To My Favourite Poet

My favourite poet

doesn’t write in words

but, in ammunitions

always ready to hit,

to make an impact,

giving way to so much chaos

that one might wonder

if that’s all she can do.

 

My favourite poet

writes in embers

always enough

to strike a forest fire

in the coldest of hearts

that one might wonder

how does she do it all.

 

 

14.49

my life has been stagnant for a while. the only movement i feel at times, is the spiraling down of everything my being carries within itself and it seems like there’s nothing i can do. i can, i know but i’ve started to get used to this pathetic state of mine. i’ve come at such a point where i’m finding it difficult to even write this. i don’t know what to write or why. i’m losing my grip again and i don’t mind.

Until The Very End

The fiery gulmohar spreads through the sky,

etched like embers onto the earth’s glassy roof

and warm breeze, breathed with wafts

of melted chocolate and lemonade

fills the summer afternoon.

 

While the disquiet murmurs of the tree,

green sepals bearing the scarlet silk

fall onto your lap,

and you trace its brown freckles

until the very end

just the way you do, caressing my back

joining the freckles like a map,

writing novels on my skin (until the very end).

 

 

Of Seasons And You 

It began with blooming flowers

And subtle breeze

Swaying branches and tangled vines

Went on, slowly

To the sultry summer

Filled with nostalgia 

Of things which could’ve been

On and on,

To the warmth of your knees

Pressing onto mine

The dangly air of heated afternoons

And the untidy sheets 

In which we search for each other’s words

Speaking through the silenced sighs

Your hands running through 

The curves of my flesh

Waiting, for the blaring storm

After the calm

I surrender, to your wispy fingers

And they finally find their way

Moving on, up and upon 

The downhills and the sloppy steeps 

I am home, finally, I am home. 

Me and My Grandmother

Fiction.

I remember my summer vacations, as a child quite vividly, just like it happened yesterday and after the final day of my holidays, amma would be running around the house, ironing my school uniform and gathering my books strewn across the veranda or on the dining table, screaming as if it was her last day of rest. Indian summers always transport me back to those days of past and I can almost smell the aroma of my grandmother’s handmade mango pickles drying up on the terrace, under the blaringly hot sun. Nostalgia, is addictive and painful, for it creates an illusion, an interlude from the reality and takes you back to the days you long to relive the most, or forget.

My grandma passed away before I left the city for higher studies, and to add on to my sorrow, the house, my house was reconstructed into an apartment by my father and hence, was left with no veranda to pass my afternoons in, with my grandmother. We used to sit on bamboo chairs, which had pink, floral cushions on it and eat peanuts, she’d teach me how to count in Hindi or just admire the plants she very fondly planted and used to take care of. She had a variety of rose that bloomed all through the year and was ‘exactly the right amount of pink’, as she would claim. We’d pass hours there, sometimes I’d do my homework and at times grandma would tell me stories about her homeland, a remote village in Bihar. “But what does it matter now”, she’d say, “my life is here, with you, in this veranda now”, and would smile kindly, as if it really didn’t matter. But it did, it always mattered because she was always able to recite her tales with the smallest detailing, be it the yellow table cloth she splattered her milk on, the blue window panes or the guava tree out in her yard as long as her one storey home, always full of intricacies and exact locations; the first room or the left lane, where Komal lived, house no. 451. It must have been difficult for her, parting away from her mother and father, being the only child of her parents, not even looking back once. Even as a kid, I couldn’t not notice how her eyes twinkled when she talked about her own mother, who used to oil and braid her hair and tie it with red ribbons. “I never crossed the border to leave my ancestor’s house or my heritage behind, I didn’t suffer any great destruction once in my life, but I’ve been a spectator of all the mishaps that took place, and after thinking about it, I’m not quite sure if I really didn’t suffer. For I cry for all my sisters, unborn and dead (or rather, murdered) and it’s a shame because that’s the only thing I can do. What use are my tears to their dead bodies, or their orphaned children, or the family they never had?” That day, grandma wasn’t sitting beside me on the bamboo chair, instead she was somewhere else, somewhere she could gather enough courage to fight back. I didn’t know what made me cry that night, before I went to sleep, but I knew I had to help my grandma and fight for my sisters, the women who cried themselves to sleep just the way I did.