anoushka1705

India

Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.
Hufflepuff
Aspiring Writer
ambivert
indie rock enthusiast
she/her
Feminist
Save Bandit!

Message from Writer

expect a healthy amount of existential angst in my work
Ask me questions if you want here!- https://writetheworld.com/groups/1/shared/169227/version/333705

Published Work

inbuilt/the pains of womanhood

i. the infant sees the sickeningly bright flourescent lights of a dreary operation theatre
when she is born, her mother screaming in pain, she struggles to grasp
the fact that it is over-her challenging ordeal, a test of the human spirit, but her child's has only just begun
a lifetime of broken hearts, debilitating cramps, moods that fluctuate-anger, sadness, despair
as often as the azure butterflies flitting to and from the viridescent leaves of cornflowers aglow in the early light

ii. she enters adolescence, unsure, tepid, hanging onto dregs, remembrances, stolen of childhood innocence
the walls are slippery, her arms tired and she lets go- into the chasm of impending adulthood
the sheets under her are stained red for the very first time, a mark of the womanhood she yearns for
her thoughts overflow, new romances, feelings only hushed and gossiped about in
slumber parties underneath rose-coloured, soft blankets amongst the girls she grows up with

iii. sounds filter...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 9

Challenge Completed

Day 1
She adjusts her carefully embroidered sari, the sweat on her vermillion-streaked forehead trickling down languorously, but her eyes, adorned by sooty black, ages old kajal are fearless, as she steps into the abode of a man she has just met but possesses the  striking aura of a  childhood friend.

Day 2
The castle of childhood innocence made of sand, designed with loving, childlike care on the beachfront of fleeting   hope is soon washed away by the rising tide of early, despairingly eager adulthood; so its architect walks in, wanting to be swept away from his sins.

Day 3
The aging housekeeper dusts the frail edge of some ancient bookshelf, longing to be a part of those  lover's phantasies,some wretched, fever dream of an elusive day, but she waits, she knows her fate rather lies as the feather duster who waits near the oak doors day after day.

Day 4
She stands at the edge of a weathered grey...

Writing Streak Week 9, Day 5

She raises her arms up and down, an angel waiting to be embedded into the snow that her lithe body lays upon, her fingers catching the silky white snowflakes brushing her gentle shoulders as she envisions a life away from this utopian childhood that she had grown to love.

Writing Streak Week 9, Day 4

She stands at the edge of a weathered grey cliff, love lorn, lost and exhausted, lifts her delicate white veil and screams into the chasm of calamity, praying that some hearty soul hears her desperate cries.

searing, emanating, slowly deteriorating #dramatize

my sanguine, light-stepped, buoyant soul traversed on a path
of delicate white, marble tiles, accompanied by layers of stuccoed ancient walls
to my left, lay the door to the outside world- beguiling, alluring, tantalizing
my hasty, untrained, inexperienced faulty eyelids flew to their feeble side
flocking like frantically ecstatic birds to the outstretched palm of an awaiting confrère

to my left, an open plain adorned by a flush of ivory snowflakes
like the rouge of a blush creeping upon a bridal face on her wedding morn
chrysanthemums spread out all over, the rough edges disillusioned by sweet-smelling optimism
the head of it, is brown, decayed, dying grass, fighting their way out of the undergrowth
a sharp contrast, ignominious to the serenity of an otherwise striking feature

a clear pool lies just before, i see my reflection, dithering and irresolute in her bright countenance
i want to lean in further, be captivated, owned by the pull of an incontrollable adulation
it promises...

Writing Streak Week 9 Day 3

The aging housekeeper dusts the frail edge of some ancient bookshelf, longing to be a part of those  lover's phantasies,some wretched, fever dream of an elusive day, but she waits, she knows her fate rather lies as the feather duster who waits near the oak doors day after day.

memoragoria #create

Memoragoria
noun
the state of reliving an often painful or emotional memory in one's head so intensely that it feels like one is experiencing it all over again
 

Writing Streak Week 9, Day 2

the castle of childhood innocence made of sand, designed with loving, childlike care on the beachfront of fleeting   hope is soon washed away by the rising tide of early, despairingly eager adulthood; so its architect walks in, wanting to be swept away from his sins.

Writing Streak Week 9, Day 1

she adjusts her carefully embroidered sari, the sweat on her vermillion-streaked forehead trickling down languorously, but her eyes, adorned by sooty black, ages old kajal are fearless, as she steps into the abode of a man she has just met but possesses the  striking aura of a  childhood friend.

i'm feeling very uninspired so here's some rambly prose

his delicate, wrinkled fingers tremble as he buttons up the gold coat that his Abba gave him a year ago. twilight was fast approaching, the moon casting her silvery, dream-like light on his tumble-down hut. he walks forward, apprehensively, and approaches the tracks somewhat warily. they run barely above the ground, criss-crossing, over-lapping, the carriers of smells, sounds, sights like no human being had ever dared to see, yet they look so ordinary, lying there in their gross obliviousness of time passing, jumping, taking wild, dangerous leaps of faith across the ever-moving universe of sorrow. his thoughts are invaded, at night, time to time, by these strange feelings of missing out, of waiting here, day after day, after accursed day. his only steady companions are his trusty, weather-beaten hazel cane and this uniform, buttons straining, yearning to be let out, playing the steady part of the age-old prisoner knocking on the large walls of a prison that has stood the...

Enumeration

5 Ingredients Every YA Novel Needs

1. The Shy/Awkward/Bumbling/Teenage Girl Protagonist
She's not like other girls. Most likely has glasses, braces and is some type of geek/nerd. She doesn't fit in. She trips EVERYWHERE and over anything. This usually works as a perfect excuse for a meet-cute with the bad boy (see below) Her parents are either: a) dead b) divorced or c) not like regular parents, they're cool parents. Anything feminine about this character is immediately removed, for fear of being too similar to those other girls. (YAY for internalised misogyny!:)

2. The Bad Boy
This character incidentally turns up a LOT in Wattpad novels, that usually feature either:
a)Any or sometimes all members of One Direction b)Vampires or c) Werewolves. Has a very intense, brooding stare. Scarily possessive, sometimes violent. (toxic masculinity anyone?) Always lost in his thoughts. Almost always from a broken home. Wears edgy things including but not limited to- leather jackets, piercings, way too many tattoos and more often than not,...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 8

Challenge Completed

Day 1
And suddenly the girl who said you'd always be friends with becomes yet another dusty picture frame on a moth-eaten bookshelf.

Day 2
we use music as a trusty shield against our fears.

Day 3
 Cat memes play the part of a dedicated, faithful shepherd in herding all our miserable, desperate souls together in the hope of finding some joy among it all.

Day 4
 why do we daydream? to imagine a better reality for our misplaced, lost souls in a fast-paced world, to slow down our thoughts, mangled by overuse.

Day 5
 it is only when we fear that our loved ones are at risk that we recognise their worth.

Writing Streak Week 8, Day 5

it is only when we fear that our loved ones are at risk that we recognise their worth.

Writing Streak Week 8, Day 4

why do we daydream? to imagine a better reality for our misplaced, lost souls in a fast-paced world, to slow down our thoughts, mangled by overuse.

moonlight epiphany #LBC12

the craggy, desolate, deeply grey rocks
faded and hardened by time and her enamoured accomplices
but i did not notice them, my innocent azure eyes
like the ocean, bright blue reflecting a cloudless sky

i was utterly transfixed, mesmerised, captivated
by your slender fingers, enclosed in my outstretched, eager
hand, that has been waiting for this moment
since her first hopeful, young fledgling summer

you turn around slowly, steadily, in the emanating moonlight
the Moon casting a spell on your emboldened soul, like you have on me
and then the moment is gone, all fleeting hope brashly lost
like a deer from a lumbering beast at the watering-hole

we continue on, in strangely tepid silence
now strangers, yearning to never discuss
what had occurred between us, amongst the moonlit terrain,
we had departed, but never had the enervative, all-consuming pain.




 

Writing Streak Week 8, Day 3

Cat memes play the part of a dedicated, faithful shepherd in herding all our miserable, desperate souls together in the hope of finding some joy among it all.

Writing Streak Week 8, Day 2

we use music as a trusty shield against our fears.

Lament Of The Lonely//The Ballad of Eleanor Rigby #126 #ekphrasis1

i sit in silence, in this dusty, ancient church
waiting, waiting for this dream-like reality 
to be over, so finally i can go back 
to the life i had made for myself
picking the rice, on the stony floor
my heart is filled with despair,
and a fleeting sense of hope
perhaps, it shall be over
this mundane existence,
travelling to houses that i can never own,
looking at faces, so ecstatic in their famed luxury
washing the dishes, ceramic, porcelain,
but all fragile, like my unsteady heart
i long for life to take me places,
beyond the houses of wealthy lords and ladies,
so i can not be alone, ever again

there is a Father, in the pew over there,
he seems to be engrossed in his work, so deeply
it is clear he has found his calling
he couldn't possibly know how it feels
to be alone, so alone
trailing after forgotten, distant memories
broken shells of lives...

Writing Streak Week 8, Day 1

And suddenly the girl who said you'd always be friends with becomes yet another dusty picture frame on a moth-eaten bookshelf.

The Defining Power Of A Sidekick

you have the glory, and all the fame
and i, all-consuming,ever-lasting, frightening, debilitating pain
fighting the bad guys, you have forged your destiny, your lane
as i watch aside, singing his final requiem's harrowing refrain

i still remember our early days,
before all our memories were caught up in some dust-filled, vague haze
of sorrow, defeat, deceit and lies
which would now be nearly impossible to disguise

you beheld the beauty, the power, the eternal glory
while i was just another ill-fated character in your story
you, front and center, me, always faithful, always by your side
always there to help, protect, advise and to guide

maybe things don't have to be this way
those feelings of  love and possible respect might just get to stay
or the blood of betrayal doesn't make its unfortunate prick
but  perhaps i'll always remain your trusty sidekick.




 

Writing Streak Challenge Week 7

Challenge Completed

Day 1
    dinner table conversations

siblings all riled up,
mother mediating,
father enlightening us all with silly news reports
of animals escaping, leaders misleading,
oh how i used to take them for granted
but now my ungrateful, wretched self,
finally realises the value
of these, soon to vanish
dinner table conversations.

Day 2
   zoom limerick cause i'm bored and wanted to try something new
When you fear you have too much time to think
Then just click on that treasured, blue link
Amongst coworkers, family or a childhood friend
There is simply no need to pretend
That you prefer paper, pencils or deep, blue ink.

Day 3
 the healing power of song
another one of my countless, miserable wanders
had led me to to a large, shady banyan tree
she embraced me like an old friend, 
with her outstretched roots like  open, welcoming arms
while a songbird atop her lush green leaves
sang a melancholy tune
so...

Lament Of The Lonely//The Ballad of Eleanor Rigby #126 #ekphrasis1

i sit in silence, in this dusty, ancient church
waiting, waiting for this dream-like reality 
to be over, so finally i can go back 
to the life i had made for myself
picking the rice, on the stony floor
my heart is filled with despair,
and a fleeting sense of hope
perhaps, it shall be over
this mundane existence,
travelling to houses that i can never own,
looking at faces, so ecstatic in their famed luxury
washing the dishes, ceramic, porcelain,
but all fragile, like my unsteady heart
i long for life to take me places,
beyond the houses of wealthy lords and ladies,
so i can not be alone, ever again

there is a Father, in the pew over there,
he seems to be engrossed in his work, so deeply
it is clear he has found his calling
he couldn't possibly know how it feels
to be alone, so alone
trailing after forgotten, distant memories
broken shells of lives...

To Long For Petrichor On A Bleak, Summer's Day (Please Review!)

my misted, delicate eyes travel over
to the window by my bedside, often ignored
in the frenzied, chaotic rat race we call our daily lives
but now, it is the only thing that gives me life
a portal, almost,to the outside world, my most treasured possession

a briefly intricate reminiscence about a day long gone
i remember it, so clearly, the striking images running through my head
the wind was a banshee, wailing at the death of a husband, she deeply loved
the strength overpowering the fragile glass of my dear window, 
rattling, shaking in f e a r of what was to come

the rain, gentler than a toddler's caress at first,
then picked up pace, a deafening crescendo of sorts
drops of rainwater penetrated the harsh undergrowth
while humans scattered for cover under misshapen umbrellas 
then, all at once, it was over, shortened to limp, staccato bursts

but its real beauty was what came afterward
the sweet smell...

Writing Streak- Week 7, Day 5

uncontrollable, relentless giggling
over long lost, childhood memories 
buried under the overwhelming burden of new lives
and still we revisit, our storied past
inside jokes revived by presentations
creatively put together by unsteady, idle minds
we are content, if our souls are.

Writing Streak- Week 7, Day 4

pages yellowed by drops of scattered tadka dal.
dropped by a mind engrossed in words that she wished were her own
she yearns to be a part of those worlds
to live amongst rough pirates, alluring maidens and flighty wizards
but for now, her wild imagination comes to her unfortunate rescue

Dear YouTube

Thank you for recommending that truly delightful video of a rotating seal
Because my shallow,tepid heart is now filled to its brim with everlasting zeal
You bring joy to  so many when words cannot
So thank you for making our odd sense of humour now more besot
I now fully understand your vibrant, colourful appeal

crush of rosemary, field of sunlit corn #BaringMySoul2 #PrettyContest 1

as we lay together in the sun's dying heat
your head on my trusted shoulder
hands adjusting the crush of rosemary blossoms
adorning your darkened collar

you promised me you'd be back
in the ever-approaching dusk,
the  vibrant sky streaked with violet, orange and cerulean dreams
and i, in my gross naivete believed your rough words

i waited and waited, in the field we had grown together in
but you left as swiftly as the evening tides
that deftly approach an unsuspectingly calm shore
spurned as i was, i prayed, my faith lost in the sea of hope.

Writing Streak- Week 7, Day 3

                                                          the healing power of song
another one of my countless, miserable wanders
had led me to to a large, shady banyan tree
she embraced me like an old friend, 
with her outstretched roots like  open, welcoming arms
while a songbird atop her lush green leaves
sang a melancholy tune
so it seemed, that i was not alone.
 

Writing Streak- Week 7, Day 2

                                    zoom limerick cause i'm bored and wanted to try something new
When you fear you have too much time to think
Then just click on that treasured, blue link
Amongst coworkers, family or a childhood friend
There is simply no need to pretend
That you prefer paper, pencils or deep, blue ink.

is growing up finite? #champion

maybe someday i'll grow old
and forget what it's like
to giggle in innocence at a schoolyard prank
on an unsuspecting adult

maybe someday i'll grow old
and discover what it's like
to lose those childhood friends
along with the sacred memories, an oath now broken
like our fingers, now calloused from this overuse

maybe someday i'll grow old
and forget what it's like
to stare out of my window
at passersby, wondering about their stories, hopes and dreams

maybe someday i'll grow old
and discover what it's like
to truly love another
but till then i remain, young but awake.


 

Writing Streak- Week 7, Day 1

                                                              dinner table conversations

siblings all riled up,
mother mediating,
father enlightening us all with silly news reports
of animals escaping, leaders misleading,
oh how i used to take them for granted
but now my ungrateful, wretched self,
finally realises the value
of these, soon to vanish
dinner table conversations.

freak of nature #thegayagenda #cherry

November 1858, Concord Massachusetts
i. musings-women
I do not know if there ever will be a time where women are more than just mere playthings for society, alongside a man. He is unknowing of their needs, their wants, their deepest, darkest desires, but she stays.Women are often compelled to, for marriage is the best thing they are considered for, in this accursed society. I am certain that I can never marry a man. I am too much of a wild, free spirit, as Mother affectionately calls me. I fear this is also because I have fallen in love with so many pretty girls before, but never,ever a man. Maybe God has made me this way, some freak of nature, for there is nothing I desire more than to be a man, independent, not judged by society's expectations of me. 

ii. why do i feel this keen sting of betrayal, all at once
 I fear about what will happen to Anna...

ah, the perils of being indecisive

Hey everyone, I know I'm really new to write the world and don't really have much of a following yet, but after seeing K-9 Crazy's unique writing bracket challenge, I decided to enter. The first prompt is for a piece of yours that you've already published and think is your best one. And i'm having a really hard time choosing which of my pieces to submit so I would appreciate if you guys could comment on which of mine I should submit! Here are a few links:

is growing up finite?
https://writetheworld.com/groups/1/shared/164718/version/322551

Requiem For The American Dream
https://writetheworld.com/groups/1/shared/160071/version/323034

calloused palms, an admirable face
https://writetheworld.com/groups/1/shared/164949/version/323036

Locker Room Talk
https://writetheworld.com/groups/753/shared/164449/version/321903

Thanks, if anyone see this, and good luck if you're entering the challenge!

Writing Streak Challenge Week 6

Challenge Completed

  HITCH-HIKED
Day 1
                                                                             LEE'S POV
Lee Patel never thought she's be in this position. She was a straight A student and had been her whole life, but now, in a bid to "step outside of her comfort zone" as he Aunt had so rightly called it, she was all alone, somewhere on a deserted stretch of road on the Gold Coast, her hand outstretched with her thumb up, the universal sign for "I desperately need help". Well, that and the fact that she needed to hitch a ride to the Lamington National Park. She inwardly cursed herself for taking this gap year. It was sort of an impulse decision, really, and egged on by her Aunt and slightly overbearing father, she had done...

calloused palms, an admirable face -an ode to essential workers all over the world #quick

crowded, tense waiting rooms
made unbearable by the scent
of listlessness, dread and ever-present fear
family members waiting for death's deep call

but they go on like jason,
but there is no fleece
only the cries of patients sweating, shaking
they comfort them, with calloused hands but an admirable face.
 

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

Requiem For The American Dream

Through wind and hail,
And long, arduous disaster-filled journeys,
Through the everlasting looks of apparent disbelief,
And faulty words of sage counsel
Often delivered in tones masked by a patronizing glare

They journeyed to another land,
Alone, apart, from family, friends 
Any semblance of familiarity
Long forgotten, like their identity, they so feared

And finally, it was over
They had reached
The land of opportunities
Once a brutal, yet relentless superpower
Now strengthened by the very faces they would look down upon

Hand in hand, they walked
To their home, or so they prayed
It seemed welcoming at first nervous glance
But this was an illusion, like so many good things were

And there their family grew
They lived in hope but also fear
For they thrive together
The fear won, like it always did

It was a blustery evening
An old friend's visit beckoned
Like the birds on the onset of a summer's day
And so they ventured, into...

Writing Streak- Week 6, Day 5

                                                                          JORDAN’S POV
I stepped out of the train and made my way towards the music festival where Ramona and Rita were supposedly having a stellar time at. Having never particularly been a fan of crowds, I walked warily forward, expecting to see loud, brash youngsters, drunk on experience and a dash of youthfulness. What I saw pleasantly surprised me. Rita and Ramona were up on the small yet effective stage alongside another girl, about her age and an elderly man strumming along to Closing Time. I couldn’t help but join in; yelling the words at the top of my lungs, amongst so many strangers, but what I felt on the inside was anything but strange. Their performance came to an end and the...

Writing Streak- Week 6, Day 4

                                                                               RITA’S POV
Never before had I ever seen a man more suited to his name than Heathcliff Tellmann, he went by Cliff, he said because they didn’t need another excuse to bully a young gay kid in a Manchester boarding school. He had the ruggedness of a villain with the charm and bright mindedness of a hero, much like his namesake.  My eyes traveled around the ice-cream truck turned tour bus. It had transpired that Cliff was in fact a struggling musician, whose first big gig was the Goodyear Music Festival, finding out; he had gone to his local tavern and celebrated. It was solely because of this that Lee was now driving them, helped along by Ramona. The two of...

Writing Streak- Week 6, Day 3

                                                                             RAMONA’S POV
“Please Mom please, just for a bit I promise I’m not going to kill you in this car accident before you get a chance to see HAIM live.” I got out of my mom’s van as she finally, albeit reluctantly agreed to let me drive. The gentle, cool breeze in my hair, the beautiful and serene yellow daffodils on the fields alongside, epitomizing Wordsworth, I seemed so at ease that I closed my eyes for a second… which I instantly regretted, upon seeing the face of.. “Duck Ramona!” Alas, it was a kangaroo, very misleading I know. My mother’s beloved van now lay partly into a fence on the side of the road, the perpetrator not far away. “I cannot...

Writing Streak- Week 6, Day 3

                                                                             RAMONA’S POV
“Please Mom please, just for a bit I promise I’m not going to kill you in this car accident before you get a chance to see HAIM live.” I got out of my mom’s van as she finally, albeit reluctantly agreed to let me drive. The gentle, cool breeze in my hair, the beautiful and serene yellow daffodils on the fields alongside, epitomizing Wordsworth, I seemed so at ease that I closed my eyes for a second… which I instantly regretted, upon seeing the face of.. “Duck Ramona!” Alas, it was a kangaroo, very misleading I know. My mother’s beloved van now lay partly into a fence on the side of the road, the perpetrator not far away. “I cannot...

Writing Streak- Week 6, Day 2

                                                                                CLIFF’S POV
The sun never seemed as bright or as stunningly beautiful as it seemed at that moment, I thought to myself as I squinted upwards, into the face of yet another ethnically ambiguous woman, like many I had encountered in my travels, though none seemed to have the look of pure disgust that was on the face above me as right now. “Yeah dude I’m part Indian and part Spanish. She replied, almost reading my thoughts. She hesitantly asked me if I was okay to which I replied, “Ah love, no need to worry I’ll be alright in a jiffy, this tends to happen a lot, especially when the alcohol kicks in.” The word ‘alcohol’ seemed to have an...

Writing Streak- Week 6, Day 1

                                                                             HITCH-HIKED
                                                                             LEE'S POV
Lee Patel never thought she's be in this position. She was a straight A student and had been her whole life, but now, in a bid to "step outside of her comfort zone" as he Aunt had so rightly called it, she was all alone, somewhere on a deserted stretch of road on the Gold Coast, her hand outstretched with her thumb up, the universal sign for "I desperately need help". Well, that and the fact that she needed to hitch...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

Requiem For The American Dream

Through wind and hail,
And long, tedious journeys,
Through the everlasting looks of apparent disbelief,
And faulty words of advice
Often delivered in tones masked by a patronizing glare

And finally, it was over
They had reached
The land of opportunities
Once a brutal, yet relentless superpower
Now strengthened by the very faces they would look down upon

Hand in hand, they walked
To their home, or so they prayed
It seemed welcoming at first nervous glance
But this was an illusion, like so many good things were

And there their family grew
They lived in hope but also fear
For they thrive together
The fear won, like it always did

It was a blustery evening
An old friend's visit beckoned
Like the birds on the onset of a summer's day
And so they ventured, into the new day

The talks were pleasant enough
Banter and lovely conversations emerged
From the dark, deep-seated enemy
That was about to eavesdrop, announced
...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

Requiem For The American Dream

Through wind and hail,
And long, tedious journeys,
Through the everlasting looks of apparent disbelief,
And faulty words of advice
Often delivered in tones masked by a patronizing glare

And finally, it was over
They had reached
The land of opportunities
Once a brutal, yet relentless superpower
Now strengthened by the very faces they would look down upon

Hand in hand, they walked
To their home, or so they prayed
It seemed welcoming at first nervous glance
But this was an illusion, like so many good things were

And there their family grew
They lived in hope but also fear
For they thrive together
The fear won, like it always did

It was a blustery evening
An old friend's visit beckoned
Like the birds on the onset of a summer's day
And so they ventured, into the new day

The talks were pleasant enough
Banter and lovely conversations emerged
From the dark, deep-seated enemy
That was about to eavesdrop, announced
...