Mridula Sharma





I was fifteen

when my childhood

friend turned into an


No tears were shed,

no goodbyes uttered.


So when she died

about two years later,

I focussed on my pending

examinations and painted

a beautiful smile on

my face to hide the traces

of horror, of crippling sorrow.


But grief hit me like

an unexpected disaster,

like a sudden slap by a high

school teacher in the middle

of an important assembly,

an undeserved moment of

absolute pain, nothing but pain.

It’s been two years

and I’m still grieving, I will always grieve,

this doesn’t end, it never will


But now, I imitate her actions

to pretend that she’s still

alive in some parts of me:

she’s still making me listen

to Taylor Swift songs,

she’s still painting my nails a

new colour every other week.

I am not doing this, she’s doing

this to me.

Listening to Taylor Swift has

become as important

as breathing because it’s the

only way to confirm that

she is present. Somewhere.

With me. Somewhere.


You see, I bring her back

every time someone tells me

that she’s gone. I refuse to

believe that her body has

been disposed,

for she continues to

exist within me, doesn’t she?

She still laughs in my memories

and pouts in ten-year old

photographs. Her echo fills the

room every time I listen to her

favourite Meghan Trainer song

and it’s just too real to ignore.

She’s not meant for my elegies,

but rather for divine odes.


She wasn’t, because she is

and she will continue to be.

She lives in the present

and she is the present

and her existence cannot be

erased by some orthodox

cremation ceremony.

She is, she is, she is









Mridula Sharma is a poet and a creative writing mentor.  She has published various research papers in national and international journals.  



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