The geno***E in P***stine has been heartbreaking to see. to watch as thousands of homes and lives have been lost in the span of 5 weeks.

As we stand in solidarity and continue to advocate for an IMMEDIATE ceasefire, we are committed to using our platform to share the stories and educate others about the experiences of the P***stinian people.

Opening The Uncoiled to receive articles, essays, stories, poetry, and art surrounding the plight of the P***stinian people.

“They Made a Poet Out of Me”, is a poetry series by Anushka. The series of poems focus on the writer’s journey through finding herself in the crowd that is one’s life. The poems focus on love, faith, courage, and mundane existence’s ups and downs. Anushka believes that these moments in her life made her a poet again after not writing poetry for a long time and are a testament to the fact that we will find ourselves again, however lost we may think we are.

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Published by – The Uncoiled

Cover Photography by – Dhiraj Pawar.

It’s not often that I feel this way, I’ve always been more than I needed to be, more responsible, more courageous, and more strong and for a long time, it’s really worked for me. To look at the world with the eyes of clouds, far away from the crowd, but somehow closer to everyone. It’s been a good view, I have to admit. There is rain sometimes that accompanies me, and the wind bringing me the news from far away, It’s been a good time so far, living but living for myself. 

But then they fight, they bring out their guns and bombs – in their clothes, they look scary – an army of the confused, the bewildered, and the broken. They break the borders that they built themselves, they destroy the cities they ate in, the rooms they made love in, and the people that were once a part of them. This is what bugs me, the glorification of the past and the amnesia of pain. They forget the blood that they made pavements upon, they don’t fear the past, neither do they imagine a future, all they do is fight, like dogs led astray,  like bulls left to kill, like wild cats looking for prey.  But I wish to cry for them, like a lover thinking she could change her man with her love, like a mother who hopes her son runs back to her, like a sister trying to stop her brother before he overdoses, and like the daughter who quietly wishes that her father caresses her with love. But I can’t, you see, they won’t let me, they stop me because of the boundaries they put me in, they assume that I think the same as the people that rule over me. This is not freedom, this is an obsession with submission and they want this. They think that I don’t know, I don’t know that they are bad, like I haven’t met the skeletons that they hide in their closets. 

But you see, I do. Their intentions are not different than the people who sat in their chairs before them. They think they maintain balance as if they walk on a rope high above in the sky, but they don’t. They don’t maintain or run shit. All they do is heat those chairs, feeling important and known as if everyone looked up to them. But I laugh at this thought. Do you know what I feel sorry for though, I feel sorry for the people, I feel incomplete without them, they are not aliens to me you see, they share the same bodies, the same thoughts, the same feelings, and the same fear. I wish to look in their eyes and see the browns, blues, greens, hazels, and the black that hides within them, they would know that i stand with them,  that i know them, and that though we didn’t share the same dinner table, I was sitting in the same chair just hundreds of miles away

And this I wish everyone felt, they felt love and compassion, I wish they feel the importance of what millions feel. That they connect, not with the land but with the heart.

About The Essay.

“SHE” is an essay about being in your head. It’s about looking at oneself from an outside perspective. It talks about mental health and how it can sometimes make us feel like we don’t belong in our own bodies. The essay is the 1st essay from a series of essays that talk about similar struggles about dealing with mental health and the world.

It’s not always that I lose myself. Well, the feeling is something that I haven’t had much taste of but somehow it tastes like metal. The cold, hard metal. But who am I to be lost? Who am I to be found? These are the days when I contemplate my existence, well not just mine, but of the entire world. The illusions of reality, the delusions of fiction, and the intoxication of hypocrisy seem to eat me nowadays. The constant confusion that is my mind and my place in it. The fact that I seem to exist makes me wonder how I do it in the first place? Am I the body that walks, talks, eats, prays, or am I the consciousness that thinks, debates, loves, cares, and hates? Who am I to myself?

My identity is not something I wish to dwell upon a lot, because to me, identity is a fatal flaw. Something that is just there because we are here, well the part of us that built society and still contribute to its whims on a regular basis but when I look at her, the person that she is, she seems too good and too lonely to believe in love and society. She is there, a pale creature that she is, with her hooked chin, full cheeks, brown doe eyes, and hair that is long enough to tell she is a ‘she’. I belong to her, but yet, she doesn’t see me inside herself. She is the human that eats, prays, and loves. To the world that she lives in, she is the perfect angel. And just as the hypocritical insect that she is, she despises herself. 

Yet she thinks, she thinks about the life that she lives, she believes in her version of god, and she loves in the ways she wishes to be loved. She dreams big, and yet all she wishes to do is run in the endless mountains or be swept by lifelong ocean waves. She is here and yet she is there. When I look at her, I see a part of myself, a part that displays itself on the window shop to attract the passers-by. A part of her that is visible to the naked eye, for what is naked is yet to be simplified, she is the one that walks while I am the one that thinks. 

There is a certain comfort in life that we all wish to feel, love, and happiness for instance is something that we like to find comfort in. We like to think that love is fluid and happiness is a form of luck that can be found in a lifetime. There is more to her though, not just the one that attracts but she is in pain. Pain deeper than she could physically feel, although I remind her of that pain sometimes, it’s something I feel constantly and yet am only able to project a few times. There is beauty in pain though, it reveals the world as it is meant to be, lifeless and unexpectant. Pain that more spiritual than it is mental or physical. It’s the pain that I feel and yet there is no control over it. Control, another one of those funny words that either give responsibility or buries a man’s soul. And yet, control is something that all of them seek. Control over their lives, their feelings, and their desires.

She desires too, for love so pure that makes her forget of who she is, love that capitulates, yet she hasn’t a clue what love really is. She is burdened by it sadly, constantly in war to find love or happiness for that matter. She has read, she has heard and yet the conclusion she comes to is inconclusive and there she is on the bright gray concrete, lying, lifeless, and still. Her image is that of a person who has given up trying. A creature that lies there almost dead, because sometimes I too am considered to be life. A burden lies above her, the weight of which pins her down and chokes her, the burden of dreams, love, hope, happiness, expectations, and the years that still are ahead of her. A burden that turns into a void which she passes onto me while she continues to live. 

More Essays Like This One:-

The Inconvenience Of Life: Why We Live?

The Unchained Influence

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I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature’s willful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God’s glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall. o’ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, ‘Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.’
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and ‘mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens’ hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o’erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, ‘Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?’ He said, ‘My name is Love.’
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’
Then sighing, said the other, ‘Have thy will,
I am the love that dare not speak its name.’

Life is a monotonous cycle, starting with birth and eventually leading to death. This cycle is irreversible and there is nothing that can be done about this. There is a certain joy that we feel when we bring life on this earth, and it is beyond me to think that I am entrusted to be a bearer of this gift alongside others. It is utterly beautiful to see those little hands and those tiny feet. And the joy is just so surreal that one won’t think twice before dying for such an innocent creature. But then life takes its course and time travels through the clocks revealing age and growth and emotions and feeling and unfolding the world that we see today. And this once innocent and fragile creature is taught to be a man and a woman, whatever that even means. This fragile creature is taught to be tough and quiet and it learns the ways of this world that we live in. And no longer, the creature belongs to the universe, it starts belonging to the world that we live in, as the years go by no notice is given to the stars that we are sent from and no worries are carried about the greater meaning of existence.

A mercenary life is lived and soon a time comes when that same soul is called upon by the stars. I wonder how living life is when described in this way. Living not by the bounds of the world and the limitations of the conservative mind, but living by the air we breathe and the blissful sounds of the winds reminding us that we are alive. To live in a world where complications are none and a place that is pure happiness. I feel lonely though because no one wants to live this way, no one wants to be liberated. They are scared of being boundless because deep down they are terrified of finding out who they really are. They are scared to lose love because they want to be loved, and for this mere inconvenience, they live their lives being bound by this world.

This world makes me happy too on a certain level, it gives me hope and it pushes me to what everyone thinks is the forward direction. I feel hopeful too and I feel dread too. These emotions when mixed create a world full of possibilities. Because one is aware of the path that leads to death and they are also aware that an immortal existence can be lived if one lives fully. I wish to thank the ones that have lived this way because now I read about them and they make me feel less alone. They saw the world as I did and they lived through it leaving behind their soul and their mortality. They feel so close, through their creations and gives me hope that maybe I might one day be the person who does the same for someone else.

To live is to fully understand the purpose of your being. The reason you are sent or created. I am never the one to doubt the fact that the reason I am, is for something that needed to be done. To live a life without the fear of not having enough money or a life where the fear is that you might lose money, is a life just lived for the sake of living. These momentary things are given more importance than life itself is given. To kill and do die for it is what makes this world so unbearable. But I agree that it all can’t be so easy, it can’t all be so simple to comprehend, because then, this world would have been what we had hoped for and this life would be submerged in faith. Faith is a funny thing, it only accepts a fraction of the people living in the world and denies the others. Because maybe we were always meant to be this way maybe for the world to work we must hate more than we love and maybe some of us born with the sole purpose to destroy. Maybe we fight in vain and maybe we are supposed to love, but we just can’t.

What is right and what wrong is a mystery that we can ever understand and comprehend. What goes on is a mere inconvenience to the world we call ours.

Featured Image by – gloria gorni

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 What must be the romantic heart,
 As it flutters so in the breeze,
 How must it feel to finally feel it,
 The emotion that it feels.
  
 I envy those or I am unlucky
 To see no lilies blooms,
 To see no trees that bear no leaves,
 But for what I must encounter,
 To feel the romantic heart.
  
 The ever so happy ending,
 The millions of affections bound in three words,
 Like silk being more precious than its true nature,
 And the world looking ever so beautiful.
  
 The giddiness of life
 And the consistency of certainty. 
 Fears me and thrills me,
 As I loose time to mortality. 

Written by. Anushka.

Featured Image by Verena Fay.

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A story, something about just one story can change the world if it wishes to. The one thing that can impact the world on a level so high that it can flip one’s life in seconds. This story is something that changes the course of flowing water, giving it a new way, helping it find something truly opposite to what the person was hoping for. These stories live with us, they grow old with us, they shine through us and most importantly they live with us for the rest of our existence. A story is like a door, a door that leads into a world that is sometimes completely new, a world that reminds us of the good or the bad, and a world that ultimately reminds us who we are.

Stories from the start of time have been a way for people to share ideas and create conversations that maybe would have never even existed. The world is full of them, in every mind, on every street, in every little corner, and in every single part of the world, stories exist. They are not just the ones that are written but they are verbal too, they are not just present in books but they are the juice of life. They make one feel alive and at the moment. Well, my story is the same with stories, they do something to me that no otherworldly comfort could ever accomplish. A story to me is not about the perfect plot or the perfect climax and the best resolution, but it is about me feeling so connected to it on a level so deep that even I cannot comprehend. The world carries stories in every gush of wind, in every snowstorm, and in every particle of sand. It is as if they constitute the world in a way living beings can never achieve. A good story is about making someone feel something that they never thought they could feel. While the world we live in today has founded hundreds of ways to tell these stories, it marvels me to think of the other hundred ways stories can be portrayed.

They carry a certain intimacy with them that the reader, the listener, and the viewer cannot escape. A small change in the angle of the camera, a small cry led out by a character in a book, and the subtly of the reciter makes a story what it is. The brush stroke that changes everything, the beat or instrument that changes the tone of the song, these things don’t just make a story beautiful but these are the things that connect us to a story.

Why Stories Matter

This whole day, I felt as though something was missing and its true something is missing in life but the truth is that I just needed to know that what I was doing was good enough and that my actions could still change me for the better. And then, I watched one of the two movies that changed not only my outlook on life when I wanted them for the first time but that till this day keep inspiring me and relight the fire inside me. They remind me of all the feelings I experienced and sometimes they scare me because of the intimacy they bring. I fear them but not in a way that will keep me from watching them. I don’t want this to just be about film-making and films, but it is about something that makes it so powerful. It’s the story. Its story is like the main puzzle piece that brings together everything else present. Like the music, the colors, the angle, the place, they just wouldn’t work together if it weren’t for the story.

Maybe we would have never understood love if Shakespeare wouldn’t have written Romeo and Juliet. We would have never understood pain if it weren’t for The Brontë’s. Their dynamics don’t just tell us about love and pain, they make us feel it with them. We fall in love alongside the writer and we feel a part of us die with them. Stories have the power to make us feel. They bring to light things that we never would have otherwise known, they start conversations, relationships, they sometimes cause to break hearts, and sometimes they change us and the purpose of our existence.

Most of the knowledge we know, the morals we share, our values are introduced to us in the form of stories. It starts from the stories our parents read to us as kids or the stories we hear in school, they project these values and principles. It’s safe to say that everything we know today is just from one story to the other.

This world is hollow without the tales told in it, it is just fragments of broken glass if stories would have not held it together. A good storyteller knows this, and they know that what they have to say matters and that their voice matters no matter in whichever shape or form they portray it in.

The Statement is an Uncoiled magazine that focuses on sharing stories from around the world that make a statement to society. The magazine celebrates these stories through art and literature. If you are a storyteller, then please don’t be afraid to tell your story because you matter, and your story matters to someone out there. Click here to submit.

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But who are we kidding? Society tells girls that it is okay, it is okay if someone touches you, it’s okay if you don’t like someone’s gaze and even if something happens to you make sure you don’t say a thing about it.

Women all around the world probably have experienced this, but how do we help them? Let me tell you how, we say, “you should have worn a longer dress”, “you should have stopped it”, “you should have not slept beside your brother”, “you must have suggested it yourself”. This is the truth and let me tell you if you’re a school girl waiting in line for your train ticket while holding the hand of your younger brother and when someone comes from behind you and touches you inappropriately and the woman behind him doesn’t help you, that is when you feel raped.

So why feel ashamed of using this word to liberalr ?

Do you feel raped?
When those eyes look disgustingly at you?
And their glance feels heavy on your body.
Or when they examine you to know your worth?
Or do you just look away?

Do you feel raped?
When a brother touches you?
Or when it is your uncle in his sleep?
And you can’t say anything.
Or are you silent because you know others won’t help?

Do you feel raped?
When you’re told that you’re just a girl?
Or when your words don’t matter,
And all you can do is shy away,
when the boy comes to see you?

Do you feel raped?
When someone touches you, while you stand in line?
Or when he follows you on the train.
And the others standing behind don’t do a thing?
Or did you even cry out for them too?

You do feel raped,
yet you don’t say a word,
you don’t tell your mother,
you don’t cry out for help.

Because deep down you know,
the most disappointing and disgusting fact,
That you’re just a Girl.

If you’re a person of the female gender and if you have been silenced, I urge you, I plead to you, please speak and take action. It is only when we speak and stand together, do we have a chance to bring change.

Did You Know?

The Uncoiled is coming out with its first Magazine Issue this August. If you are interested to join us as a creator and artist, then you are more than welcome. We would love to have this magazine as an opportunity for creators to contribute and design the magazine. To contact us regarding the same, kindly send us an email at, theuncoiled.enquiry@gmail.com and we will get back to you as soon as possible.