The Exquisite Exchange

By Anushka Gupta

Art — a curse accepted as a gift.

A subject chosen, fifth,

Renounced to satiate stomach needs,

But hunger is much less than what mortal seeks.

A lot of pain it brings,

Being able to rationally think,

You fall back when the fictitious cuffs hurt,

To pen it down for those who lack the curse.

At four, I loved the poems and rhymes,

Six, I drew leaves, poppy and trees of pine,

Ten, I played to burn the oily fryums,

By twenty, they quit life and so did I.

So I took the customary boat,

Years passing, playing with notes,

Waiting for some guts to afloat,

To barter paper notes with a creative toast.

I demand, to surrender this pain,

Easy, be a slave at a remunerative place,

The exquisite exchange I made,

For being someone else, I get paid.

By Anushka Gupta