasthani) existed together. Shila Devi came to me as a migrant divinity and therefore legitimizing migrant movement as something that was positive. Personally, I needed that in my life. For a long time, I had a very split identity which I have written about and spoken about where I was from or who I was. Today, I can say that I am from Rajasthan but I am a Bengali. That time, I used to console myself thinking that even Shila Devi came from Jessore to Rajasthan.
//Shila Devi of Amber
“Gilded silver doors encase me now with a retinue of priests who determine my hours of shayan, darshan and bhog. I think of my freedoms in Jessore
In a marshy pit, I lay hidden When Mansingh found me as a black miracle stone. I travelled to the golden Rajasthan. Honour, glory, wealth was mine, but what happened to my companions in the marsh? The dolorous fish, the raucous frogs, the earth-hugging worms? Did they find adoration too?”//
You have dedicated your book “Mandalas of Time” to the poets under the Pilkhan tree. What is your relationship with the Pilkhan tree?
The Pilkhan tree is a humongous tree in our garden which is three storeys high. Ours is a bungalow in the heart of Delhi. When we were house hunting about eight years back, the tree in this place somehow spoke to me. I don’t claim that I have any mystical connection with objects of nature but I think I am attuned to them in a way. We often organize Pilkhan poetry sessions under this tree with a group of 20 people. We celebrate being together, reading poetry and books and finally we cut a cake and have eats. I believe the Pilkhan tree is almost like a witness to whatever is going on in the house. It keeps listening quietly to everything. I spend a lot of time sitting under the tree.
//Another New Year
“The Pilkhan tree nods its farewell to the year. Its squirrels scamper looking for nuts left over From Christmas festivities And the days of social revelry The Pilkhan is tired of hearing Scandal, gossip, jokes Of the young The worries and health bulletins of the old, The strategic plans of family and builders OF knocking down the old house For commercial profit.
The Pilkhan tree thinks of its many years Of shedding leaves, bearing inedible fruit, of losing limbs But smiles at his troubles being far less Thank of unfortunate humans Who kill each other in word and deed But gather around the tree each Christmas With fulsome gifts and vacant smiles To bring in another New Year.
Concluded
This article by Shailaza Singh appeared in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on April 28th, 2024
The poet in Malashri Lal is a quiet observer. She finds her muse everywhere; in her daily life and in the people she meets. Her poems talk to and talk about everything that catches her attention- from trees to lost souls to flowers and even Gulzar Sa’ab.
How does a poet write a poem? Is it a logical process like prose or is it a play of mind, intuition, experiences? Malashri Lal believes that the process of writing a poem involves more than just words and rhythm.
There must be some kind of a serendipity and intuition at play when writing a poem?
Both happen. Serendipity also happens and the accidental development of a poem also happens. I had written a poem about Geeta Chandran, a well-known dancer and a very good friend. I had gone to see Geeta. She was doing this absolutely stunning performance which is on the life of Gandhi. She is such a beautiful dancer and she did that whole thing wearing a stark white saree with a black border. She did not wear a kanjeevaram saree like the dancers usually wear. There were no props, nothing! I was so moved with what she had done with the Charkha and Gandhi using simply light. I came and wrote this poem and sent it off to Geeta and Rajiv. She liked it so much that she shared it with everyone.
Geeta Chandran
//In Gandhi’s Shadow “For Geeta Chandran
The dancer’s taut body Bent to the bullets of Of hate embedded in the history Of my country, Her body curved into the grace Of supple Satyagraha Pangs of hunger Self-induced silence Never retaliating when violated By lathi charge, insults, aggression.
The scavengers bent double To scoop up human waste While others blocked their nose And eyes and ears to the wretched poor.
Gandhi watched alone Stricken to the core by the Assaults on human dignity.
The dancer’s hands wove subtle ropes On the invisible charkha The warp and weft of India’s Independence That even today drives us together And also apart While Bapu sighs, Hey Ram.”//
Malashri Lal with Geeta Chandran
It is interesting that you have written a poem on the poet himself!
I along with some others in a group had worked very closely with Gulzar sa’ab on a project in Chamba in 2010 or 2012. It was about preserving the old history of older women. We had done a conference in the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies (formerly known as the Vice Regal Lodge) in Shimla with Gulzar Sa’ab. This building is quite old. It has a seminar room which is quite beautiful. It has silk brocade walls and chandeliers. Gulzar Sa’ab was reading his famous poem “Kitabe jhankti hai band almari ke sheesha se” in that room. It goes back to those old days when boys and girls could not communicate directly with each other and hence they use to hide love notes and petals pressed in these books and meet on the pretext of returning the books. A world that today’s children will never recognize. It struck me that he was reading it at time when digitization had come in and hence, I wrote this poem.
// A Poet’s Remembrance For Gulzar Sa’ab
In the brocade-lined old hall, the poet read, Kitabe jhankti hai band almari ke sheesha se And time stood still while images wrote their story in the air Resonant with words His deep gentle voice and crisp words meld lyric and memory Of yesteryears without digital exuberance When love was wrapped in dried rose peals And modesty was not an anti-feminist term Libraries of books have lost their role as mediators in young romance The ubiquitous cell phone has abbreviated both love and intimacy The poet though nostalgic has a wry smile Giving voice to those pages locked behind the glass.”//
Your poem “Afternoon Serenade” talks about lost souls in search of company.
Yes. I frequent this place in Delhi where a lot of elderly people come and I have years of memory of older aunts and uncles frequenting that place. You can go there any time after 4 in the evening and they are always willing to give you a coffee and a pastry or a patty. In Delhi, people don’t visit each other’s homes like they do in Jaipur, so a lot of elderly people find company in such places around Delhi. These places are impersonal, affordable, beautiful and you are not obligated to anyone. I used to feel so grateful for such places for these elderly people because had they not been there, they would have been sitting alone in their homes. Whenever I go there, it is a kind of an impromptu companionship where you will meet someone or the other and then have coffee with them or go for a walk with them. Many such people I know live completely on their own. They aren’t financially dependent and have caregivers but where is the human company or the intellectual companionship. These are people who have been government officers, professors, they have had positions of authority; today they are sit and read the newspapers in such places. But the image that I want to convey through this is a positive image because these people still have places like these where they can find company and spend their time nicely.
Malashri Lal with the Directors of Hawakal Publishers: Kiriti Sengupta and Bitan Chakraborty
//Afternoon Serenade
“Lost souls in search of company Seek out tables Overlooking the pond Staring at the water and trees beyond Pretending not to hear The loneliness within That yearns for voices And finds it answered by birds Longs for movement Kindly activated by squirrels Hopes for glorious flights Then finds butterflies enacting this dream In teacups, the images float one into another While the afternoon turns to dusk God’s creatures steal into their nests and lairs, The lost souls wrap blankets of forgetfulness Around their frail shoulders And quietly doze into the next dawn.”//
So, when you visit such places, you write your poems there and then? Do you carry a pen and paper with you?
Yes, sometimes I write it there and then and sometimes the image stays with me and I come back home and write it. These days, I write my poems on my phone and email them to myself. Before the phone, I used to write them in diaries or pieces of paper.
What is the story behind the poem “Easter Lilies in an Empty Home”? Whose home is this?
When I shifted into this other house (which belonged to my parents) that we have in Jaipur due to personal reasons, I had bought some Easter lilies that had been in the old house right from my parents’ time and planted them here. I live in Delhi and visit Jaipur every now and then. But now what happens is every April, these bulbs have proliferated. I do nothing during the year. But every April it is like a riot of colours with these lilies. Every year, the bulbs are growing in numbers. I wrote this poem in the April of 2023. I feel lilies are a message from somewhere as if to say that we are still there in your life, don’t worry.
//Easter Lilies in an Empty Home “ ‘Come’ they call out, ‘It’s the season of forgiveness’ A hundred lilies stand tall Renewed by the magic of seasons The pink stripes may be scars from yesteryear The white streaks are healing balm To be washed by the dew The supple leaves flat and curved cradle the flowers that have no other family Some do, maybe three lilies on a stem But they squabble like siblings Pushing for space They calmly grace the garden of a silent home The owners alive only in obituaries The lilies don’t worry on that count Buried bulbs know they will creep upwards in season Life’s renewal is a beautiful certainty.”//
There is another poem in which you talk about your mother. I wrote this poem when I was abroad visiting my son and daughter-in-law. We were on a vacation somewhere and I was looking at the sky changing colours in the evening. Somehow this poem came to me. I lost both my parents in a tragic car accident. I was very close to my parents. They were my friends, teachers and mentors. I had a very open relationship with both of them. They had a very complimentary relationship with each other. My father never went to the kitchen. Not that he didn’t want to but he made such a mess of it that my mother told him to stay out and let the cook handle everything. Today, there are these talks about feminism and equality. My concept is somewhat different. A relationship between a husband and wife should be more about complimentary rather than division of labour.
Dreaming of Ma by the Sea You live somewhere between the black night and the bright star, Free of body and its temporal limits. In green leaves turning to red in a mellow autumn I catch a glimpse of the saree pallav on that day You knew life was short and might become shorter. In the shimmer of an unsteady wave on the lake I recall your tremulous smile when you whispered trying a hopeless cure, In the rough hewn rocks that line the harbour, I remember your will to fight an uneven battle with the rouge cells. Here, on shores unknown to you and me, We meet again. When the dark sky rests on the sparkle of stars, Living and dying are no longer apart. ..To be continued
This article by Shailaza Singh appeared in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on Saturday 27 April 2024.
You said you wanted to be my best friend You said we will be more than friends You said our relationship will be special You said there will be no judgements You said you will always be there You said you will always care My heart thought it had found its mate I thought I could finally thank fates I stopped looking For I believed it to be you. And then you vanished. Long conversations were replaced by a loud silence That laughed at me and said YOU DAMN LOVE SEEKING FOOL!WHEN WIL YOU EVER LEARN? – Shailaza
Those eyes gaze at me With a semblance of a smile Or perhaps it is my imagination She doesn’t speak Everyday we sing to her, we praise her Shower her with flowers In the hope that she show us her power Day after day songs of hope resound on her walls like a prayer Unheard pleas wonder if she is really there? The bells vying for her attention Hoping for a miracle to see life through Some one’s granted wish gives hope anew Time works as her agent it seems Gently weaving desires through reality and dreams She stands there impassive watching over the night and day While laughing anklets dance and tinkle away What does she think, what does she do? Is she different or is she just like me or you? She invites questions but answers come on their own pace The eyes of the seeker arrested by the face Silent tears ask her for peace and solace They promise a lifetime of devotion in return for some grace.
What if I miss out on a relationship? Or have no love in life at all? What if I don’t get anyone? No one to date or no one to call? Fears like these make us vulnerable To predaters, narcissists and many more. Because of this fear, we accept anything that knocks at our door. What if my true love never came? What if I lose the dating game? What if this person is really a good guy? What if love passes me by? These fears take away the patience that we need To sift through abusers and genuine love that is not fueled by greed. Any true love or person has inbuilt patience to let you explore. They have the time to tell you more. A genuine friendship will develop with the right mate. Heaven will give you signs and so will fate. So stop having these fears before it is too late. Wait patiently for someone who wants everything that is you. Genuine, understanding and willing to start something new Wait for true love or nothing at all. Fear or love, now that’s your call.
Somewhere I had read that we as souls Are complete and whole Yet we come to this earth to experience our own light We choose lifetimes, we choose our parents and we choose our troubles and plight. That those who have an easy life now Have had a difficult life before They are merely resting on this planet Before they sign up for more. That those who are experiencing turmoil and strife Want to awaken and experience their own power in this life. That those we meet in our lifetimes as our friends and foes. Are merely playing their part to help us grow. They challenge us, trouble us so that we experience our light So that we realize and know. I heard it from someone very wise Soon this drama will end We all will exit this stage and meet our friends without their disguise And see their faces beautiful and bright.. And remember once again that we all are nothing but light… -Shailaza
Maybe Some day, you a stranger Will chance upon these lines. Addressed to you. Unknown to the poet You will wonder what is it that it wants to say? All these poems in this address Are moments of the poet’s love, ecstasy even despair. May be when you will read this, the poet may not even be there. But just like we earthlings have been sending messages of hope into the deep space. Hoping to meet someone who understands This poem is on similar lines May be some day tempted by fate or some plan divine You would come here and discover some words That have been spoken but not heard You may be tempted to explore, To perhaps knock at the door Of this rambling house in the wild. Perhaps the creaking, rickety door Will be opened by a gnarled old lady Or a young inquisitive child. Maybe you will be invited in And led by your curiosity You will inquire about these jewels so carelessly strewn And whether you can collect them to shape them into something for the world. It is then the poet would know that all her prayers have been finally heard. -Shailaza
Dear books, my best friends I am sorry I abandoned you for so long. The glitzy phone and its shenanigans distracted me. The lure of an insta reel. Made me yearn and feel. Emotions suppressed and unrealized They danced and twirled In front of my eyes. The fear of missing out Made me watch every fb story. I was so jealous of everyone else’s perfection That I forgot to revel in my own glory. Dear books, I now know your magic is subtle and true. I can travel this world and other worlds with you. With you more gray cells grow in my brain. With those instas and fb, it is more of a brain drain. Your presence enhances my knowledge, makes me wise. Their stories are mostly made up, blatant lies. The slow magic in your pages, Gives me the wisdom of ages. In the company of long gone sages. So I have come back to you..this time never to part. It is time to rekindle our lost love. It is never too late to restart. – Shailaza Singh
In a world where there is no dearth of words, Where all talks of love seem so made up and absurd, How does one believe when words are so carelessly thrown, How does one trust where stories of betrayal are all well known The cajoling, the gentle persuasion are all so sadly amiss, No longer do people reminisce about their very first kiss. Physical closeness is more in trend these days, But once that aim is achieved love hardly stays. Fear rules, Those hungry beasts love to fool, They seduce, conquer, move on and feel so cool. Transactional reltionships flood the land. No one to actually talk those sweet nothings, No one to understand. Where are those days of sweet, idyllic talks Of the stolen moments and the rambling country walks. Of those scented letters that promised a forever. Unlike the short messages of today that threaten a now or never. Of the romance and the wooing of the lady with ardor and passion. Today, short term or no term encounters are such a rampant fashion. The heart is dismayed The head is bewildered With the animals that abound and the jungle thats grown. In such a world, how does one step into the great unknown? Shailaza Singh
A friend asked me what kind of guy do I seek? Someone outspoken or someone meek. What is it that I am looking for? I said I was really not sure. I dont have any experience in dating men, I have seen men who are gruff but softies from the heart, I have observed even those who look good but are crooks from the start. There are those who wear their heart on their sleeve, And some who cant do without their pet peeve. But then all of them are good or crazy in some way, So one cannot really decide in a day. A relationship is born like a baby and has to be nutured like one. A tapestry so fine that pull one thread ever so slightly And the whole work is undone. But then how does one know the right choice? Is it the face or the walk or the countenance or the voice? Perhaps it is a thing beyond any logic of the heart and mind. Perhaps my soul will know my mate when it finds. For across the time and space there is something that binds. May be its the universal play of energy, matter that takes a form, Or may be there is an eternal magic spell Which is awakened in ever heart so that it can recognize and tell. So how do I know what will be his form, shape or size.. All I pray is that I be given the power to see through the disguise.
I wish I could hug you stranger Or cry my heart out, held in your arms. I wont know you, you wont know me. Anonymous masks we would wear. Who are you or who am I, We wouldn’t ask , we wouldn’t care. So much that this heart wants to say, Unknown emotions, feelings at play. I wish I could gaze deep into your eyes, Pools of compassion that they are. Perhaps some where in those bright orbs. I would find my north star. I wish I could whisper in your ear The incessant longings and yearnings of my dark night May be that would heal my soul, May be that would be my respite. May be as we unload our burdens And go our separate ways… May be our nights would become calmer And brighter would be our days… – Shailaza singh
Sometimes you find strangers are better to help you let go..
Just the other day, I went out with someone, Who was nice and kind , But didn’t feel like the ‘one’ But as he and I talked about all things under the sun, It gave me an insight about how life would be with the right one. He was a friend with no inkling of romance, But with him I could imagine that ‘one’ dance. Staying awake till the wee hours of dawn, Sitting in a place late after the crowds have gone, While he showed me places which otherwise I would have never seen, He did nothing but just by being there he fostered a new dream, As my mind wandered and wondered what it would be like to be with the right someone With the feeling he evoked and the vision he sparked.. The placeholder’s job was done!
Some old clothes are not to throw away, Some old clothes you should try again one day. To see how much you’ve changed. Some old clothes when you wear again To see the weight loss or gain Some old clothes you wear to remember who you are No matter how cloudy the night, you are still what you once were- a beautiful star. People say you shouldn’t dwell in the past, ‘Cause the days never last. Yes tis’ true that you should keep moving ahead because life is always about the new, But some old clothes help you in making friends with the old ‘you’ Not that you shouldn’t throw away the old.. But some old clothes that show you who you really are or how far you’ve come are just pure gold. – Shailaza Singh
We grow crops of all kinds, Now let us start growing entrepreneurial minds. Young people who don’t look for jobs But create their own enterprise. Independent, small, self sufficient business owners Who can employ themselves and create jobs too Not Birlas or Tatas or Ambanis But people like me and you. Let them be supported in every way, Let them become successful So that others do what they do, And listen to what they say. So far, people have been going abroad, To pursue success, Because their own country wasn’t conducive to their growth, Didn’t support them or give them access. Let India now become a growth giant That nurtures home grown enterprises And helps them grow beyond their imagination, What will it take for us to become such a innovative nation?
Someone who writes horror, Isn’t usually haunted by demons or ghosts. Someone who writes or does comedy, Is not always a happy soul. Dark sounding works of art, Aren’t always products of a depressed brain. Works of art are intutive expressions They don’t mean that the creator is under some depression. There are phases when words flow in a certain way Like this poem that you are reading today, But that does not mean That the creator is upset or sad, Just like a limerick does not mean that the poet has gone mad. The moon has phases Sometimes dark, sometimes light and those in between Don’t go beyond the face value or the words Nothing is real Nothing is what it seems – Shailaza Singh
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