Rajumoni describes the dynamics of writing a poem, in an imaginative way, personalising the Muse, exclusively for Different Truths.

Sitting on a chair,
I was staying alone,
I was playing,
With some words
Inside the room
Without any care and motion.

I talked with them
Cried, laughed,
Scolded.

Locked door was knocked
Little a while,
I questioned,
‘Who are you and why
in this midnight?’

I opened the door
A stranger was standing and questioned,
‘For whom always you
enjoy sleepless nights?’

Answered politely,
‘I play with dying words and try to ensure their life.’

She looked at me,
Without looking back,
She returned to her destiny;

Closing the door,
I came to the chair,
Thought to myself,
‘Who was she, why did come to me and for what?’

Rested
I rested for a long time there,
My words slept
On me in that very
Midnight;

The birds,
The moon,
The mangoes lying on the tree branches in daylight;

The river,
The sun,
The poem that I recited
In the poetry confluence,
The claps I heard when I was praised and so forth;

In the very end of the night the door was knocked again,
With the same sounds and same wide eyes,
‘Who? Are you the same?’

Silence spread for a while,
Only the moments were prevailing.

I opened the door,
‘It’s me.
You are now with me.’

A stranger entered,
Sat on the chair,
Two loving eyes were blooming in front of me,
Started playing with me, with words,
Till the sun rises.

A poem was composed and recited loudly,
‘Oh! my heart, never try to burn anything,
Give me some tolerance, rivers – the rivers of humanity’.

Picture design Anumita Roy, Different Truths