“In this world being fed on synthetic emotions, irrational hype and fake sentiments, there seems very little hope for anything true or genuine.”
But that is where, fortunately, the world gets unpredictable and you have a writer like Pranjal Asha. Okay, confession time – I am a fan of her writing. But not just her words, but for the emotions and thoughts they unabashedly throw at the face of the world saying quite simply- ‘here, deal with this.’
She is a dealer in truth, in words, and everything that makes us human and The Uncommon Box is delighted to present her as our Uncommon writer.
Currently pursuing her Bachelors degree from Miranda House, Delhi University, Pranjal reveals that her experiences and thoughts sparked off her tryst with writing. Trapped in our typical alienated living, we often wallow in despairing emotions that make us feel we are alone in our suffering or experiences. Pranjal uses her writing to reach out to this human experience, and connect everyone through this one-ness of existence.
‘I am sure all of us go through different phases in our lives and it’s very human to react to them. Even when one feels helpless and chooses to just stay there quiet and not react, that counts as a reaction. We’re constantly feeling and thinking about different things around us. This never stops. And I am no different.’
‘So I write down my feelings, my reactions to various things happening around me. I share them with fellow humans to make them feel comfortable about their situations, to stop thinking that they’re alone in this, but also, urging them to think about the situations and help themselves.’
Of love & bullshit.
When at night, its two,
Honey, no one loves you.
How would you wait like that?
Hoping for good moments,
while the beast of night,
Just always wanted to swallow your fingers,
and rub your thighs?
You’re waiting.
Why are you waiting?
I’m sorry but it’s slow death
disguised as small death.
When you’ll wake up the next morning,
you’ll wake up with flashes flashes flashes of last night
Forcing you to jump off the window.
Don’t you tell me all this anxiety was never invited.
When at night, it’s two,
Honey no one would ever love you.
They wear masks and approach you,
looking like that pup you fed last week.
But, don’t grab them in your arms
because growing pups bite the fuck out of you.
Bite the fuck out of you,
as your lover-to-be will get to your vagina.
In some other world,
You would still hope for shaayaris after sex.
But, sex will get over by four.
By four he’ll doze off.
The monster you are trying to run from,
will return the next night,
asking you to, maybe, come online.
He’ll tell you sugar-coated lies.
Sometimes, even that he loves you.
But when the clock will strike at two,
Honey, he’ll be sexting with you.
For a writer whose words reach out to people in a stark and with a no-frills approach, Pranjal correctly cites her main source of inspiration as Life itself. Scholars often debate on the Art versus Life issue- whether they are mutually dependent or exclusive. Pranjal’s opinions indicate which side of the debate works for her.
‘The people I meet, the people I observe, the people I observe observing me, the city I live in, the stories I hear, the scenarios I imagine in my head, the plans I make with my friends. Music plays a very important role in inspiring me. Or frankly, it helps me heal.’
The eye of the sensitive writer finds its muse in the most minute of details of our mundane existence.
‘Not just human beings though, everything here goes through a lot. Even a simple wall on a busy road has paan stains on it. We have newspapers, magazines, cinema, photographs, political affairs, revolutions happening around us. So I just keep my eyes open wide and look around for inspiration, it comes on its own, when it has to.’
Echoing the feelings of other writers, the much dreaded Creative Block is still the challenge.
Letter To The Syndrome.
Dear writer’s block,
Do you understand?
Do you, understand?
That it’s been years,
Maybe More than years, since you have been inside my head,
Blocking.
Yeah blocking as your name says,
Dear blocking my ways to
Write something that comes up in my mind,
To prove any one that I really write.
To consider myself as an artist,
To make money out of my art, To support myself with that money.
To become professional.
To explain myself a little better.
To express my ideas about love, life, sex,society,infrastructure, politics, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
To keep writing.
To get appreciated.
To live a better life.
To own a better lifestyle.
To vent my frustrations out.
To make myself feel better.
To heal my soul.
To not cry every night.
To not feel that no one understands me.
To get the real support I never get.
To not get thoughts of jumping off the fourth floor of building number 56 that I live in.
To stop searching for painless ways to die.
To stop thinking painless or painful I just want to die.
To at least never leave my will to write again.
To at least never leave my will to live again.
To stop feeling whatever I just said isn’t poetic at all.
Dear writer’s block
You make me think maybe I wrote too much.
Maybe, it was all momentary.
Maybe, I was never a writer.
Maybe all those friends who have now turned their backs were right,
I am good at nothing.
Moreover, I am afraid that you’re nothing but a reality check,
Of my inabilities,
Of my faliures,
Of the fact that I am unwanted
Or overrated, maybe,
worthy of nothing,
Of the fear of losing readers,
Of being called a bad writer.
Dear writer’s block,
To me,
You feel like the 18 years of my life.
You’re the only experience I have.
You feel like the same feeling of being stuck in a house on fire when I was 6.
You feel like the same feeling of being stuck in my house where my father used to hit my mother.
You feel like my anxiety.
You feel like death to me.
Dear writer’s block,
Do you understand?
Do you, understand?
That it’s been years,
Maybe more than years,
Since you’ve been inside my head,
And now you just need to
Fuck off.
Pranjal shares a heart-warming memory from one of her poetry events with us…
‘Once I was at this beautiful poetry event and I was a featured artist and so were my friends. I was terribly upset about something for days and had not even rehearsed my pieces. Just before my performance, I started crying and withdrew my name. After venting it all out, I was back. I was the last one to perform, also, the one closing the show. I don’t know how, but that day I was more confident, I didn’t stutter or fumble. I just performed. I had people coming to me and telling me how they liked my performance.
I don’t rehearse my pieces anymore. It’s just my thing from that day on.’
Traffic Rules 101
Wait for the signs and signals,
Follow the traffic rules.
Red, yellow, green light.
Don’t fight.
Red, yellow, green light,
Wait for it.
Green light,
Go ahead make your move.
The traffic may go ahead,
The road is ready.
The road is all right with you moving.
The road wants you to move.
Green light,
Go ahead.
Yellow Light,
Don’t move.
Keep a watch,
Wait for it.
Wait for it and don’t make a move.
The road may not like you to move,
The road may like you to move.
But you need to wait and watch.
Yellow light,
Wait for it.
Red Light,
Don’t make a move at all.
The road doesn’t want you.
Don’t make a move.
You’re not allowed to go ahead.
What the fuck?
What are you doing?
It’s a red light,
Don’t jump the red light.
What? Nobody is watching? It’s harmless?
Nobody is watching. It’s harmless.
It’s harmless to jump the red light.
The red light means a ‘no’
The red light means ‘you can’t’.
But in our country, people often jump the red lights.
The red light stands still,
Screaming ‘No’ through all her reds.
But you don’t listen,
You don’t listen,
You don’t listen,
Listen.
The red light is watching you moving.
So you pick up a rod and
break the fucking red light.
Fuck her ‘Nos’
Fuck her ‘don’ts’
Fuck her ‘you can’ts’
Fuck her.
Fuck. Her.
There is no signal
Yet there is a signal.
The signal that only you see.
You see,
Doctors say what you see and other’s can’t can be a sign, can be a signal
Of a mental disorder.
Order,
The red light would still order you to not move,
But ignore her.
In our country people often jump red lights.
Specially in nights when she is standing alone screaming a ‘No’ but there is no one to look at you jumping her.
There is a signal,
Yet there is no signal.
We don’t listen to No in our country.
So before stepping out,
Make sure you own a private jet for prevention.
You need to prevent yourself,
Prevent, you know,
She went outside without preventions,
Attention seeking bitch,
Got stuck in traffic jam
in our country with no signals.
And don’t you tell us that we didn’t warn her
that we might warm her.
We told her to prevent herself so that we rape someone else because we don’t see signals.
You see,
We just see the green lights,
and every woman out there flashes a green light,
under her veil of red lights
because red doesn’t mean No,
It has the highest wavelength so it attracts one quickly.
So if you find a woman wearing a sexy red dress,
tell her that she is a red light
which means No
Signal.
No signal.
So what makes it worthwhile for Pranjal:
‘People loving and appreciating art. Moreover, people promoting art. That people don’t find poetry boring. There are people who can be spotted at every single poetry session. They make me happy.
And again, people sharing feedbacks.’
A steadfast believer in virtues of originality, Pranjal believes that the words of every aspiring writer are his or hers biggest assets. To hone and craft these words is what should be the focus of every budding writer.
Rickshawwallah.
In the scorching heat of summers,
And even in the chilled winter mornings,
Before that sun’s up
And we are still curled up in our beds,
Come the men with forgotten faces,
Taking their places.
They have a long day ahead,
To stay, to travel, to earn.
These forgotten faces are famous
Just for what they do and what they have.
Prancing on the map of the city,
From this lane to that lane,
We keep on moving.
But what often moves with us are these men,
all ignored.
Their job is not a child’s play,
Asking for higher prices knowing that they’re fooling one,
And their own condition may land them to public shaming!
But who cares,
They are just forgotten figures,
Whom one can never remember or never forget at the same time.
And they don’t even care to let the world know,
Who they are, how do they look or feel.
And for the world,
They all look just so same,
With their colourful rides,
Decorated with stickers of Madhuri Dixit & Ajay Devgn.
Sitting behind them is no less than an adventure,
We all have a great time listening to the 90s songs they play on their pocket radios,
‘Pardesi Pardesi Jaana Nahin’
And listening to them complaining continuously about the less price we offer to them.
And often experiencing the raw smell of sweat and beedi coming out of them.
Some of them earn for a living,
Some to drink and gamble at night.
No one does it for pride.
Indian’s use their identity, their lifestyle,
To shame other people.
‘Aye Rickshawwallah hai kya?’
And their hard work, all ignored.
But they are fine with all of this.
They are fine with random chaps driving cars and calling them names every now and then,
With or without a reason.
They are fine with all of this.
They are just rickshawwallahs.
They don’t matter.
Their faces, their names, their identities,
Don’t matter.
Their ideas, their emotions, their conditons,
Don’t matter.
What matters are those colourful rides decorated with stickers of Madhuri Dixit & Ajay Devgn.
Every day we come across them,
Yet remember none.
The next day we are going to meet them again,
Will remember none.
And what about her dreams for herself?
She just wants 6433678 puppers and doggos and a house to live with them and a nanny (read: her boyfriend) to take care of them when she is busy on her dates with Cinema. 🙂
The closest translation to her name Pranjal is ‘elixir of life’- and it is true indeed how her words and thoughts reflect in their clear translucency and vitality, the various emotions that make us who we are, just humans.
You can follow Pranjal’s work at the following links:
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