Is there anything more idyllic
to a writer, or reader, than the
sound two words make when
they merge and entwine as if
they were crafted specifically
with the purpose of finding one
another in the assemblage of
a fraction over a million of them
in a leather-bound collection that
is the totality of this language?
The words I speak of were informed
by their mothers and fathers, that
on the fateful day of their union,
the realm will celebrate with joy,
or mawkishness, or even laughter,
and in that moment, everything
will feel alright, everything shall
fall into place. There might even
be revelations in the shower, and
a benevolent smile shall wrinkle
someone’s face. The words I speak
of, they flow with effortlessness
not in their singularity, but only
when they are placed contiguous
to one another, words such as
“unbroken egg” or “prima donna”,
the more impersonal “cellar door”
and the most personal “Chaloge? Haan.”*
This is how poetry is born, when
everything seems to fall into place
or falls apart when even one of the
set of two is missing, or worse, has
been usurped by another.
This poem began as a homage to
the beauty of poetry, and of words,
whereas truth be told, it is really
about the time I waited in a lashing
downpour for a rickshaw for more
than twenty goddamn minutes, and
when I finally heard one of them say
“haan” to my “chaloge?” I composed
an ode which is in part angst-ridden
for all those who turned me down,
and in part a “thank you” note.
*Chaloge? – Will you go?
*Haan – Yes.
About the Author
Priyam Gupta is a 20-year old student of Advertising. She spends most of her time writing and trying to find ways to make productive contributions to society. Her works have been published in places such as Campus Diaries, Thought Catalog, and Mogul, where she is an Influencer and a Global Ambassador.