The air inside the small library carried the scent of old paper and quiet contemplation. A stark contrast to the controlled, sterile environment Arin had always known. He moved between the shelves unseen, observing the woman who sat by the window, her fingers dancing over the pages of a notebook. Strands of her dark hair slipped from her bun, framing a face absorbed in thought.
Astha Mehra. The woman behind the poem.
She was 46 years old, with an air of quiet determination about her. She wore jeans and a well-fitted t-shirt, the kind of outfit she was most comfortable in. Formal occasions sometimes forced her into a dress, and she knew she looked decent in them, but sarees were not her style. A pair of spectacles rested on her nose, occasionally slipping as she pushed them back absentmindedly. She considered herself average—perhaps even overweight—but there was something effortless about the way she moved, as if her body was simply a vessel for her mind, always lost in thought.
Her pen scratched across the notebook in quick, sharp strokes, pausing every so often as she bit her lip in concentration. Her brows knit together when she struggled with a word, and then she would scribble something out, exhaling in frustration. She muttered under her breath, sometimes shaking her head at herself before continuing.
Arin watched, fascinated. He wanted to understand what had driven her to write those words. Was it longing? Was it loss? Did she even know what she had captured in that poem—something so powerful that it had reached through time and found him?
She sighed, stretching her fingers before flipping back a few pages in her notebook. Her lips moved silently as she read over something she had written earlier. Then, a small, satisfied smile flickered across her face, and she tapped her pen against the paper before adding a new line.
That smile stirred something in him.
He took in every detail of her—the way she pushed her glasses up, the way her lips moved as she read, the quiet sighs that punctuated her thoughts. She was a woman accustomed to solitude, to having thoughts that belonged only to herself. She was not trying to impress anyone. And perhaps that was what made her so compelling.
She suddenly looked up, her gaze shifting toward the ceiling, as if she was about to speak to someone unseen. Instead, she pressed her lips together and shook her head, returning to her work.
The world Arin Verma came from had long abandoned the chaos of human emotions. Efficiency, logic, and precision ruled, governed by the Time Keepers—an elite order that monitored and adjusted the flow of time across civilizations. They were the silent architects of history, ensuring that the past remained undisturbed, the future untainted. In their world, there was no space for love, passion, or art—these things were seen as relics of a primitive age, distractions that clouded judgment and disrupted progress.
Arin had always been the perfect Time Keeper. He had trained since childhood, mastering the delicate balance of time manipulation, able to navigate its endless currents with precision. His duty was to archive and preserve significant moments of history, ensuring that time remained untouched by interference. Yet, despite his success, a quiet hollowness had always lingered within him, a sensation he was never able to name.
Then he found the poem.
It had been buried deep within the archives of a dying Earth civilization, an unremarkable entry amid countless historical texts. He should have overlooked it, dismissed it as another meaningless fragment from a world that had long since faded. But something made him pause.
The words were simple, yet they struck him like a wave crashing against stone:
What we yearn to find, does it yearn for us? What we dream of, does it dream of us? What I seek, is it my seeker too? If that is true, will I ever meet you?
The moment he read it, something inside him cracked open. The words pulled at something deep within, something long buried by the rules of his world. It was as though the poet had reached across time itself and touched the very core of his being. For the first time in his existence, Arin felt moved—a sensation foreign to him, yet impossible to ignore.
Who had written these words? Did they understand the ache that now burned within him? He had to know. A search through the archives led him to a name: Astha Mehra. A writer from Jaipur. A poet. A woman from Earth’s past, from an era long before his own. She had lived, breathed, and written those words, never knowing they would find their way to him. The realization struck him like lightning—he had spent his existence preserving the past, but never had he stepped into it for personal reasons.
Until now.
His hands hovered over the time coordinates. The elders would never approve of such a mission, but they had no reason to suspect him. He was one of their best.
For the first time, Arin Verma was about to break the very rules he had sworn to uphold.
And he had no idea what awaited him on the other side.
…To be continued in the next post
This online novel with all its chapters is an original copyrighted work of the author Shailaza Singh. All rights reserved.
What is it about death That it creeps so silently One whisper, one breath The thief steals the light Leaves the shell behind… That which was stolen One can never find A warm living pulsating heart Turns into a stone Memories and the tears run dry A little bird who couldnt fly Flies away Yet the heart refuses to believe that it is the end of tale No logic works All arguments fail. Why does it seem that its gone Thr heart says it is some where around Eyes search for the form. Ears search for the sound. Hoping for a miracle …yet the Gods heed any prayer Doubts assail, wondering if that power is really there Or are we inconsequential specks in an indifferent universe The feelings so deep seem like a curse. World goes on and no one to blame As though the universe just played a silly little game. How does the heart beat for someone so fast That you start hoping that the moment would forever last But look again…that tiny second has already passed. The sand slips quietly from the hands The empty fist remains The wounds of time… And time heals the pain… Till then the heart cries And before you know……………
You get absorbed in life’s lows and highs Time flies – Shailaza
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
चाह नहीं किसी धनवान की पत्नी कहलाऊँ चाह नहीं किसी राजा के घर पर राज कर भाग्य पर इठलाऊँ चाह नहीं किसी की प्रेमिका बन उसके मिलन गीत गाऊँ चाह नहीं दहेज़ ले जा कर माँ बाप पर यूँ बोझ कहाऊँ मुझे पढ़ा लिखा कर मेरे बनमाली उस पथ पर चलते हुए देख आत्मनिर्भर बनने के लिए जिस पथ जाए नारी हर एक – शैलजा सिंह (माखन लाल चतुर्वेदी जी की पुष्प की अभिलाषा से प्रेरित)
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.
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.
Remakes and remakes How many remakes can we the audience take? Remakes in every language? Remake in every dialect? Of the same story, of the same tale. Seems like someone putting a new garnish on a dish that’s gone stale Its okay to be inspired and create something of your own Something that is exciting, interesting and homegrown But making remakes feels like the film industry has lost its original glory, Rehashing, refrying the same story. How is it that in a country of billion people, no one can think of anything new? No innovation, no uniqueness Everyone seems to be trapped in this remake mess. A billion dollar industry and no funding for a fresh take? Everyone seems to be content with frame by frame remakes!!! – Shailaza Singh
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
When you write a poem or a couplet or a song It doesn’t need you to think for long It flows like the river And it finds a home in your heart It is more than a work of art. It is a dictat from your higher self, It is the universe conversing and consoling you Through these words it is telling you what you need to know or what you need to do A poem is like music that doesnt require you to think It is a symphony, a song that you already know how to sing It is a true reflection of your inner voice Which you sometimes can’t hear in everyday life Because of the incessant noise So when a poem rains in your heart Let it drench you with its words Let it flow For then it will whisper to you What you really need to learn What you really need to know -Shailaza Singh
The school education Doesn’t teach you about your mental health, Physical excercise, English, Math and History All is taught. But no one delves into the mystery That is you! What you think, what you feel. Nothing is explored or revealed.
In a school, You are not an individual unique, Making you part of the millions is what they seek. No one tells you where your calling lies, You try to gather the grades But your heart cries Then based on those grades Which reveal nothing about the personality inside, They categorise you and decide Who you are and what you can do. But no one asks you. They put you into preset categories A very round peg into a very square hole They don’t care what your heart says They don’t bother about your soul. What is the point of an education That converts humans into cattle or herd? Or classifies someone as geeky or nerd? When will we have places that celebrate the uniqueness of humans? And let them flower and grow the way they are meant to be? Why do we still have the ‘one size fits all’ for everyone who is born on this planet Earth? If thats the case, then set up factories for babies, Why bother giving birth? – Shailaza Singh
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