anthology of anxiety by richa gupta

i. FOUR YEARS OLD

she rides a bicycle, the strange whirring
of wheels a      premonition. bits of stone
flicker off the pavement, sounding like the
tapping of wicked fingers on a window. afraid
that if she rides too fast, she’ll never be able
to         stop. the chain may snap, glide through
the air, the wheels may unhinge and tumble
down a slope that doesn’t exist. she speaks in
 
‘what if’, of criminals that may pillage through
her house or rotten grapes that fall down the
wrong canal. of a car whose driver suffused his
blood with       liquor, who may drive at the
intersection where someone she loves drinks
coffee and checks her phone. walks slowly,
cautiously, avoids       corners that could
puncture her skin, make a viscous red liquid
 
ooze out. has to be told that jellyfish don’t
sting every baby splashing at the edge of a sea,
that restaurants do not sprinkle hate on her
spaghetti, that although the world is a perilous
place — maybe people die of old       age.

ii.  EIGHT YEARS OLD

friends who go on stage and read out poems
to an audience of people who don’t care. her
poems still confined to a diary wrapped in black
paper, that she can scarcely       whisper about.
poems about brackish water, sickly incantations,
the definition of friction. is it wrong that she
hates poems about the vicissitudes of life? or is
it just because she knows        and fears them?

iii. TWELVE YEARS OLD

​lacquered light spills through the windows, a
tight cage of sunshine. schoolbus wheels follow a
specific rhythm, soft curtains waver every now
and then, welcome soft slivers of golden glow. she
peeks out from the gap, sees a girl her age holding
a wailing baby against her       chest. rags that adorn
her skinny frame, bones of matchsticks and eyes of
hunger. watches a driver slap her away, hears the
 
baby’s moans         amplify. the red light shifts
colors, the wheels turn and crunch the gravel. goes
home, refuses cake and swallows       week-old
bread. refuses the seductive pitcher of orange juice,
forces down half a tumbler of water. wears torn
clothes to a party where other girls don sequined
heels and fluorescent        headbands. closes her
eyes, prays that the baby is alive. that she has a
 
mother whose breast she can suck on, that the girl
is safe from predators who eye her youthful body.
that the world is nicer to people who don’t have the
luxury of controlling their       lives.  

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Richa Gupta is a seventeen-year-old poet and blogger from Bangalore, India. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Moledro Magazine, and enjoys reading for Glass Kite Anthology and Polyphony H.S. Richa is also a blog contributor with The Huffington Post and Voices of Youth. When not reading or writing, Richa can be seen playing the piano or singing Hindustani Vocal.