by Rucha Gadgil, 1st MPT

Skies to skies, Dawn to dusk
 Mountains and valleys, time does rust
 Soul to soul, tears to smile
 Fate and destiny indeed travel miles
 Regrets to regrets, love to hate
 A decision made we seldom repent
 Hand to hand, mind to heart
 Eyes searching, often travel far
 Crimson to crimson, ravines to road
 What is reaped has to be sowed
 Change to change, laughs to frown
 The carousels always turn around
 Memories to memories, shadows to sunshine
 There’s always a greater love for which we pine
 Wanderer to wanderer, wonder to wonder
 A lost soul always stumbles upon someone to ponder
 Twinkle to twinkle, wrong to right
 The souls unite, shining stunningly bright

by Safoora Parkar, Final BPTh

वोह आसमान से फरिश्ता बनकर ज़मीन पर आया 
  खुदा ने येह नायाब तौफा हमे अदा फरमाया 
जिन्दगी की किताब में सियही बनकर वोह पन्हा तर्शाया 
जब कदम दग्मगये तोह वोह थप्कियों ने साथ निभाया 
गिर के सीखना उन्ही ने सिखाया
डाट फटकार से आज वोह तारा चमकाया 

मनके अंधेरो को रोशनी की राह मिली
टुटे अर्मनो मे उम्मीद की लौ जागी
ये कुछ ऐसी इनकी छवि

उनकी कदमों मे सारा जहाँ 
समांदर के किनारे वोह खुला आसमान 
माता पिता तू नही कुछ वक़्त का सही पर तेरा नाता हमसे वोही
शुक्रगुजार है हम आप सबके 
आज हमे इस काबिल बनाया 

by Maria Dalal, 3rd BPTh

Under the quiet stars
when heady winds dance 
and sounds just rustle and chime,
It is easy to wax poetic 
To condemn formal thought 
To brush off the tangible 
in favour of looking for answers 
among the stars 
To questions you haven't formed 
It is easy to joke about being  inconsequential
Throw in phrases of grander schemes 
meandering sentences grappling to resemble debate 
And to pass off Carlin as your own 
But you can do it in harsh daylight 
Where the sun streaming through the window hurts the head 
When there is nothing hiding the hustle of the world 
When every passing tap is a footstep heading to a goal 
When all is bright 
and no shadows hide your eyes
You can look into mine and speak. 

I hope-
That every word that leaves your mouth is mirth 
Every wave of your wild hands 
Every roll of your eyes
is a shrewd calculation
And, hidden, lies a motive to say what you say with such ardent conviction 
Because if there isn't 
and you've fallen for your words 
What do we do then? 

by Aastha Shah, Intern

They took their time to evolve, growing on every step, grasping from the others around them. They gathered what they could from the significant bits of their fellows, and each became a unique portrait of unmatchable shine, complete with every colour there was. They each grabbed shades in variable quantities – tossed in the heat of anger, bathed in the cool of tears, dried and stirred in the mirth of laughter; they cast impressions on the surface of the colours and let them settle. At the end of it, they all stood out, sculptures that had contents which completed each other, colours that overlapped, textures that contrasted with each other to beauty, and shapes that spelled joy. They were never intended to be perfect, only destined to shine; for, they had unimitable permutations of 40 colours, all converged into one.

by Nikita Balachandran, Final BPTh

 
We could have been a raging fire,
All we had to do was nurse that tiny flame,
And maybe bear the heat on our raw skin once the mittens caught fire,
For a second, maybe much more according to our repentant claim.
 
If ego could be felt, it sure has to be cold as ice,
But what did more damage than those icy jets was our aversion to light.
Maybe the dark is comforting because nobody’s exposed and vulnerable,
Because what person has quantified your weaknesses and still provided the wood for you to ignite.
 
So the next time you see a spark
As fascinating and potentially consuming as venus’s reign,
And we try to protect it with our bare hands devoid of any protective charms,
Remember our hearts form the hearth here; and there’s only so much room for the ashes from burnt out flames. 

by Safoora Parkar, Final BPTh

वोह सजदे मे पलके झुकाये बैठे थे
आसू मे गम बहाये बैठे थे
दिल मे एहसास जगाये बैठे
वोह यादों की लकीरो संग सजाये बैठे थे

आज फिर क्यू रूह ने रूह से इबादत की
गुस्ताक दिल ने ये क्यू फिर बगावत की
वक़्त की भी क्या बेरुकी 
पर्दों को पंख की बेनसीबी ही सही
कुछ टुकड़ो की कहानी 
लफ्जो में बेज़ुबनी 

by Maria Dalal, 3rd BPTh

The grit. She hated it when it stuck to her toes and to the hem of her pants. It was not mud- they were tiny gravel particles bounced by the more powerful patter of drops on the road- that would so graciously gift her sandals with that unsightly coating. Sometimes, larger stones would slip under the soles of one’s feet, and scratch the tender shoe bites. It was impractical to stop every time this happened, so one had to suffer and let it takes its course.
This always sparked the debate of whether she would prefer to walk through waterlogged streets, even when the source of said water was not deliberated on. For at the end of the waddling, at least the feet were visually clean.

‘Scoot over.’

Her attention was brought to the oncoming car streaming its way through puddles.
Puddles were a filthy, filthy part of commuting. They were not exciting. Fools gaze into nothingness, reminiscing carefree childhoods with smiles on their faces. Fools then shake their heads, tut ‘gone are those days’ and list horrors of responsibility.
‘It has been a while, now. Ask him‘

Frowning, she looked over at the vendor and the sandwich he was handing over to an aged man.

“Bhaiya, jaldi karo na”
“Ji ji, aapka hi next hai”

The stall was not much. Just a couple of cardboard sheets taped to a table, under a huge rainbow coloured umbrella. A little kerosene stove coughed and stuttered at the char black toaster balanced over it. The tiny sandwich wouldn’t be enough, but it would be warm and spicy to drive off the bite of drenched clothes on the journey onward.

“Tchh Tchh. Madam.”

Her food was cut into six unequal pieces, unceremoniously transferred onto a paper plate with spoonfuls of red and green chutney, and passed through aforementioned customer. He smiled, but it wasn’t returned. A bad day was a bad day, and it deserved a proper sulk.
The bread corners hurt her gums and the potato filling burnt the tongue.
After a greeting unreturned and an account settled, she was on her way.

The beat of the rain on her flimsy umbrella was not music to her ears, it was a deafening noise. It had sounded like a perfect symphony last week when she pranced down this very street with a friend. It would sound like music next week, when she will smile at the stall vendor and ask him about his children.

Every drizzle did not calm her mind.
Every sunset did not inspire,
nor did they have to.
For as long as some did- she was alive and well.