Change

My poetry anthology won a Silver Award in the 2016 Ocean Awareness Student Contest! Read the poem below!

 Oil on Water

Thin-film interference is beautiful—a myriad

of iridescent hues in nacreous swirls,

oil on water.

Rainbows on the ground, white light blooming

into an infinity of harmony; monotony morphing

into color, lazily waltzing to the dance of opulence.

Oil on water.

Tons of black, pungent oil gushing in relentless

eddies, pouring darkness into a sparkling realm of

innocence. Spewing death into waves of life.

Mother, a little girl said. What are those colorful

puddles in the water? Mother looked grim.

Runoff of oil from a factory, sweetheart.

The girl took a step forward, cautiously, deliberately—

saw the swirls of oil spread their spectral wings in the

endless blue, reflecting shards of sunlight,

glittering in devastating tones.

The patterns are kind of pretty, she thought. Until

she looked around, saw a fish floating in the water,

nestled against the ripples of faint brownish-red.

Motionless, unseeing,

dead.

Horrified, she yelped, fell against her mother’s

arms. The lustrous opals glimmering in the sea

were no longer beautiful. They were deadly,

venom down unsuspecting throats.

Inhaled by unwary, heedless noses. Injected

into guiltless blood-streams, absorbed through

sinless skins.

Oil on water.

             Awake

Her name was Hope. Three years later, she watched

the news—saw the plight of the oceanic realm.

Birds enmeshed in glops of oil, struggling

to breathe the fresh, unadulterated air. Pelicans

mired in hopelessness, unable to fly. Too

overwhelmed by the pollution around them, contrasted

with the glistening purity of the sky.  

Fish strewn across the waters, in a line of

agony. Like little grains of rice in a glass of

water and soy sauce. Open mouths, as though

they had been gasping for breath in the last

few seconds of their abridged lives.

A pipeline had burst, spilling its toxins into the

Earth’s azure treasuries. Human negligence,

Hope thought. Errors at the expense of

natural, indispensable life. Drilling procedures

in the sea, spilling oil, petroleum—tarnishing

the sparkling blue, leaving behind a darkened

ache.

Ocean pollution, everywhere. Death, horror

permeating throughout the fabric of

the globe. Oil seeping into the plumage of birds

once majestic, of birds with feathers once fine. Preening

birds ingest the venom, choke to the underworld.

Rubbing her hands together, Hope stood up. Tied

her loose strands of hair, threw her

shoulders back. Felt like her mellifluous voice had

been amplified by a thousand times, as she said

to herself: within my power, within my range,

within whatever resources I have nestled in my palms;

within my abilities, but beyond my dreams,

from now on I strive to make a change.  

           Change

Hope stepped into a lab, weeks of

rigorous training trailing behind her. Oil-soaked

creatures, bereft of an identity. Just a shapeless

mass, entrenched in the shackles of loss. Massaging

a pelican in warm vegetable oil, ridding it of

its blackened smears.

With the dexterity of an expert, with the tenderness

of a mother, Hope cleaned the bird’s tainted

plumage, watching with delight as its feathers

reverted back to their natural, lightened hue. Watched

as the innocent bird regained its ability to hunt,

to feed itself, to fly,

to live.

Without a family, but with the chance

of starting a new life in the wild—destroyed by

the oil spill, but offered a chance at

resurrection. Hope watched injured, asphyxiated

sea turtles regain their ability to breathe, to

swim with the power of their species. Held,

massaged, promised to save them; never

forgot her vow to make a change.

Campaigns which began as messages written

with fluorescent markers, on tattered pieces of

cardboard. Shouted on the streets

in a quiet, desolated neighborhood, a few ears willing

to listen, never willing to act.

Campaigns which blossomed into a line of

supporters, messages spray-painted on unending

lines of pale blue cloth; pictures of birds drenched

in oil, of fish floating—unseeing, devoid of life.

Pictures of the ugly thin-film interference on

pristine waves of water. Discharge from factories,

accidents from oil tankers. Hundreds conflated

into a single voice, brimming with

passion; ears pricking up, emotion welling

in once dispassionate eyes, indifferent façades.

As lines of supporters cleaned up fallen

animals, raised awareness in voices immaculately

arranged; thought Hope—I have begun

to make a change.   

          Power

Years older, years of advocacy trailing behind her,

helping her speak before stern officials, spectacles

glinting menacingly.

A petition—gleaming, beautiful paper:
stop offshore drilling!

Thousands of names, emotions,

tears. In response to death, illness, devastation. Petitions—

for leak detection devices, regular inspections.

Prevention is better than cure, her eyes read,

glittering with a powerful, purposeful light.

We have one world, Hope said. Water is what

has birthed us, what has distinguished the earth

from a boiling sphere of fire and rock. Train

your workers, station emergency personnel

in the devastating case of an oil spill! Double

hulls in marine vessels. Thick-hulled tanks.

Raise awareness, rally the ranks. If a spill occurs—

evacuation zones, equipment, love and care!

Urbanization is all very well… but progress

coupled with environmental destruction? You may

believe that the globe is developing: but continue

at this terrifying pace, aspire to stay ahead

of the race—and there shall be no future for my children,

no future for yours. Just a swirling mass of

human superiority, mingled with the past

souls of innocent marine life, and the swirls of

leftover oil.

The crowd behind Hope murmured,

excited by the prospect of positive change; moved

by the presence of environmental advocacy—

powerful advocacy, words and actions to

save, to propagate, beautiful lives.  

Hope stood tall, unflinching. Thinking of the pelicans

she had bathed, thinking of the ones that had passed

away into the arms of oblivion. Remembering

the day she discovered oil spills, how she had believed

that its twirling motifs could be beautiful. A life of exposure

to ocean pollution.

But she was born to make a change.

 Aftermath

She walked alone, basking in the solitude; her

silvery-white hair fluttering before heavy

eyes. Dry lips widening into a smile

as she saw young children running about,

next to water so fresh, pure—it made her heart

swell with joy, with pride. Hope’s happiness

steadfastly refused to subside.

I’ve been a little, naïve girl, she thought. Who

blossomed into a student, an environmental activist,

a petitioner, a legislator. But I am still Hope—

for I help breed hope when there is none. I’ve helped

save waters that were thought too tarnished

to be saved, I’ve helped the forthcoming

generations of animals.

She went near the water, laughed as sunlight

smiled off its rippling crests. Swirls of rainbow hues

can be lovely, but nothing is more beautiful than

an untainted blue.

My life is almost over, but I can pass away

in peace; for across my lifespan, across its

range—

I know that I have made a

change.

Dès Vu

It’s strange to know that hours from now, this moment will be a memory – and that our perception of this moment will keep evolving. Sometimes, I feel like Calvin (from the comic series ‘Calvin and Hobbes’), who once cried out that time is ‘slipping through our fingers like grains of sand’. And that’s painfully true. The second an experience arrives, it becomes a memory.

Dès Vu (n). The awareness that this will become a memory (Source: The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

Calendars, clocks, watches: tools which give us the illusion that we’re in charge of the passage of time. Ticking off days, counting the seconds, monitoring the small digits in the corner of our computer screen. But even though we see the second hand slinking away from its previous position, we’re usually unaware of the fact that we’ll never be able to relive this moment. And that’s natural – for if we keep monitoring the advance of time, when will we get the chance to live?

From the moment we reach high school, we’re constantly told that we need to start thinking about ‘our future’. Coming from a competitive city in a competitive country, I know firsthand of how relatives persistently ask you what you want to pursue, how you’re going to reach there, what you’re doing right now. Most Indian students enroll in separate classes that will prepare them for the appallingly competitive examinations that they dream of excelling in. From ninth grade (or even far before), students view their diligence as their portal to the best colleges – which they won’t enroll in for over three years.

I’m luckier in that way. Since I’m applying to universities in the United States, I’m encouraged to spend my time on activities I genuinely enjoy (such as writing, editing, and journalism). But even then, there’s always that voice in my head that says: ‘do well in this test, or it’ll show on your college application’. Regardless of where we’d like to study or what we’d like to do, we’re always told to look at our future. There’s that menacing motif that refuses to leave us alone: ‘work now, relax later’.

But the truth is – if we’re always told to consider our present with respect to the future, when can we appreciate the ‘now’? As a perfectionist who constantly strives to look ahead, I’m not surprised that I never thought about this question earlier – but now wish that I had. For youngsters who are constantly told to think about their future or the forthcoming days, the present already becomes a thing of the past – because they can never really live in it. And the same scenario applies to me, and to so many students across the globe.

‘Live in the moment’. That’s a quote I often read in magazine articles or blog posts – and a quote that can be incredibly difficult to follow. The phrase actually reminds me of another word from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: Ambedo – a moment we experience for its own sake. Or, to elaborate, a trance in which we become completely absorbed in the sensory details surrounding us – such as the whirring of a fan, the color of the sky, or the scent of grass entering through an open window. And if not solely concentrating on sensory details, then perhaps focusing on the work we’re doing, or the food we’re eating, or the music we’re listening to. It’s embracing each positive thought that flows through our head, or striving to identify the small cadences that make up a melody.

The word ‘Ambedo’ can be particularly meaningful to students – and can have connotations that are rarely applied in real life. But then again, the past has already gone and the future hasn’t yet arrived… which means that all we have at a moment is the moment itself.

So for us, living in the moment can mean not dwelling on the future when studying, working, or pursuing our hobbies and interests. It can mean not mulling over events we have no power to change. It can mean not conjuring worst-case scenarios about events that are unlikely to crystallize in real life. 

The time I started writing this article has become a memory – and I can never get that moment back. But it’s a memory that differs from my other ones in one main aspect: it was a time in which I was infused in the actual moment. I didn’t use the present as a means of preparing for my future or of dwelling about the past. I used the moment to let my words trickle down my mind and onto a page, and to let my thoughts circulate unhindered. Contrary to my usual approach to life, I actually lived in the moment.

Dès Vu (n). The awareness that this will become a memory. While this may seem like a melancholy message, it won’t be in one situation. And that’s if the memory documented a juncture in which we were actually consumed in the here and now. Because honestly, as long as we appreciate a moment for what it is, extract as much meaning and beauty from it as possible, and don’t get chained by thoughts pertaining to the past or future, why should we ever mourn its passing?