Poem 58#

I check those messages once again,
they are still stale, still unchecked,
Piled up, like the Marlboro blacks in my ceramic ashtray,
You might have finished a pack or two, I am sure.
Have you even eaten? Are you okay?
Ah the question I no longer have the right to ask.

For my needle mouth wounded your debilitated heart,
Yesterday night, rapid winds of turbulence passed by shore,
Was it for you too?
I sensed your cries, behind those, "Leave me alone, I am fine,"
your black clouds paid a visit to my sky,
Poured briefly and surrounded my eyes,
Your heartaches were felt by the worn out bud,
we nurtured it, promised it'd grow,
But my riotous words signalled the thunder,
Oh! I knew the wrath of this violent strike.

I hardly slept a wink, did you too?
For your thoughts gathered around this grey lurched being,
It will be okay, please dont overthink you said,
Yet I kept falling, falling down the stairway,
I promised myself I would gently take a step,
but if only this childish heart could understand the depth,
Of the beautiful things that lied ahead.

But the fool, my mind,
My heart, the slave,
walked to its beat
and wept when it left.

And now,
As I sit below the stairway,
I see nothing at all,
"Melancholy is it?" I ask,
Your deep silence echoed,
//it is the beginning of dread.//

A war with yourself.

I came across a fuzzy seed of myself.
This part that i nurutred everyday in the past,
That saved me on the silent days,
On the days my beliefs were bandaged like my tongue,

Has made a home in the silent hall of my heart,
This fuzzy wall is cracking down suppprting this seed all the time,
I see the failure of naive lost self, nailed,
rusty tacks that marred the heart,
lie beside my cold feet, plain,

I try to fill the crevices of this wall with the fleeting moments of happiness,
alas,its momentous strength fails to keep them align.

I watch them fall ounce by ounce as the roots of this seeed outgrow alongside the echoing room,
its silence is felt, but the voice keeps growing louder by each passing day.

The elongated roots seem too weak,
support each other and have become quite strong,
the brakish water nurtures them,
gives them hope they can still come out alive.
purple skies often shed their light and there they lay by the blackened sky nurtured and safe.

I try to burn them away with a flicker of hope that shined in life,
I stand paralysed as I watch this flame shudder under the coldness of this sight,
but the pecuilar roots defy this time, smell putrsecine,
as though it was never meant to be die.

Poem 55#



I dont wanna write anymore,
Was this destined in my palm too?
My palm has so many broken lines,
Reminds me of the geometry figure I couldn’t draw even after multiple trials,
Alas in the end, the creased paper had multiple broken lines, they were invisible to the naked eye,
But for me, I could see, my failure tangled like the spiders web.
And oh my maths teacher, she often gave me a zero out of 25.

I don’t enjoy my daily coffee too,
It tastes bland, maybe 3 tsp isnt strong?
Maa tells me this coffee is making me senile,
Or maybe it’s your phone, that’s making you mad! She says.
Maybe she is right,
I’m stuck with this phone like the lover to its rose,
It’s the first thing I have in my hand and the last thing I check before I sleep.

How much are you sleeping nowadays shibu!? Maa questions me for the millionth time,
Are you even paying attention to what I’m saying?? I nodd, but she walks away
I dont sleep, really, just lie down on my unmade bed, lie with my warm blanket shielding me away from the ghosts of the past,
But they find an abode through the space I leave off below my cold feet,

Did I do enough today? I question myself
But all I hear is the last local honking in the background,
There is no sign of moon today,
I see a bat hanging upside down the almond tree infront of my window pane,
He swings so peacefully and silently rests by the other birds who usually attack him in day.

Bhai then blabbers in his sleep,
Something about his work, how he has to reach the intended goal for the month,
He then nods his head and tilts to other side of the bed,

Shibu dont you wanna sleep?” Dad’s hoarse voice alerts me away,

Yes, i will now”  the cold floor really feels weird during winter days,
With a quick look at the grey skies, I escalate towards my bed.

Goodnight dad” I mumble,

He ignores my words, as he sits by the window pane.

Lust and love ( edited version)

**Lusty lies, beautiful smiles**

You’d find an abode in those tempestuous eyes,
those oh so perfect smiles, everything they do just seems so vague yet perfectly fine,

Some call it that wish for which they often prayed,
Oh! Look my wish was granted away.
I found the one, my happy place.

But for some pessimists like me,
Lust works like the poison that freezes the tarantula away,
Have you heard about that naive wasp that preys on those gloomy tarantulas by the bay?
This gloomy spider means it no harm, it runs away from the shadow of wasp,
But the wasp has her eyes fixed on its prey,
Her poisonous sting, paralyzes the spider away,
It cant think, nor move, it’s the wasp’s personal play.

Lust works on similar ways,
You’re paralyzed by their beauty and their face,
By their expressive eyes, their notorious self,
They are so brilliant in everything they do,
How could a person relaxing in his pajamas and unmade hair look so cute?

Being with them would make you forget everything else in life,
You’d read articles related to them talk to your friends and ask them for their views,
Take his side and convince your friends too,
You’d slowly start adapting his ways, so quick,
You’d expect the same energy from him too.

Every time you’d meet him,you would observe him a bit more closely,
The way he talks so calmly, the way he folds his arms together and gently frowns, the way he runs his fingers alongside his hair,
The way his hazel eyes shine with glee,
His peculiar beard trimmed in 90’s style.

His presence would make your day,
you’d ache to be in his arms
and wish to kiss him once again, you’d plan your next meet,
the things you’d say,
the dress you’d wear, the way you’d make your hair,
his favourite color would be yours too,everything should be perfect, for our adonis is just that way.

You’d fnd different ways to text him
(or accidentally text him? :p)
send him memes, flood him with questions new,
would expect his attention right away,
what if he forgets to text you day? Was he busy? Is he seeing someone new?
Let’s watch his story on Instagram or maybe snapchat today??

Lust and love ( part 1)

Lust is like that warm orange singlet top that makes me feel great,

I wear it during times I feel bold or wish to have some fun at my own stake,

Its quite new, still has that ambiguous David off cool water smell,

But love is that rouge pink tshirt of mine, which makes me feel cozy and warm,

I wear it on stormy days and wintry nights, it has accompanied me since the past 3 years,

No matter much I wash it away, it still makes me feel safe.


I am no master in love, I’d say, havent experienced it at all,

But lust? The desireful eyes, those oh so perfect smiles, my poetries revolve around those tales.

Maybe lust is what we confuse for love nowadays,

Their glistening eyes seem lovely to you,you’d catch them checking you out, they smile off and find different ways to accidentally touch you,

They’d tease you and make you laugh, their jokes would be so funny you’d laugh your eyes out, you’ve never felt this happy ever in life,

The way the talk the way he folds his arms together and gently frowns, the way he runs his fingers alongside his hair would make the butterflies in your stomach reach ashore,

His presence would make your day, you’d ache to be in his arms and wish to kiss him once again, you’d plan your next meet, the things you’d say, the things he’d end up doing,oh, everything should be perfect that way, for our adonis is just that way.

You’d fnd different ways to text him, ( or accidentally text him or call him either ways) send him memes, flood him with questions new, would expectt his attention right away, what if he forgets to text you day? Was he busy? Is he seeing someone new today? Let’s stalk him on insta or maybe snapchat today??

And every time you’d meet them, you’d feel jittery, it would be the first time again, you’d feel jittery, you’d get dumbfounded, act nervously and fumble on your own words,

For hey, they seem so perfect( to you) dont they?

Could they be the one?

To the incomplete feelings of mine,

-August 2020.

The paradoxical one.

She is unsure and uncertain in life, she wants a few things, yet doesnt want them too. She would initiate the conversation then feel it losing it’s sight and in time with her lack of effort, it’ll die.

For she knows they’d have many others whom they would talk to, she’d assume small things and get nervous all the time, “why did you type the Okay ♥️ as ok, / okay / k/ this time?”The others she wonders about the tone of their text and replies, “were they in a hurry or did they wish to talk to me after a while?”

“Why didn’t they use their regular emoji, or are they done with her hopeless plight?”

She deletes messages quite often too,for her anxiety tells her it sounds too rude or maybe not right, what if they feel bad? What if they read in between the lines? They cant see her vulnerable side.

Sudden calls from strangers scare her to death,do they expect a specific reply? Is hmm and haan and okay and yeah, fine? What if they feel she is not contributing to the conversation at all,her heart comes to her mouth, she feels like 1 year old, she babbles or mumbles or at times is inaudiblely loud.

At times,she is sure of her mind, sure of the things she has to say and feels about the people around, yes doubts and fear cross her mind, but her heart comes to resuce those times.

The others, her heart plays tricks on her mind, for it doesn’t understand the difference between infatuation or lust, confuses it with love and keeps her awake all night.

Yes she overthinks, she has scales of measurement for this overthinking too, a bit done every now and then seems fine, she takes overthinking breaks in between her day, thinks about the topic from all the sides and even tho the stimulus is out of her sight it still revolves in her mind.

Is it yes or was it no?”

She dislikes the term in between and people giving her ambiguous hues. She likes weird and confusing things for sure,

The puzzle the daily crossword, the sudoku hurl, the Rubik’s cube, confusing it may be for others but she’d try all the combinations and solve it overnight, and if not, then mess up the code and add more sequences to her plight.

At times she is nervous and shy,like the naive Caterpillar that transforms into a beautiful butterfly, she is oh so cautious and alert of her moves, never to harm a soul and usually complies.

The others she is bold and scary they say, like the moth, that’s as dark as the ruinous sky, you’d shoo her off, so that she doesn’t ruin your cashmere shawl overnight,

She’s reckless and wild, is attracted to dangerous people who often hurt her or leave her in the absence of light, is attracted to the feral fire that could burn her core, yet she wishes to go near it, to warm her numb soul.

…..

Life for her is a puzzle,

one cannot fathom right away

It is never truly black nor white,

At times it’s blue and purple, red and grey,

So arrange every piece that comes your way,

And that’s how she lives her life, everyday.

Of open blue skies and bombay vada pavs.

Dadi wore saree her entire life,
Green, blue, yellow and red, were amongst some of her favourite shades
This was her favourite too.

She never liked disobedience from my side,
Her grim voice, usually woke me up for school,
“Shibu get up, don’t you wanna go to school, it’s already 9
Even tho, it was always six that time.

She was obsessed with red, shiny, golden things,
A married woman, must wear all the three reds!
Red bindi, bangles and her red kumkum, shinning from her hair!

“A girl is expected to do whatever the man says, shibu”
But why does he get to decide what I wanna do dadi?’

Her eyes would then pop out and stare at me in disbelief.

‘You have your father’s temper and his mouth too,
You blurt out things without thinking at all,
You’re like the pressure cooker, who’s whistle is lost.

‘Your grandfather’s sarcasm comes to you in phase’ she’d say
You’re like the green chilli in bhindi or palak,
That one blindly eats and then regrets, for it burns their tongue away!

Dadi and I often had many fights,
“Your husband would never like a girl, who’s this arrogant
And this rude, he’d leave you the second you meet!

I’d end up skipping dinner everytime we would fight,
But later she’d come with a plate of food:
”how would you fight me, if you don’t eat tonight?”
—–
Did you ever try to study?
I had once asked her,
She was peeling the peas off, meticulously she removed their skin,
Her button eyes, glared at me for sometime,
But she scoffed at my question and threw the skin away.

There were days, she loved me too,
When I’d help her in household chores,
Or take her up to our terrace for a short walk.

Do you know where the clouds disappear?
Or how the birds just fly around, shibu?

I never quite had any answers for her naive questions,
But I often saw her smile widely
her cheeks, they shined
Every Time she saw the open blue sky.

She was a fan of Bombay vada pavs,
Sasural Genda phool and other bollywood songs.
She loved watching food video’s,
Namak samak chef, was her favourite too.

This one time, she caught the flu,
She didn’t agree to take medicines,
Just get 2 vadapavs, they must be frying them now! I can smell them from above
Tell him to add extra green chutney too!

She would then share half the vada pav with me,
“Why don’t you eat the entire thing”, I’d say as I would hogg on the half she’d give me.
“Why do you always share it with me?
I thought you hate me?”
Because the vada pav tastes better when I give you the other half, you silly girl!

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