Nupur Chaturvedi

Futile

I often try to hold a tide in my hands.
The futility of it is lost on me.
Controlling the outcome of forces
Larger than me, beyond me,
Trying to mould the unmouldable
Streamline the free flowing—
Who can do that?
And yet, I try, again and again
And build myself up for a deluge
Of countless needles pricking every inch
Of my severely scabby skin.
Why do I do it? Why don’t I stop?
Because old Bhagirath brought Ganga down from the heavens.
We are foolish, but without us,
The world would be a barren, impotent, wasteland.

War

If this were war,
I would be snaking over rough earth,
My weapon in hand, elbows propelling me forward.
And when I would spot the enemy,
My crawl would turn to crouch,
And at the right time, I would get my shot.
But I wouldn’t be unscathed, no.
My shoulders are tender,
The rebound would dislocate them,
And I would wonder, who won,
The one who died,
Or the one who lives
With lifetime of pain in front of her.

This is not a war, though.
This is just everyday life,
Mundane, routine, dull.
There is no crawling nor crouching,
Nor the coarse surface scraping my stomach.

My adversaries are within me.
My weapon pointed inwards,
I still take aim.
And realise…

No one wins
No one can win.
We are in this endless shadow dance
A deceitful play of reflections,
And unless we find the light source,
Our aims are false, our enemy an illusion.
And my dislocated shoulder, a constant reminder
That pain is the only outcome of war.