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Ashes Getting Dispersed in Rohtang; When You're Split in Half

By Paarmita Vedi

Ashes Getting Dispersed in Rohtang


I speak a name. Of a place. A name stitched deep into my cold skin. "Rohtang" - a Persian name. I break it and speak it out. Ruh. Tang. First, a whisper leaves my lips. Next, my tongue collides with my teeth. I feel a kiss floating in the mountains. This place, in the lap of Himalayan mysteries, Has a name reminding you of a pile of corpses. And I see a history buried in the snow. A reminiscence. Of travellers, nomads and myriad secrets. I see brown eyes bathed in golden honey And touch brave skins kissed by the blizzard. I hear heartbeats crossing this pass In an unwavering quietness spread around. I listen to dead voices evaporating in the air. I witness forgotten souls walking beside me. I find holy skeletons hidden in the cold mountains from centuries past. Undiscovered by the world. I chant that Persian name again and again Like an inherent poesy of my soul And I feel Sufi poetries swimming in my blood. The fluttering of Tibetan flags breaks my thoughtful somnolence. I see a snowy land acting as a bridge Connecting Shiva and Buddha in today's world. I remember the name Rohtang. With reverence I let my Ruh escape the shackles of my fears. My soul feels free. Liberated and Transcendental.


When You’re Split in Half I implore the rolling country hills to stop - To stop committing their artistic sins. Their enticing melancholic beauty goes on penetrating my sense of being which is one, yet two, As if it is trying to dig out secrets Buried under layers of brown histories. There is a pale, powdery blue sprinkled on the grasses. The grey fog starts curling, engulfing the golden. I smell an apocalypse flooded with salty liquids. I stare at the stretched nothingness, My feet feeling the cold of early dews of green. I try to articulate the intravenous disaster of conflicts. The entire universe of language cruelly cheats me. Do you not see two persons dwelling under the vault of one single sky? One version is an avid reader of the world. She peruses the yellow and white woods. The other version is the keeper of the greyest skies. Her soul is soaked in the thickest gloom. The first part is that vivacious and perky child who will run these hills with soft and naked feet. The other will sit numb but ruminate about the pensive wind that once passed this seemingly isolated land. It is a cycle. A repetitive psychological state of Existing in alternate phases of Being extremely cheerful and mournful. If one part drinks the Northern Lights in Alaska, The other is thirsty for mercy and screams alone in Antarctica. Here, my breaths talk with clairvoyant country hills. I wonder what music the wind will compose When my two parts reveal themselves To the walking eyes of the expecting world.


About Paarmita Vedi:


Vedi is a 21-year-old student who is passionate about writing on the themes of feminism, human relationships, grief and nature. She recently enrolled at Delhi University, pursuing a Masters in English Literature. In 2019, she self-published her first book, a poetry collection, entitled Moon and the Blue Waters. A literature enthusiast, she is an ardent admirer of mountains, sunflowers, John Donne and Sylvia Plath.



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