Beyond the Syllabus: A Confessional Response to Sylvia Plath's poem- 'Mirror'

In this post we bring you confessional memoirs and stories written by the young 
minds of B.Com I C, R.B.V.R.R Women's College.

Their works are inspired by Sylvia Plath's poem Mirror (1971)
The  poem has been prescribed in their syllabus. But these women have searched the recesses of the poem beyond the classroom and the textbook!

 The Mirror and Me
  Ruhina Bano

Everyone has a mirror at home. Few have big and few have small. Even I have a mirror in my room; whenever I see in the mirror, I don't see myself. I begin to imagine about how the mirror could be so silver and exact and have no preconceptions. Whatever it sees, it swallows immediately as if it was in front of it.

The mirror  is unmisted by love or dislike. It is not cruel and is always truthful as it shows exactly whatever it sees. I feel like it is the eye of a little god. It has four corners and always meditates on the wall. It sits calm on the ' opposite wall' in my room. I think as it has become a part of my heart.

Sometimes, I wonder how the mirror could be so genuine to one who looks into the mirror searching for an attractive image of oneself. The brutal honesty of the mirror causes distress to most of us, especially women. Women come and go everyday in front of the mirror expecting to see the most attractive version of themselves.

When the night comes, the darkness prevents the mirror from pondering.  But my mirror flickers and speaks to me.

At times, the mirror  is like a lake where people look into it, searching for a genuine reflection and then  the people turn to those liars, the moon and the candles who make them look beautiful.

I keep on seeing the mirror day after day. I Know I look too old. When I see myself in the mirror, I feel like the mirror is comparing me to a 'terrible fish'.  But I cannot be bothered. I admire myself in the mirror and don't feel bad about my appearance.

I do not wish to change the mirror. To me, my mirror is one the most inevitable elements in my life and will always be so.

Satisfying Sylvia

Juveria Tabassum

As the first rays of the morning sun slip in through the bars around the glass windows, they illuminate the room and re-establish the relationship of vision that I share with my dearest friend. Its bright yellow surface is splattered today with large red stains-evidence of an outburst of frustration from our companion, Sylvia. It greets me with its usual wink and smile and we pick up our silent conversation once again.

I sense a preoccupation about it, today. The scenes of last night weighed heavy on its mind. Although it has happened before, my friend has always borne the insults stoically; it has always remained assured of its principles, and has never compromised on truth and fact. She asks. My friend answers. She is never satisfied. My friend, always unruffled. We have sat facing each other for hours, conveying, without words, our reservations about our demanding companion, our affection for plain fact and its belief in truth.

Today, my friend talks only about the light. It keeps wishing that the bars wouldn’t hamper the sun from brightening the room a touch more. It feels Sylvia would have seen what she so longed to, if only there was enough light in the room. This alarming change in my friend’s state of mind pointed to a softening of a heart I never knew it possessed. Very soon, as is her strange custom, Sylvia moved in between my friend and me; her back turned towards me . She stared deep into my friend’s eyes, turned this way and that, searching, as ever, for that elusive treasure. All this while, my friend has been unmoved, silent and still. This time, however, its demeanor changed. It started simmering, trying to shift an inch towards the light, trying to exert itself to show Sylvia the image she chased.  All of its efforts were lost on her. She noticed nothing. At long last, she gave up, grew angry again and this time, smashed a perfume bottle right through my dear friend.

The crash of the breaking glass thundered through the room. Sylvia was gone before the echoes of the disaster had ceased. My friend lay broken, now reflecting fragmented parts of the white ceiling. The darkness was not the villain of our separation anymore, as we collapsed, like all things do, to the whims of the woman. 

Mirror Mirror

Supriya Kiran 

On a Monday morning I was getting ready for college. I was not in a mood to go. As I felt lethargic every Monday but it was unavoidable. While brushing my hair some thoughts ran through my mind about my mirror i.e., if my mirror would speak, what would it say, what would I have answered?

I went in a totally different world where my mirror started speaking that, “I am in silver color and exact with no ideas formed in advance with no bias. I am unmisted, clear and reflect what I exactly see without hiding flaws. I am truthful and frank: Unlike your human nature with a confused state of mind, discriminative and thoroughly pretentious. I am not sorry about what I reflect because I know it is true and I am confident about that unlike your hesitant attitude."

I was speechless and answered less at that point because what the mirror said was so true. We should acquire these qualities from mirror and should be confident, genuine and make our lives unmisted.