April 2018

INK DRIFT 

APRIL 2018 

34 

Misty Hopes 

by Ankit Madaan 

Atelier 

I am a woman. No disease, weapon or 

wound. can take that away from me 

-Jan Greenwood, Women at War 

Infinity 

An account of one’s own introspective 

moment when we learn of things 

and memories, which go back and 

forth.... 

MAHUA SEN 

The Top Writers Chair

CONTENT 

08 

THE RAT RACE 

The ending vicious loop of life. 

I am sure all of you must have read the aforementioned 

phrase before. Yes, The Rat Race! People define rat race 

in many different ways like following the path of money, 

April 2018 

Volume 02 Issue 09 

05 

06 

O7 A 

O8 

10 A 

11 

12 

13 

16 

17 

18 A 

They Said It 

Famous quotes that would feed your 

creative consciousness to its core. 

Editor’s Note 

A note by our managing editor. 

Infinity 

beautiful poem by M K Tomar. 

The Rat Race 

A prose work by Rakshit Goyal. 

An Ode to Poetry 

prose work on poetry by Kasy Long. 

Sleepless in a Dream 

A poem by Karan Kapoor. 

Wrap up - Kockn Down 

A poem by Utkarsha Sharma. 

Awake in Infinity 

A poem by A. Grinwald 

Sleepless in Bed 

A story by Karan Kapoor. 

Sleepless in Luxury 

A note by Vandana Sharma. 

Halos’ as ‘Noosses’: Female Body 

Politics Tightening its Grip 

prose by Ankita Bose. 

2 Ink Drift Magazine 

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19 

Sleepless in a Place Called Home 

A poem by Urvi Shah. 

33 

Top Writer’s Chair 

This month the chair belongs to Mahua Sen. 

20 

The History of Women in India 

A prose by Tejasvi Saxena. 

34 

Misty Hopes 

A story by Ankit Madaan. 

21 

Sleepless Nights 

A poem by Bipul Banerjee. 

22 

Vocabulary 

Enhance your vocabulary with new words by Palak Handa. 

23 

Sleepless in Devotion Towards the Universe 

A poem by Anupreeta Chatterjee. 

24 

Sleepless on an Insomiac’s Bed 

A poem by Akshaya Pawaskar. 

25 

27 A 

28 

29 

30 A 

31 

32 

Book Review: Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine 

A Book Review by Shumaila Taher. 

Atelier 

piece of art by Nandini Soni. 

Sleepless in Friend’s Apartment 

A prose work by Priya Darshani. 

Sleepless in the Dark Cozy Night 

A poem by Namrata Paul. 

Sleepless in Trauma 

poem by Penned Fabls 

My World of Loneliness 

A poem by Sabari Ram. 

Sleepless in my Deep Sleep 

A poem by Kalai Selvi. 

BOOK OF THE MONTH 

OPTION B 

SHERYL SANDBERG 

34 

Misty Hopes Human actions are bound by vigorously flowing 

hearty feelings. These can’t be controlled if one has no 

control over his or her emotions. 

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Ink Drift Magazine 3

MASTHEAD 

Nikita D’Monte 

Amy Johnston 

Assef Ali 

Poorvasha Kar 

Shumaila Taher 

Karuna Shah 

Gabrielle Thompson 

Anushka Pandit 

Sheetal Bhardwaj 

Kasy Long 

Neena John 

Palak Handa 

learn more about us at www.inkdrift.com/team

THEY SAID IT 

“Poetry is halfway between prose and music; it is sometimes 

like an intimate conversation, in words and phrases 

which need not be fully uttered, and sometimes like 

dancing and wordless music.” 

- Gilbert Highet 

“You can fool all the people some of the time, and some 

of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the 

people all the time.” 

- Abraham Lincoln 

“April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.” 

– William Shakespeare 

“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” 

- Leonardo Da Vinci 

“Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.” 

- Edgar Allan Poe 

“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic.” 

- J.K. Rowling 



Ink Drift www.inkdrift.com 

Magazine 5

EDITOR’S NOTE 

“ 

“Life is something that happens when you can’t get to sleep” is a wonderful quote said by Fran Leibowitz, 

and I totally agree. How many times has it happened to you that despite everything, you may be sleepless? 

The wide horizon of this situation cannot be measured by our naked minds. They spread beyond our 

imagination. 

It may happen sometime, with anyone that life goes smooth, but you can’t sleep. The reasons could vary. 

One may be sleepless when he is in love. One may be sleepless when he is in agony. One may be sleepless 

amid the lap of nature, admiring the little things. What’s your story? 

How wonderful would it be if we could open up the books of our hearts and let go of the shackles that are 

keeping us from drifting into the arms of the night? Nothing could be better! 

In this issue of Ink Drift, we bring to you a couple of stories and wanderings shared by beautiful people 

about times that they felt sleepless, with others or maybe alone, in some foreign place or maybe their own 

homes. 

Let’s get going to read some amazing pages in people’s lives where they felt the kind of sleepless yet beautiful 

enough to share with the world. While I go on about this, the spirit of women empowerment seems to 

linger on for long which is absolutely the way it should be. The last issue seemed to pour out a lot, so we 

bring another bunch of inspiring tales for you! 

Keep reading. 

Anushka Pandit, Managing Editor 


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INFINITY 

MK TOMAR 

An account of one’s own introspective moment when we learn of things and memories, which go 

back and forth.... 

As high as they could rise to the skies, 

Beyond my eyes, 

The skyscrapers were all but endless. 

I kept my watch on them. 

One single moment of wonder made me question, 

“Do they go to infinity?” 

Turned back, I, looked at you; 

having me pulled off the illusion. 

“It’s alright. You are just day dreaming. 

All this is a mirror dimension. 

What you see and think here, 

won’t be doing any good to reality.” 

“I know. I always knew that”, I clarified. 

For, the infinity lies in me-created within the memoirs. 



THE RAT RACE 

RAKSHIT GOYAL 

The ending vicious loop of life. 

I am sure all of you must have read the aforementioned phrase before. Yes, The Rat Race! People 

define rat race in many different ways like following the path of money, survival, success, or everything 

which drags them to lead their lives. 

It is funny how we end up being rats! We know that rats are the most hated by everyone (well no 

offense to Americans, because they love pretty much every animal but humans). But I personally 

believe rats are the most unhealthy but also smartest of all and perhaps humans are the most unhealthy, 

cranky and stupid (but not as smart as rats) animals in this world. Humans are not smart 

and even the rats can see this. They enter our places and bite every possible thing and we can 

just try to make them eat some bullish rat kill diets and drag them out of the house. The humans 

must be still thinking why the rats didn’t eat that rat poison! Morons, because they just guessed 

that it is poison, as it is the only thing left out in open for the rats to be eaten, unlike all the other 

food items which are packed and closed. 

I have a story about my previous work life at a Bank, to share with you all. 

It was a well fine Saturday morning when my gracious Wealth Head invited the entire team of 

Wealth Managers to have a stupid and so-called mind-boggling training session on a holiday 

about Life Insurance. And as usual, only 4 Wealth Managers turned up (Well it was supposed to 

be compulsory for all, but who cares!) I mean people didn’t turn up for this training on working 

days even when the company used to provide meals and then expecting them on a Saturday is 

the craziest thing a boss could ever think of. But you know it takes a lot to be a boss, things like 

thinking they are the smartest ass in the world makes them bosses. But deep down they know 

they are just following orders and becoming the most creepy creatures in the universe. 

Anyway, the training was started and there were only 5 rats present in the room out of which one 

was my Wealth Head and the other one was the Trainer and only 3 Wealth Managers (including 

me) were present at the nascent stage of that training. After an hour, 1 more Wealth Manager, 

Tushar joined, he was tired and scared of being late and our boss was angry that he was late, 

forgetting the fact that even she came half an hour late after the actual scheduled time. She was 

frowning and asked Tushar why was he late and why does he look so annoyed? To which Tushar 

said, “I went to my daughters’ school for her Parents and Teachers Meet. And my daughter doesn’t 

study at all, each and every teacher complained about her studies. I even met with her principal 

and she said if my daughter didn’t score well this time then they will throw her out of the school.” 

I was laughing while listening to Tushar because my parents used to hear this all the time back 

when I was in school. But my boss had some hitting below the belt plans for Tushar, she said to 

Tushar: “So much similarity between you and your daughter! You don’t work at the office and she 

doesn’t work in school and I am sure if you didn’t work as per the company’s expectation then the 

company will throw you out of the bank as well.” At this point, I felt really disgusted to hear all of 

it but then banking and finance industry is known to be mean and wealthy. I think these two are 

the most loved entities in the world. 

After listening to all of this I just realized it is all a rat race! I am sure that you all must be thinking, 

how this relates to the rat race. Let me help you out in relating all of it. Trust me, I am good at it. 

What got me thinking was, isn’t this situation like a vicious loop or a rat race? I mean, a school student 

struggles to study all day and night and still not able to satisfy her teachers and her parents! 

A wealth manager in his early 30’s who works 80 hours a week is not able to make his company 


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happy! And then I realized, even our Wealth Head must be in the same vicious loop as she 

also had to organize that training on a holiday to show her performance to her seniors to 

save her job! So, in the end, everyone is just taking rounds of this vicious loop and continues 

to be in the rat race and now everyone is now stuck in here. And this loop is endless, the super 

bosses are setting up expectations for the chairman and even the chairman must set up 

an expectation for the stock market. It is all connected and all a freaking rat race. 

I realized that rat race is prevalent. It does not matter what is your age, caste, creed, class of 

living, or religion. The fact being that rat race is the most secular and unbiased concept in 

the world. This concept treats everyone equally. I feel good to realize that there is at least 

something in this world which does not discriminate anyone. 

When I realized that it is a rat race, I felt that I should share my feelings with my Wealth Head 

but then I am insignificant, yet an inescapable player of this rat race who didn’t want to 

risk his job. But I made one thing sure in my life and that was, I will never belittle anyone in 

my life because you never know that one can be in the same situation as you are, and you 

might experience what he is experiencing in some while. I realized what goes around comes 

around. 



AN ODE TO POETRY 

KASY LONG 

April is National Poetry Month, but to every poet out there, every month is National Poetry Month. 

Poetry allows individuals to discover more things about the world, the people around them, and 

more about themselves. Poets view the world in a different way. We hear sounds in words. Yes, 

we feel the way words have a rhythm to them. This rhythmic motion is often intoxicating, and we 

love it. 

Poets see beauty in ordinary objects, like birds or a rainstorm. We transform these seemingly 

plain objects into beautiful metaphors or characters in a simple poem, often allowing readers to 

change their perspective on these objects. 

Without poetry, I would be afraid of the way I would view the world without my unique perspective. 

I’m a nature poet, therefore I see the beauty in flowers. I see the beauty in a fire. I see the 

beauty in a rainstorm. If poets and artists don’t see the beauty in these natural objects and events, 

who will? 

The more poetry I read, the more I’m inspired to write. Thanks to poets like Emily Dickinson, 

Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allan Poe and so many more, we have access to 

some of the most beautiful works ever written. We often need their writing—to learn, to evolve, 

to experience, and to feel. 

Poets pour out their hearts and souls into their poetry, confessing everything about themselves 

for their readers. They use imagery to symbolize emotions in a way only they can. Poets write the 

words we need to read and hear, so listen. 

Celebrate poetry this month, and every month that follows. If you don’t like poetry, try to open up 

to it, please. You might find a poet you really love and that will change everything. You might discover 

a poem that speaks to you in a way you have never experienced—a way you never thought 

would be possible. 

We need poetry…because trust me, the poets need us, too. 


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SLEEPLESS IN A DREAM 

KARAN KAPOOR 

I wish to sleep. 

But the shadows on my wall don’t let me. 

Oh sleep fairy, come and make me fall asleep. 

For a very long time.I wish to sleep. 

But the mirror on my wall doesn’t let me. 

Oh sleep fairy, come and make me fall asleep. 

For a very long time.I can hear my pillow cry. 

I wish you were always here. 

Or I was there, with you. 

Or I weren’t there or here or anywhere at all. 

“Learn to accept,” I learned in therapy. 

But does a warrior ever learn to accept defeat? 

Oh, does a lover ever learn to accept deceit? 

Does a child accept death? 

So how can I? 



WRAP UP – KNOCK DOWN 

UTKARSHA SHARMA 

Voice all you want from my body. 

Who defined the perfect body? 

Why desperately try to fit in? 

Instead, choose comfort and stand still. 

Small, medium, large, big or tall, KI. 

It’s just a label, after all. 

It’s replacing your innocent skin precise; 

don’t you pay surveillance to this criticize. 

My body, my home, as sure as hell, 

not going to tear my home, ever I shall. 

Remember with one flip of silken hair, 

you can lead your man to the world of temptation flare. 

Pretty women listen where my secret lies; 

you are not built to suit a fashion model size. 

I have prayed, and the answer was lucid, 

to look beyond the body and go for soul crusade. 

My soul, I shall polish and let shine for the world. 

The Creator created me this way, and so I shall remain; 

I’m beautiful and so shall you remain. 


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Awake in 

INFINITY 

A. GRINWALD 

There was a night, standing all in a line outside the 

Laundromat, chainsmoking cigarettes handed to 

us by a forty-something woman who called us good 

boys and asked if we knew her daughter, Yves or 

something. No, we said, and she handed us cigarettes 

that illuminated our faces so slightly as she 

told us about her good old days, those sweet, sweet 

days of discos and suburban excursions ending in 

forbidden desires. Oh, but they’re gone now, she said 

and threw her cigarette on the ground. As she entered 

the Laundromat to change over soiled t-shirts 

of her husbands, hole-ridden socks, delicates that 

belonged to both her and her daughter, that beautiful 

Yves that she showed us all a photo of, as she 

entered the Laundromat to change over her laundry, 

I looked down to see her cigarette still smoldering, 

still holding on to that flame that it called its life. 

She came back out and handed out more cigarettes 

to us. We lit them up, and she asked us again, 

are you sure you don’t know my daughter? Nope, we 

said, and we all smoked in silence. We stood outside 

for a while, shooting the breeze, smoking the cigarettes 

that the lady had given us, and Nathan started 

telling us about an out-of-town girlfriend of his, who 

just so happened to be headed into town this weekend, 

and would, as he said, inevitably be longing for 

a physical reunion. He looked down at the cigarette 

he held between his thumb and forefinger—he always 

tended to hold his cigarettes that way, as if they 

were joints or something—and said, yeah boys, I sure 

might need a pack of these since sex with her tends 

to be mind-blowing. 

Franklin and I laughed, but, by the way, that 

he glanced at me from the side of his eyes, I knew 

that he, like myself, hadn’t ever yet had sex. He probably 

hadn’t seen a woman naked yet, not in person 

at least, and for the next couple of minutes, he kept 

his eyes fixed contemplatively on the tip of his foot, 

which he kept moving in a circular pattern in the snow. 

I turned back to look into the Laundromat and noticed 

the lady talking to a man about her age, some shabbilydressed, 

grey-haired fellow who seemed to be paying 

her more attention than she was used to since the flesh 

on her cheekbones turned the slightest shade of scarlet. 

Later, Paul would say that she was trying to pick us 

up, and the other two laughed, but really, I think we all 

knew too well that she was just lonely, spending her Friday 

night completing matriarchal duties that fell upon 

her by some chance while the rest of her family performed 

their duties of drinking low-calorie beer in front 

of the television, where nothing particularly interesting 

was being broadcast, and, for her daughter, putting on 

mascara delicately as if one wrong swoop of the wrist 

across those long, fluttering eyelashes would not only 

foil her chances at a flawless visage but also at a better 

life—one that she knew too well that her mother was 

now missing out on. 

We drove around for a while after that, aimless and 

hungry, searching, always searching. There wasn’t much 

for us to do but drive along stretches of streets that were 

diced up into smaller pieces by the red lights blinding 

our eyes. They, the lights, go back and forth—are they in 

a carefully orchestrated pattern or chaotic, meaninglessly 

random bursts—back and forth, infinitely and forever. 

When do they get a vacation, the lights? They work in the 

morning, during the first rush hour, through the lunchtime 

buzz—workingmen headed home for their lunches 

under the illusion of being free—again at the second 

rush hour, and all through the night, never once stopping 

entirely, starting again at the crack of dawn, even 

earlier in wintertime, going through those same motions 

of green to yellow to red to green to yellow to red 

to green to---! Now, though, they were red and flashing, 

beating, as if this aimless city itself had a sort of pulse 



that manifested itself in those lights. 

Nathan had the idea of going to the talent show 

at the high school, a girlfriend but not quite a girlfriend 

of his was performing, and the rest of us said, 

why not on a night like this, and so we pulled into 

the parking lot of the high school. We pulled into the 

back entrance and it was so deeply and completely 

empty that the void of ice and falling snow seemed 

to stretch further than my eyes could see. The lampposts 

were lit and created beacons that seemed to 

pave our way, cutting the darkness apart and leading 

us along, before they, too, disappeared into the distance 

and became nonexistent. 

Without looking back at the rest of them, I 

started speeding up then cranking the wheel—left 

or right, it didn’t matter—and we’d go spinning and 

spinning in the minivan, our path completely out of 

our control. After skidding to an inevitable stop, I’d 

gas it again and take us around. Each time I would 

gas the thing, I would wonder just how much would 

it take for it to tip over flat on its side or lose traction 

and skid smack into a pole, ending this night and all 

others like it forever. I started hoping it would as I 

jerked the wheel a little further each time, sending us 

into another pirouette on the ice. 

The talent show was one oddity after another: 

comedy bits that generated laughter only in the front 

row, surely where the performers’ friends all sat; a 

melancholy folk duo of a guitar and harmonica, two 

boys that sang a dreary song of lost country roads 

and forgotten freedom ; a tapdance routine that had 

its music cut out mid-dance, but there she kept going, 

dancing away, tap-tap-taping in silence, her eyes 

widened and aware that this, this very night, may be 

all she ever has, the only bit of glory before finding 

herself wrinkled and gray, passing out cigarettes to 

good old boys outside of the Laundromat, and she 

would be damned before she lets this be ruined. 

After the show, we wandered around, smoking 

and cursing, looking for something to take up the 

time. Out through the town we went, scurrying along 

the chopped-up bits of boulevard once again, headed 

towards the edge of the town where the streetlights 

appear in decreasing frequency before fading 

into the wilderness. There was an old factory building, 

recently abandoned in the last economic crash, 

that unofficially marked the edge of town, and it was 

there that we parked the van and pulled our gangly 

bodies out into the winter night. It still smelled awful, 

like salt and paper and hot tree pulp; the scent 

lingered ghostlike, and all those hard-working souls 

who input their countless hours, their endless effort, 

seemed, too, to linger. 

Paul had the idea of climbing the goddam thing, and 

so we circled out back to find an old dumpster, stinking 

and filled with paper scraps, and above that hung a gutter 

sturdy enough to hold any one of us at a time. We each 

climbed atop the dumpster then onto the gutter, and onto 

a platform some dozen feet up that led to a fire escape 

which itself led to the rooftop. Each time when one of us 

pulled ourselves into the gutter, dirt, and dust and decomposed 

leaf matter fell into the eyes of whoever was behind 

them. Each of them was blurry-eyed and blinded, entirely 

blinded to our ascent, but I, being the first, could see perfectly. 

I could see perfectly well, alright. 

From the top of the building, we could damn near 

see the entire town. It spread inhumane and quiet around 

us in all directions, that incessant pulse of the flashing red 

light still letting me know it was alive. The occasional pair 

of headlights glided across the streets like specters. Where 

were they headed to? 

We sat in a corner of the roof where there was a 

fair amount of litter and garbage: beer cans of varying 

emptiness, ashen cigarette butts, pizza crusts in a state of 

decay as they were consumed by half-colonies of ants…I 

watched these creatures as they worked, all in unison, to 

break the soggy crust into pieces so they could carry it, one 

crumb at a time, on home to feed the colony. And so their 

night was spent. 

Our night, then, was spent like this. All forming a 

sort of circle we sat, smoking the rest of our cigarettes, our 

young faces illuminated by the moon’s good grace. The 

four of us started our usual routine of cackling and joking 

and telling bogus stories that at the moment felt so good 

to share. Many were repeats or repeats of repeats, changing 

almost without being noticed since the last time they 

were heard. It was almost like a roulette that would surely 

land on one of the stories, certainly one of those old chestnuts, 

almost entirely by chance, and then the wheel would 

be spun again, clicking along the arsenal of tales until one 

was landed on once again. Was this night, too, destined to 

belong amongst the others, these simple tales of nightly 

excursions that would hold little value to anyone other 

than the four of us? Yeah, boys, Nathan said, when Gloria 

comes back into town you might not be seeing much of 

me…gonna need a whole pack of these since sex with her 

tends to be mind-blowing… 

And that was it. The conversation became engulfed 

entirely by silence, a strong, opposing force that forced 

our eyes to divert from the others’, as if looking into them 

would be of grave consequence. I broke this chain by leaping 

to my feet and climbing to a small edge of the roof that 

was raised above all the rest. It was such a far way down to 

the ground, and I imagined counting the seconds it would 

take something, anything, to reach the bottom. With nothing 

to throw over the edge to test this experiment except 

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Ink Drift Magazine

my own body and its contents, I decided to take a leak 

off the edge, and waited, waited, until I heard it all hit the 

ground in a splash. It sure was far down, alright; it was 

far down enough for one’s life to flash before their eyes if 

they took the leap. As I rezipped my pants, the sun began 

to peak over the horizon, signaling a new day, completely 

untouched as of yet. It would continue to, time and time 

and time again, long after I was dead and in the ground 

until one day when it just simply would stop. I closed my 

eyes and jumped, landing back on the rooftop where Paul, 

Nathan, and Franklin all wandered around like stray dogs 

after a meal. Where to next, and what to do? 

We all climbed down, making sure not to get dust 

in our eyes this time, and we reached the ground, one by 

one, like little ants following a trail. What was it that made 

them do that, the ants? I remember hearing in my science 

class that they were simply following pheromones, one 

following the other out of pure nature. But then how did 

that explain us following each other in a line, silent, marching, 

seemingly mindless, me playing the role of a reluctant 

leader…but who then was I following? 

I turned to ask Paul for a cigarette, who reached into his 

Army surplus jacket, that XL exoskeleton wrapped around 

his small frame, and pulled out a pack of Luckies. Once 

he handed me a cigarette, I couldn’t help but think about 

that woman outside of the Laundromat, of her romantic 

sentimentality, her glory days of dating and drinking and 

cursing, and her matriarchal duties that one day suddenly 

replaced them. I couldn’t help but think of her half-smoked 

cigarette that had lain smoldering in the snow. I wondered 

if it was still there smoldering as we drove home, completely 

silent, the sunrise peeking over the hill behind us. 



SLEPLESS IN BED 

KARAN KAPOOR 

Since the day Ridhima destroyed him, nights were never the same for Rihansh. It was five in the morning, and 

he couldn’t sleep. They say this is the hour when people of extraordinary prowess are either waking up or 

going to bed. Rihansh was extraordinary in a different manner. He was awake in his bed at this hour, with no 

imminent odds of succumbing to sleep. It had been a night of switching sides and changing positions, but Ridhima 

kept ruining every one of them. Something like that had never happened to him before, and the novice 

insomniac tried his hand at everything someone in his condition possibly could. 

He’d heard numerous times about counting breaths. He began paying attention to breaths—didn’t work. 

“Count sheep,” Ridhima used to say as a habit every night before they disconnected the call, although it had 

never been necessary for him to reach the farm. Sleep came naturally to him like hunger. He counted sheep; 

that didn’t work either. 

So, he fused the two techniques, and voilà, it seemed to work. Each breath of his marked a heavy, wooly sheep 

safely jumping over an old wooden fence. He was counting sheep while simultaneously paying attention to 

his breathing. He imagined sheep in weird colors—red sheep, blue sheep, sky blue sheep, navy blue sheep, 

black and white sheep, coral red sheep, bright orange sheep, pink and golden sheep. The colors ended, but 

he didn’t stop counting them. 

“Count sheep,” Ridhima used to say. He lost count many times, but he was getting better. He has something 

to look forward to. He stared at the clock until the three hands formed into a trident to terrorize him. He was 

counting. He had been playing the game for so long that he didn’t know he could quit. The night was the Pied 

Piper and he was one of the mice. Count sheep. A headless sheep, a sheep with a void as the trunk, two sheep 

at once, a three-legged sheep, a sheep with a bindi on the forehead, a sheep with a monocle on an eye, and 

Ridhima. 

He stopped thinking about sheep. He had counted 343 sheep and a Ridhima that his subconscious conjured 

cubes. Rubik’s cubes, all of Ananya’s Rubik’s cubes, the one adorning Ridhima’s bookshelf, the one in Will 

Smith’s hands, and the big, crazy one he saw at a friend’s dorm. All of them together. 

Then he had an amusing vision—a sad image—of him living inside that cube. The big, crazy one. He thought 

his life had suddenly become just as complex. But, then he thought he knew he could solve a Rubik’s cube if 

he tried—even Ananya could teach him—he had found them stupid always, a waste of time. But, something 

made him feel that if he could solve that big, crazy Rubik’s cube, or a likening of it, then he would also be able 

to solve his life, which was unspooled from the spindle of his life. Oh, how he wished he could solve his life. 

Fall asleep, Rihansh, fall asleep. He started talking to himself out loud. That’s when he thought he had lost it. 

But, it was soothing. He found his voice beautiful. Fall asleep, baby. He started running fingers through his hair. 

It seemed to be working, but then suddenly it stopped working. 

Ridhima, he thought. Hell. I’m not falling asleep. His brain seemed to have confused the idea of sleeping with 

dying—falling asleep would be falling off a cliff. So, he couldn’t sleep. 


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SLEEPLESS IN LUXURY 

VANDANA SHARMA 

Recently, I was called for an interview to another region. It was all excitement, first for 

being shortlisted and second for getting an opportunity to visit a new place. So, I was 

literally jumping with joy merely thinking about it. The day came, I started the journey. 

It took almost one day to arrive there. The place was amazingly beautiful. Luckily, I got an 

accommodation. And there started my trial. A person like me who was always starving for 

sleep, couldn’t wink even for a moment. The comfort of the room seemed useless. I was feeling 

home-sick, longing for my loved ones. Nothing soothed my restless spirit. The agony of 

loneliness was felt never before. Bed turned into a bed of thorns. My thoughts were working 

overtime. It seemed that I was away from my abode since ages. Nothing was catching my attraction 

neither Facebook nor WhatsApp. It was excitement turned into exile. A night spent 

tossing and turning on the bed. Waited with bated breath for the next day to arrive fast and 

took me back to my home, my roots. 



HALOS’ AS ‘NOOSES’: FEMALE BODY 

POLITICS TIGHTENING ITS GRIP 

ANKITA BOSE 

This is a reflective narrative on how body politics is an everyday 

experience for women. I tried to explain the hassles 

faced when a woman is teased or groped in public through a 

real-life personal experience. 

I sat under the shower rinsing my body violently. All the water 

on the earth did not suffice to wash the unwanted touch, 

the touch that penetrated my body and directly aimed for 

my identity. Tears ran down my cheeks incessantly and they 

flowed into the bathroom drain- they reeked of unspoken 

helplessness. Nothing I did could relieve the burden from 

my mind. I shuddered multiple times while sleeping that 

night, each time waking up with an invisible hand groping 

my breast. 

It was an otherwise ‘normal’ day and everything shaped up 

in a perfect routine. I was weary of a long day in college. My 

strained body, unaware of its gender, desired to get back 

home as soon as possible as it longed for some rest. When 

all the auto-rickshaws denied giving me a ride back home, 

I decided to walk the stretch. It wasn’t a long stretch and it 

was 8.30 pm in the evening. 

I plugged my earphones and as Pink Floyd soothed my soul, I 

started walking towards home. Midway, uneasiness grasped 

me. I began to feel it wasn’t a good idea to walk alone in the 

desolate alley. My body which was exhausted until now suddenly 

became alert. My eyes started looking for suspicious 

strangers lurking in the darkness just to violate my body. I 

became conscious of being a woman; my heightened senses 

escalated my gendered identity. I began to feel like a “woman”. 

It was then that I noticed a distant headlight approaching 

me. Instinctively, I kept to one side of the road. Within moments, 

the bike passed me and a stranger groped my breast 

and rode away to “masculine glory”. I stood still for a moment, 

knowing not what to do. I knew my tongue wanted to 

utter all the curse words that I had learnt, but they all choked 

inside me. 

The moment froze — the dark alley where my body stood, 

sweating profusely and exposed to masculine invasion. I had 

never felt so vulnerable; never felt so aware of being a “woman”. 

I somehow contained myself and began pacing my steps 

along the road which seemed like an endless tunnel. 

A few seconds later, I heard another motorcycle approaching. 

I closed my eyes and twitched my lips in panic. An elderly 

man slowed down in front of me. Probably noticing the 

fright that encircled me, he offered me a lift. “Would you like 

me to drop you somewhere? It’s not safe to walk alone here,” 

he said, the patronising tone hitting hard in my ears. 

Having experienced the ‘unsafe’ environment, his advice 

seemed meaningless to me at that point. I shrugged my shoulders 

and shook my head. The prior incident forced me to distrust 

any male presence in that road. After he rode off, I almost 

ran till I reached the end of the road, took a public bus for just 

one stop and reached home. 

At that time, I was pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Sociology 

from Presidency University in Kolkata and “gender studies” 

was the module I enjoyed the most in my curriculum. But, I realised 

that the wide variety of academic literature on “gender 

politics” had completely escaped me as I stood ‘violated’ and 

‘unsafe’ in that alley. 

When I narrated the incident to my parents and my friends, I 

was faced with the inevitable question — “Why would you walk 

alone in a deserted road at that time of the night?” A lot of them 

showed sympathetic concern and advised me to be ‘more careful 

the next time’. It was as if they had taken it for granted that 

‘next time’ would be a usual occurrence, something that we as 

‘women’ must learn to live with. 

I understood my parents’ and friends’ anxiety when they raised 

questions on walking down that road alone. I understood the 

gesture of care stemming from ensuring that I was safe. But 

what I did not understand was, while most got away with their 

victim blaming logic or patronising advises disguised in empathy, 

none spoke of possibilities that could obliterate the chances 

of a ‘next time’. 

Millions of women, irrespective of age, class, religion, caste or 

nationality go through such humiliation every single day. Millions 

of female bodies are deemed ‘vulnerable’ each day in different 

parts of the world- millions of female bodies unified to 

become a center for exercising male power. These bodies are 

taught to be ‘careful’- to regulate their clothing, to not walk on 

deserted roads when the clock strikes a certain hour, to cross 

legs while sitting, to not trust strangers etc. Because if they let 

go of their ‘prudence’ even for a second, the bodies are deemed 

naked for males to feast on- either with their piercing gaze, 

their hands or their penises. 

Although the school of Post-colonial Feminism rejects the idea 

of a universal category of women and focuses more on differences 

that arise from caste, class, race, nationality etc. which 

are entangled along with one’s gender identity, the fear that 

female bodies experience is universal. The “fear of penetration” 

or the “fear of rape” regulates the female body and lay 

down diktats for it. It creates innumerable shackles that binds 

the body; shackles that are taken for granted and appropriated 

every day. 

We, as women, carry these shackles as halos over our bodies 

which command us to be ‘angels’ in our demeanour and ‘demonises’ 

the male intent. There is a reason why I couldn’t trust 


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the man, who in all probability wanted to genuinely help me 

that night. It is because the society has taught me to not trust 

the ‘male intent’. It is because when the society laid out codes 

for me to be an ‘angel’, it also asked me to treat men as ‘demons’ 

full of lust. The process has been repeated in a vicious 

circle until everybody was convinced that there is no way out. 

I have often tried consoling myself with the usual assurances 

that people provide as remedies- “It happens to everybody”, 

“Just be more careful”, “Let it pass” and the all assuring “It’s 

OK”. But each attempt resulted in these statements being jumbled 

up in my head until I screamed that “IT’S NOT OK!” 

It’s not OK to assume that there is always going to be a ‘next 

time’. It’s not OK to ask a woman to not walk down a certain 

road at a certain time. To anyone who questions my decision 

to walk that stretch that night, I retaliate by saying, “Why 

shouldn’t I?” As a citizen of India, the Constitution entitles me 

to walk on any road at any hour of the day or night. Why, then, 

should I be made to feel guilty for exercising my fundamental 

right? 

Instead of entangling itself with escapism that comes with every, 

“It’s OK”, the society must stop to think why it is never OK. 

As I recall the incident now, I remember Pink Floyd was latently 

passing a message that night-“Don’t help them to bury the 

light, don’t give in without a fight.” 

CHRISTHIN 

SLEEPLESS IN A PLACE CALLED HOME 

URVI SHAH 

the night was my lullaby, 

the pattern of my breath, the strings of a guitar, 

the drumming of my fingers, a beat to which my heart 

throbbed, 

but my thoughts, a pen, no ink. 

Anna Karenina lay untouched by my side, 

“if you love me as you say, 

do so that I may be at peace”, 

running through my mind way too many times, 

but enough to keep count. 

just once more, 

you were missed by me, 

I flung dialogues in the placidity, 

in hopes that you would play along, 

before they disintegrated into meaningless syllables. 

I felt myself dissolving into metaphors, 

my mind, full of commas, 

incapable of structuring a coherent sentence, 

the monotony of the night, my hyperbole, 

an oxymoron, the luminous night lamp. 

The moon cascaded over to the bed, 

reaching over to the other side, 

nestling its light between the sheets, 

trying to comfort me in your absence, 

the moon understood me that night. 

the duvet hugged me uncomfortably, 

I think it was trying to strangle me, 

maybe it wasn’t used to an empty space, 

Maybe it felt helpless, like me, 

not cocooning you for the first time in 10 months. 

A photo of you clutched in my fist, 

the fragrance of your soul, 

the purity of your spirit, 

your need to love and your love for life, 

still imprinted on your red pillow aching beneath me, 

lulling me to sleep. 

I miss you. 

I miss you. 



THE HISTORY OF WOMEN IN INDIA 

TEJASVI SAXENA 

Swami Vivekananda once said, “ You 

cannot expect a bird to fly through one 

wing.” 

Since time immemorial, we have acquainted 

ourselves with the profound 

concept of Ardhnareeshwara, where 

the cosmic fusion of male and female’s 

elemental energy springs the seed of 

the origin of the universe. The magnificent 

statue of women is steeped in the 

antiquities of history, art, and culture. 

Especially, in a nation like India, we venerate 

rivers and mountains as “mothers”. 

So, why are we still disillusioned to 

view a woman as frail and passive? 

Innumerable exemplary and eminent 

artists, scholars, intellectuals, and 

activists have dwelt upon the significance 

of women. Raja Ravi Verma, the 

celebrated painter from Kerala, had 

women as Muse of his rich paintings like 

Hans Damyanti, Saraswati, and several 

others. 

REFORMATIONS 

Ram Mohan Roy, the morning star of 

Indian renaissance and pioneer of 

women’s movement in colonial India, 

held the cause of abolition of egregious 

Sati Pratha and prevalence of girl’s 

education dear to him. Ishwar Chandra 

Vidyasagar, Jotiba Phule, and several 

others have fought valiantly for the 

emancipation of women. 

It’s a sombre fact that the socially constructed 

ideas of gender since long, has 

clouded the rationale of the patriarchal 

societal structures. A woman is stilted, 

constricted and confined to mould 

into shapes of claustrophobic social 

structures. A woman is a frail, exquisite 

and delicate piece of porcelain to satiate 

the shrill elations of pseudo aesthetics 

in a consumeristic world. Paradoxically; 

someone who revels in her individuality 

and is unabashed to flaunt it is cast as 

anathema to the moral fabric of society. 

Our parochial overview that women get 

more assertions when culture and religious 

scriptures sanctify the misogynistic 

practices like staking a Draupadi in 

the game of dices or accentuating upon 

the concept of purity and pollution of 

women. The criteria are always the prerogative 

of males to decide the yardstick 

of dignity, integrity and how much of it 

is weighed to denounce or celebrate a 

woman. 

HISTORICAL WOMEN 

The rich history of Indian women is a 

torch bearer to prod the present. How 

much she is capable of, and in what 

ways. The learned women in Ancient 

India were treated at par with the 

men. They enjoyed a higher degree of 

liberation. She was a Brahmavadiniunmarried 

women who cultured Vedas 

throughout life; Devadasi- who could 

sway her life’s ideals as per her ideas; or 

a proponent of religion like a Sanghmitra- 

daughter of The Asoka, who 

propounded the mystique and spiritual 

concepts of Buddhism in South Asia. 

In the pre-independence era, substantial 

women like Rokhya Sakhawat 

Hussain who wrote, Sultana’s Dreams, 

Sarla Debi Chaudharani, who transpired 

revivalism of Hinduism with political 

changes in British India, Kadambini 

Ganguly, who was the first woman 

graduate of Calcutta University or 

Anandi Gopal Joshi, one of the first to 

obtain a medical degree from the West; 

prodded women to believe in the inherent 

potential and embark upon a path 

of self-development and realization. 

Later on, several women such as 

Indira Gandhi, Sarojini Naidu, Margaret 

Cousins, Annie Besant, Sister Nivedita, 

Kalpana Dutt, MS Subbulakshmi, Lata 

Mangeshkar, Kalpana Chawla, Bachendri 

Pal, have remained pivotal to the 

idea of Women Empowerment. In 1887, 

Bankim Chandra Chatterjee humanized 

the idea of Bharat as a Mata, symbolizing 

congeries of geographical, social, 

cultural and political dynamics, in his 

book Anandmath. 

What holds us back today, as a society 

and a nation to shed our biases and to 

accept the potential and the power of 

women? 

W 

O 

M 

E 

N 


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SLEEPLESS 

NIGHTS 

BIPUL BANERJEE 

The ‘dusk’ has matured to night 

Glimmers of the moon in a gloomy sky 

Last mechanical sound of the concrete jungle 

Laid to sleep in silence 

Astounding solitudes fiddled by 

Creaks of nocturnal crickets 

Every soul in reminisce rests 

The hooting owl and my being below 

Lay awake in mutual awe 

Burdened thoughts of burgeoning emotions 

Feverish desires of sublime metaphors 

Steal the calm of dubious eyes 

The debilitating toil of a monotonous debacle 

Begging for rest 

Fighting for peace 

Yet the overflowing heart of profound desires 

Keeps the heaviness of eyelids 

Away from sagging discern 

Curling bodies 

Rupturing bedsheets 

In symphony 

Dance to the darkness of 

Sleepless nights 



IT’S NEVER LATE TO ENHANCE YOUR 

VOCABULARY 

Cachaemia 

A poisoned condition of the blood. 

Cacoepy Incorrect pronunciation or an instance of this; mispronunciation (opposed to orthoepy). 

Caesura • (In Greek and Latin verse) a break between words within a metrical foot. 

• (In modern verse) a pause near the middle of a line. 

Cancrizans 

Canorous 

Catachresis 

Catastasis 

Cathisophobia 

Moving backwards; repeating a musical theme backwards. 

Musical; Singing; Resonant. 

The incorrect use of words, such as luxuriant for luxurious. 

The part of a drama immediately preceding the climax or action-filled scene. 

Fear of sitting down. 

Cento • A piece of writing, especially a poem, composed wholly of quotations 

from the works of other authors 

• Anything composed of incongruous parts; conglomeration. 

• Obsolete. A patchwork. 

Chapbook • A small book or pamphlet of popular tales, ballads, etc., formerly 

hawked about by chapmen. 

• A small book or pamphlet, often of poetry. 

Climacophobia 

Cohyponym 

Coxalgia 

Crack jaw 

Crapulent 

Cyberphobia 

Cyesis 

Cynophobia 

Cymophobia 

Cypridophobia 

Fear of the act of climbing. 

A word that is one of multiple hyponyms of another word. 

Hip pain originating in the constituent structures of the hip joint. 

A word which is hard to pronounce. 

Suffering from excessive eating or drinking. 

Extreme or irrational fear of computers or technology. 

Medical term for pregnancy. 

An irrational fear of dogs. 

Fear of waves or wave like motions. 

Fear of veneral disease, sexually transmitted disease. 

by Palak Handa 


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SLEEPLESS IN 

DEVOTION 

TOWARDS THE 

UNIVERSE 

ANU CHATTERJEE 

I am lurking deep within 

to search for peace. 

I converse with the universe 

to attain peace. 

I am walking towards my existence 

when I dream. 

These sleepless nights 

call for me to listen 

to messages conveyed by the universe. 

My soul is at peace 

and these sleepless nights are not restless, 

but they unfold layers of my life 

without demanding anything, except time. 

I lie with my eyes closed 

and dream about my aspirations. 

These sleepless nights 

wake me up to analyze my hidden secrets 

and power to unveil my potential to help others. 

I am not in pain or worry, 

I just sway with the universe’s music 

and meditate to inherit the peace within. 

www.inkdrift.com Ink Drift Magazine 23

AKSHAYA PAWASKAR 

SLEEPLESS 

ON AN 

INSOMNIAC’S 

BED 

Looking through the peephole of my door, 

abominably laughing, rolling on the floor, 

at my mirthless predicament, 

at my restless nights, I so abhor. 

My coveted sleep, in a game of hide-and-seek, 

evading me persistently, making my nights bleak. 

A bevy of thoughts, akin to the flight of vampire bats, 

zooming astray. 

Sucking the peace out of my desolate mind, 

it’s luscious prey. 

Gory thoughts of misshapen life and daily toil 

Sketching a mountain out of a molehill, 

as I have the entire night to kill, 

as I try to fend off my sedating pills. 

Antsy about the day to unfold, 

pondering over the grueling work, 

with peanuts of remuneration at stock. 

Just enough to make the meets end, 

how do I serve even ten heads, 

for the dinner over the weekend? 

Such bountiful dread in store, 

the clock ticks away, but I do not snore. 

The world rises to greet the golden orb, with new aspiration, 

sleep washes over me, giving to my supplication. 

The alarm trills, oh sheer exasperation. 

Have slumbered only five minutes, 

my harried soul and body, in desperation. 

I stumble out of bed, with a heavy head. 

The day seems to be laden and grey, 

as I stand, I tend to sway. 

Thus driven to make way for a respite 

Of never parting with my champions of night, 

ammunition with which demons of insomnia I fight. 

24 

Ink Drift Magazine 

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SHUMAILA TAHER 

Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine 

Winner of the Costa Book Award 2018, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, is Honeyman’s debut novel that 

has struck many a hearts with its honest writing and a character so real, that one wonders what took the 

author so long to pen down a novel so brilliant in its entirety. 

Eleanor is in her 30s, living a life that consists of just her and maybe a pot plant at home she often talks to. She has 

been working as a finance clerk in a graphic design company for 9 years now, with no friends or colleagues to pass 

time with. Her only solace is crossword puzzles and weekends spent with a bottle of vodka and Tesco pizzas. If monotony 

had a name, it would be Eleanor. She is socially awkward, and doesn’t understand ‘small talk’ or other niceties. 

Always the subject of jokes by her colleagues, Eleanor is often regarded as the ‘weirdo’. 

“A philosophical question: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? And who’s 

wholly alone occasionally talks to a pot plant, is she certifiable? “ 

Eleanor develops a huge crush on a pop singer she sees in a concert, and decides that he’s the one for her. The singer 

is far from what Eleanor imagines him to be, and is a terrible singer with no respect for others whatsoever. She then 

goes to many lengths to change her appearance, so that their chance meeting could be memorable. Eleanor starts 

obsessing over the singer like a high-school teenager, and follows him around on social media. Her concept of what’s 

real and imaginary is blurred. 

One fine day, she helps an old man who fell down in the middle of the road. She along with Raymond, the IT guy in 

her office, take it upon themselves to rescue the old man. This particular act of kindness opens doors for her, leading 

her to several other connections, and possibly towards a life Eleanor had always imagined. She has to break down 

the walls she’s constructed around her, and for the first time in forever, feel and experience things from a different 

perspective. 

Although Eleanor is a loner, she speaks with her mother on the phone on Wednesday nights. Her ‘mummy’ lives 

somewhere far, and is a terrible mother who projects all her anger and rage at her daughter. Eleanor has spent her 

childhood in foster homes, and has always missed having a family. Eleanor doesn’t know where her mummy is but 

all she knows is that it’s a ‘bad place’. 

The question then arises; why is Eleanor so lonely? The past is unravelled slowly with each chapter, and you’re able 

www.inkdrift.com Ink Drift Magazine aurore 25

to understand the reason behind this isolation. Eleanor has had a troubled past, where she had been abused both 

mentally and physically throughout her life. While in university, she was in an abusive relationship with a man, who 

would punch and rape her. Her low self-esteem and social anxiety pinpoint to years of emotional trauma and lack of 

love. She lives with a scar on her face, after having survived a third degree burn in her childhood. This invited bullying 

in school, and everywhere she went. Eleanor has learnt how to survive. Living, however, is still alien to her 

“Mummy has always told me that I am ugly, freakish, vile. She’s done so from my earliest years, even before I acquired 

my scars.’ 

Never before has loneliness been narrated in such a heartbreaking way. Humans have various coping mechanisms 

when it comes to dealing with loneliness. Eleanor, on the other hand, tells herself she’s completely fine. She embodies 

all of us, who are hiding under the garb of ‘work’ or ‘meetings’ or ‘parties’ to avoid being left alone with nothing 

but our thoughts; hoping that one day, the burden we’re carrying deep inside would be lifted and we could feel free 

again. 

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine is a roller coaster ride of emotions, and laughter, and subtle jibes at the bleak 

lives some humans live. It is as much about loneliness as it is about hope and the chance to love. 

“There are scars on my heart, just as thick, as disfiguring as those on my face. I know they’re there. I hope some undamaged 

tissue remains, a patch through which love can come in and flow out. I hope.” 

Author: Gail Honeyman 

Publisher: HarperCollins 

Pages: 383 

Format: Hardcover 

Rating: 4.7/5 

26 26 

Ink aurore Drift Magazine 

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ATELIER 

NANDINI SONI, UDAIPUR, RAJASTHAN 

I am a woman. No disease, weapon or wound. 

can take that away from me 

-Jan Greenwood, Women at War 

Udaipur born, Nandini Soni finds photography as instant out of time, altering life by holding it 

still. She is the photography club head of enginium society at Mody University, Rajasthan and 

aims to be the next Dabboo Ratnani. 

She asks you to watch her; watch her go to the sun and if she is burned by its fire, she will fly on 

scorched wings. Let the world judge her for her mistakes and help her in different ways. 

She wishes to show that a woman has the spirit of the sun, the moods of the moon and the will 

of the wind; whose physical beauty may fade with time, but she will never stop hunting for the 

meaning of her life. Because In the end, she knows, only two things will matter, one the pounding 

heart and second, an unbiased soul entangled with the perplexed mind. 

Ink Drift Magazine 

27

SLEEPLESS IN FRIEND’S 

APARTMENT 

PRIYA DARSHANI 

There were a lot of fireworks bursting above me in the sky. The noise caused me to believe that the day 

was not an ordinary day. It was something special that everyone around me was celebrating and they 

were sharing beautiful gifts. It was Diwali. It was 1’o clock and I was at my friend’s apartment watching 

the night sky from the Balcony. However, I was not actually just watching. As the wind blew across my face, 

I was in search of peace and satisfaction from every gust of wind. 

At that time, I had a question in my mind – We do a lot of things for peace and happiness. We have so much 

belief related to our religion. We worship, we share things on the special occasion to our relatives each 

other. On the whole, we do things what our forefather did in their times? But, do we find peace on their 

face? Remember when we were kids? We often listened to stories from our grandmothers and with a moral 

at the end of the story. 

But, do we apply what we learned from the stories in our real world? Our main problem is we read theoretically, 

but we never try to apply practically, or we can say in most of the cases we don’t know how to apply. 

When we learned a lesson from a moral story, we figured out that these were the very little things and so 

we choose to ignore them. The interesting thing is we know morality is good for us, but we never make any 

change, we blame that “Our life is difficult “. 

We often read and listen words like kindness, compassion, joy, and empathy from moral stories. But we 

read it superficially, as we never try to dig it and go into the deeper level. 

At that time, I thought life would be easy if we start to choose right things in our life that’s what morality is. 

With these thoughts, the first appearance of light in the sky came over my face and another day started. 


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SLEEPLESS IN 

THE DARK COZY 

NIGHT 

NAMRATA PAUL 

Sleepless in the dark cozy night, 

Watching that star alone in the night sky... 

And just like everyday 

Found you playing those strings… 

Someone calls out your name 

Oh! Is that my inner soul shouting within me...? 

Ok! chuck my stories out 

And tell me something about, 

Whom do you tell your tale? 

My sleepless star, yes! you are a star 

And am nothing but a fool… 

I look at the sky 

With a false pride… 

Close my eyes with few hopes beside 

And a soothing mat to have a peace of mind… 

You are a perfect partner 

Still I walk alone… 

You are busy with your strings 

And never listen to my words which I roar… 

The dust can’t touch you nor even I 

Oh! my star please become the sleep of my eyes... 

I can’t reach you 

And I feel so lonely all alone… 

Anyways, few moment of traffic jam 

Then again, a long way to drive with the flow… 



SLEEPLESS IN 

TRAUMA 

PENNED FABLS 

A common phase that every human endures. 

The days seems so long, 

The smile you show is the way for pain to hide. 

The thoughts that strike the mind are all sudden, 

For, the heart that beats feels abandoned. 

To be upset, there are no reasons, 

Yet, the mood that swings like seasons. 

Dwelling over the past, being so blue, 

To be precise on the happenings, you still have no clue. 

Then comes the time that makes you happy, 

For you can be alone and win your own fights, 

The moment the night comes with the moonlight, 

That makes you brave, yet also afraid. 

The familiar walls seem so different, 

The utter silence speaks so loudly. 

In your own room you stay, 

But your thoughts are drifting away. 

You shut your eyes, open your dreams, 

Nothing helps, for your inside still screams. 

Like an unexpected drama, 

Apparently, man must still be sleepless in Trauma. 


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MY WORLD OF 

LONELINESS 

SABARI RAM 

A small expression of loneliness to which the most people can connect to them. 

Sleepless in zillion night 

Occupied by stage fright 

Kept me awake in the dark 

Made me look like a growling dog; 

Sweeping my unceasing tears 

Away from the fall 

Skirmishing against my fears 

To rise from the fall; 

I am craving to sleep 

But I can’t get enough 

While I constantly weep 

I wish to die soon enough; 

Longer the thoughts inside my head 

Kept me awake for a long time 

Longing to sleep in my bed 

And my action spoke like a mime; 

Anxiety became my best friend 

While over thinking becomes my character 

I wish that this would come to an end 

While it said, it will last forever; 

Depression knocks on my door 

While OCD joined the queue 

And ADD enters the floor 

So, my mind joined her too; 

I hate myself more 

Than anyone combined 

I agree to disagree 

But I am ready to confide; 



SLEEPLESS IN MY 

DEEP SLEEP…. 

KALAI SELVI 

Sleepless in my deep sleep 

I writhe around in numbness... 

With my palpitating heart 

hardly could I close my eyes 

to drift into peaceful sleep - 

Triggered violent emotions 

stagger my heart valves 

and slow down life’s flow - 

Unmindful I blabber and blabber 

lisping cursed words - 

and that’s not my nature - 

Cursed are my days now 

lacking peace at heart - 

everyone seems to be my foe 

conspiring behind me 

wherever I go. 

Facing challenges at life 

failed to hurt me - 

But, when hurdles ‘re thrown 

at my child’s way - 

agitates my swollen heart! 

Hmm... there I found a medicine 

to cure my pained heart - 

slowly and slowly moving ahead 

I slip into a hopeful trance 

where no light fails to brighten 

that shows the successful way - 

for I drift into peaceful sleep! 


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MAHUA SEN 

The Top Writers Chair 

Mahua Sen is a Post Graduate in Journalism and Mass communication. She worked with Hindustan Times, New 

Delhi, as a reporter. Born to Dr. S.M. Chowdhury (she calls him, her ‘Achilles heel’) and Mrs. Krishna Chowdhury, she 

grew up in Delhi. She plays with metaphors and alliteration ever since a tender age. She loves to dwell in her world 

of words. It calms her down, she says! She writes with passion and panache and it helps her to understand life in its 

different hues. She is self-questioning, willing to experiment words in different forms and is gritty enough to unveil 

her insights, emotions and ideologies through her writings. She has authored a poetry book named ‘Insights’ under 

the flagship of ‘Authorspress’. The book was amongst Amazon Bestsellers for many months. She has also edited and 

compiled a book named “Flock – the Journey” which is a wonderful blend of stories and poetry, ranging from a vast 

array of theme and insights. Apart from this, she has contributed stories and poems in many anthologies, journals 

and newspapers. 

You can reach her at sen.mahua5@gmail.com 

TOP BOOKS BY MAHUA 



MISTY HOPES 

ANKIT MADAAN 

Human actions are bound by vigorously flowing hearty feelings. These can’t be controlled if one has no control over 

his or her emotions. Riya is compelled by heart to do things which should never be done by a normal person. She is 

quite a girl to think too much and to accept what had happened to her within a very little period. 

Dusk had fallen. Somewhat cloudy weather with chilling breeze touching her ears made her look for a shelter where she 

could halt for a moment and think about what had happened just a few minutes ago. However, she walked, actually trying 

to walk faster avoiding eye contact with passersby. Her mouth produced a tart liquid which she had to gulp knowing 

there’s no possible option than that in such a crowded place. She gazed at people occasionally just for a blink of an eye 

then continued to walk. The sound of honking horn blowing enhanced intensity in her body. She quivered although it was 

a summer evening with a cool breeze. She wore a sleeveless long kurta and jeans, torn at knees, which people might think 

is a fad but was a result of something else. 

After a long, tiring walk when she reached a lone, desolate place and spat so harshly. Almost puked. And what her mouth 

ejected? It was blood. She touched her teeth third left from the centre. Finger filled with blood. She did not know what to 

do else than just walk home. She had marks of wounds at the centre of her forehead but she managed to hide them with a 

scarf. A few injuries on both the hands but not much visible in low light. It was evening, the time when most of the people 

go home from the workplace but for her, it was still much distance to reach home from the very place. She groped back 

pockets of her pants and her search returned two notes of one hundred rupees. Realizing that she has lost her bag which 

was probably filled with her belongings she hurriedly gestured an Autowala. 

“New Aatish Market?” she tried laboriously to speak but was not vocal enough to make the Autowala understand. He nodded 

in disapproval pointing finger at his ear. 

She repeated a little loudly when he noticed her unease to speak because of her bloody mouth. She seemed a kind of 

witch who had sucked someone’s blood and now was being alcoholic not even able to speak clearly. Fortunately, he 

understood her words and let her in and they flew. 

The pace of auto rickshaw opposing the air produced a tremble in her body. She was murmuring something. Something 

which Autowala tried to hear when he saw her consistency in speaking to herself. She made strange gestures. Weird expressions 

appeared on her face but he didn’t understand any of them. It seemed something had happened to her. Her face 

displayed fear, anxiety, and much more. Like someone was following her she looked outside occasionally and fearfully. 

“What happened madam?” Autowala asked. “Everything alright?” 

“Faster” she spoke a word only. Enough to make him clear that she didn’t want to talk. 

She grabbed the handle and thumped the door which made a sound enough to be heard around. But no one noticed or 

we can say no one cared. She walked inside striking the door behind with her foot to be locked again and rushed towards 

the bathroom. 

She wasn’t able to think. Moments were waving around her head. Click, it sounded when she opened the bathroom gate 

and faced the mirror as she entered in. She looked pale and horrible. She took off the scarf and touched at the grazes on 

her forehead. Touching them ached her from both outside and inside her heart. Then she opened the tap and sat down in 

the bathtub with her clothes which caused her mobile, whose display had already been broken, wash away. It called for 

help, for it didn’t want to be soaked like her thoughts but in vain. 

After a few minutes, the water turned red with fresh cuts on her elbows which she might not have noticed. Wounds 

were worst when water touched them. Even more when they were open and water flowed on the skin. Hair was all right 

because she had worn that scarf all the time. One earring was missing but it wasn’t a big concern to be remembered or to 

be cared for. What mattered was the event happened about an hour ago which she didn’t want to think of. But what? We 

can’t control thoughts. Especially when we want to. She wanted to scream it out. But no one was there to hear, or give her 

a sympathy if she required. 

Riya stepped out of the bathroom giving no heed to her soggy clothes, which dripped consistently, and walked towards 

her bedroom. Someone followed her. 

She opened her bleary eyes when the cat, all seven pounds of squirming flesh, climbed onto her belly. Squinting into the 

sunlight streaming in from the open window, she discovered that she was now the weary possessor of a pounding headache, 

and at some point, had managed to lose both a tooth and a spouse. 

It was 9 in the morning. She didn’t know when she slept last night. June 24, she looked at the date on the calendar and 

closed her eyes again in misery. For the third time, the practice was repeated and this time the worst had happened. 

She didn’t know why his absence has made such a difference in her life. It has been a while since he’s gone. But still, a 

worry and disquietness have been waving in both her thoughts and life. There was a little precariousness in her mind. 


www.inkdrift.com

“It is my goodness I spent such a time with you,” She thought. But imaginations or thoughts could not bring back the moments 

passed with him. 

A door knock was heard. Someone was there to be with her. She knew but did not bother to just get up and open the door 

as she knew who it could be on the other side of the door. She turned her face in disapproval of going all the way down 

and answer. It knocked again. This time with a little higher pitch. She shouted in anguish waking up from the bed and 

walked down the stairs to the doorway. A distance of 100 meters was like walking towards the hell to her. It was expected 

to be someone from the office but as she opened the gate she saw a stranger. Completely stranger whom she had never 

seen before but his looks defined he was an official. 

“Mrs Chintan?” he said strangely looking at her. 

She shut the door instantly regaining from his awkward gaze at her lower body that she was in shorts. Rushing back towards 

the room she hurriedly put on some clothes and came back within minutes. 

“Yes,” she replied asking his identity. He seemed a sleuth. But why a sleuth was needed? She asked herself but no answers 

received because she wasn’t in her senses from the very day it happened. 

“May I come in?” he asked. 

“Ah, yeah of course. Please come in.” 

“I know it is not a good time to talk but since I need to collect necessary information I needed a visit.” He said continuously 

looking at her face. He found her a little uneasy to talk as she covered her mouth while talking. 

“What can I help you with?” she said, again hiding her face into the handkerchief she held in her left hand. 

“Are you alright?” he further said. 

“Yeah, I am alright. Please go ahead.” 

“Alright, my name is Inspector Vikram Singh. I am here to talk about the incident happened to you…” 

“Incident happened with me?” she interrupted as she regained the last day and the wounds on her forehead suddenly 

started to trouble her. Mr Vikram sensed her anxiety as she started sweating. 

“Eh, no no I just want to know about that what happened that day when your husband got missing. Were you with him?” 

he asked. 

She sighed. She didn’t want anyone to know that she had secretly visited the very place from that contemptuous day. And 

most of it was that she happened to be there the very last day itself. On one side where she panicked if he gets to know 

about her visits, he was frightened to reveal his presence over her place. Both hid their feelings and a pin drop silence followed. 

For a little time, they remained quiet as they were trying to lookup for best and smallest word sequences to start. She was 

afraid to be asked why she went there. At least she thought that no one must ask her the same because there’s still a hope 

which illuminated her heart and she believed she could find him at the same place she lost him. 

Mr Vikram was like running out of words to start telling her such news. People warned him about Riya’s discourteous behaviour 

when anyone talks about Mr Chintan especially now when she had lost him. He could see discontent on her face. 

“Huh, it was a miserable day. People say that he was drunk while driving home. But I don’t believe. He never used to drink 

while driving.” Ultimately she said. “And one day, he’ll come and prove I wasn’t wrong.” 

She continued to talk about Mr Chintan when Vikram sat there and listened to her talking. She did not stop or take a break 

discussing him. Her conversation being deeper scared Vikram to confess what he wanted to tell her. 

“May I get a glass of water please?” He eventually managed to stop her for something much grievous was there to be told 

her. 

sorry. I forgot to ask.” She said. He saw cuts on her hands and elbows as she walked inside. He was unsure to tell the thing 

for he wasn’t aware how arduous can the consequences be after. He just wanted to escape. 

“here” she came back with a glass replete with water. He grabbed it hurriedly. 

“I think I might take your leave.” He said with a gulp of water. Swallowing hardly. “Please give me your number if I need 

any information or if I get to know anything about Mr Chintan.” 

A wave sparkled in her eye when she heard Mr Chintan. “It is 9******.” 

He noted apace on his mobile and walked towards the door. “I will surely tell you as soon as I get any information.” 

“Please.” She said looking him walking speedily. 

She succeeded to hide her frequent visits in search of Mr Chintan over the accident scene and the very last one which 

caused her much injuries and wounds on both his body and heart which ached not on intervals but all the time. 

“We have found the dead body of your husband.” Vikram typed and sent to the very number as soon as he accelerated his 

car. 

Though it was not an opposite decision- to inform someone about such matter- he chose to do it. 

The message was never delivered because the mobile, which was supposed to receive it, was already broken. Vikram 

found him incapable to reveal the thing before Riya. Even he knew what Riya was trying to hide from him. They both hid 

things from each other they knew at some point. Riya was somewhat informed in her heart that Mr Chintan was not going 

to come and Vikram knew that Riya had not been in a situation to accept the fact that she was trying in vain for she didn’t 

get any success in doing so. Vikram departed in his car as Riya stood still on the gate embroidering her heart in a new hope 

given by him. 



BOOK OF THE MONTH 

OPTION B 

SHERYL SANDBERG 

OPTION B BY SHERYL SANDBERG IS A NOVEL ABOUT SURVIVAL, COURAGE AND THE ABILITY TO BOUNCE BACK UP. 

IT HAS STORIES OF PEOPLE FROM ALL WALKS OF LIFE WHO HAVE DEFIED ALL THE ODDS, SURVIVED AT THE FACE OF 

ADVERSITY AND HAVE OVERCOME ILLNESS, JOB LOSS, SEXUAL ASSAULT, NATURAL DISASTERS AND THE VIOLENCE OF 

WAR. NOT ONLY DO THESE STORIES INSPIRE US IN MILLION WAYS, THEY ALSO TEACH US HOW TO PERSEVERE IN TIMES 

OF HARDSHIPS. THEY REVEAL HOW STRONG HUMAN CAPACITY IS AND THAT PAIN USUALLY BOWS DOWN WHEN FACED 

WITH PEOPLE WHO REFUSE TO BEATEN BY THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES. 

PRAISE FOR THE BOOK: 

• A GRIEF MEMOIR ON THE LOSS OF A LOVED ONE AND FINDING WAYS TO GET ON WITH HOPE AND WITHOUT 

BITTERNESS- THE HINDU 

• I RECOMMEND THIS INSPIRING BOOK TO EVERYONE AROUND THE WORLD. NONE OF US CAN ESCAPE SAD- 

NESS, LOSS OR LIFE’S DISAPPOINTMENTS, SO OUR BEST OPTION IS TO FIND OPTION B.- MALALA YOUSAFZAI

April 2018

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