Bhumika Singh is a featured poetess on Untwine.Me‘s 100 Incredible Instapoets of 2018 and she shares her prose and poetry compositions @bhumikasingh__ on instagram. We have always been in awe of the maturity with which she handles each subject and unconventional style. She is a great read for those looking for intellectually stimulating and emotionally rich writings. Story telling is an art in which Bhumika surely excels and keeps the reader engrossed. One of the finest writers on instagram that one shouldn’t miss while exploring the platform for great writing pages to follow. We love this page and the talented wordsmith behind the font.
Highlighted below is an extraordinary piece from her page on instagram:
My grandmother has this way of making people cry
as if all the dams separating the four chambers of the heart are flooded at once,
when she caresses the forehead.
As if the eye lids become so heavy in that moment,
they snap like the taut strings
which have been burdened
beyond their capacity.
My mother told me once that
when grandma used to cook,
and grandpa used to ask her what was for dinner,
she always served a soft pat on his back
—a delicacy for making through the day,
even though she was never a part of it.
My family has been a book written by an author
who misunderstood the meanings
of feminism and femininity,
of misogyny and masculinity.
The females try to drag around their failed feminism
wrapped in nine yards of femininity,
but it falls short.
They try to revive the pieces of their dead dreams
inside the cave of their ghoonghat,
but it is too dark in there.
The males let the females go out of the house
after 8 pm with a list of commandments
which would make Moses flinch,and call it feminism.
So when I come back home after 9 o’clock
on a saturday night,
reeking of disappointment,
and having forgotten to follow the list of commandments
because i was trying to walk faster than I should,
my grandmother reminds me how forgetting anything
is fatal to the human mind
because it tries to remember the most
what has been perfectly lost.
I try to remind her
what she wanted to be at the age of thirty,
but of course she doesn’t remember anything
—her mind doesn’t try anymore.
I call her an anomaly to her own discovery,
she says it is the law.
I whisper into the floor,
“I am the sedition.”
My grandmother has this way of making people cry,
she whispers into their ears,
“Everything gets better one day, you know.”
And the people wonder
whether she knows the difference
between today and the one day that
she is certain,
would find its way to her doorstep.
//we don’t open doors to strangers after 7(0)//.