I walked to the terrace, late at night
for the night was stuffy,
And there was no one in sight.
Up there I wondered,
If I could really fly.
So I took the step slowly
up the terrace that night.
But I saw a girl, already up there,
she looked tired and serene.
She was like an apparition,
staring at the scene.
I stood in the comforting silence,
wondered if I should break the ice.
She spoke first to my relief,
And asked me why I was late to arrive.
I wondered, what she meant,
but she continued without a pause.
"If you came a little early,
you might have saved a loss."
I needed and sked,
"But would my words have mattered,
If your mind was already made up?"
She replied without skipping a beat,
"Without trying how could you give up?"
So, I didn't think of flying anymore,
maybe because I thought I'd fail.
Instead I told the girl beside me,
"I'd be on time from now on,
so you can rest assured."

It was a dark night,
You held the dagger to my heart,
I wonder what it would've felt like
had you chosen to slice me apart
Fear is what it tasted like
I could feel my heart's frenzy
Something wasn't right that day
Was it that one of us finally went crazy?
I've been sleep deprived
and terror clogs my brain
I finally realize what it's like
when there is no wound, only pain
You might have had your reasons
for otherwise you're really nice
But even the most virtuous
are full of one or the other vice
I wonder if you'd have listened
to the voice inside your head,
would you have stopped
or would you have instead gone ahead?
It hurt me that I meant so little
My death, perhaps trivial
despite no bloodshed that day
Trust me, the blood was real.

It's another cold evening,
one of the coldest in December.
I hear the wind chime in the balcony above,
along with the voice of someone
telling her child to drink milk.
It reminds me of the good old times.
To forget that, I walk along.

You say poverty unsettles you,
but each cold night, you recount to me,
Amidst the usual tears,
the same old tale of how you raised me.
How, even this house here seems unreal.

You talk of how even milk was a luxury,
And how we didn't have a warm bed.
But you recount how you still,
sent me to a school well beyond our worth,
because you had high hopes for me.

You say poverty unsettles you,
but each time you talk,
I can only remember you,
working two jobs with vigour,
On a half empty stomach.
For as long as I can remember,
you barely had two square meals a day.
Sometimes I wondered how someone,
with so small a frame, work so hard.

Sometimes in a fit of sadness,
I tell you that you never understood me.
But regret is greater than anger and
It disappoints me to disappoint you.
So, I keep those accusations inside.

You say poverty unsettles you,
As you recount long summer nights,
Without a fan to our aid,
And evenings lit with candles,
Because electricity was a luxury.

You tell me how I was a delightful kid,
never complaining of the heat.
Eating whatever was given,
sleeping however harsh the weather was,
smiling and being cheerful.
And I wonder if I you'd believe me,
if I tell you the truth.

You narrate tales of all the shacks
that we inhabited and made our home,
only to move out again, soon.
You told me how your books,
were the only thing that kept you going.
You scoff at the idea of hobbies.
You say you killed all of them to survive.

Resting on this warm bed,
Sometimes seems so unreal,
That I stay awake almost all nights.
Maybe I wasn't made for this comfort.
You say poverty unsettles you.
But I wonder if that is what
Would actually settle me.

On a usual Sunday,

Dad sits alone in front of the television.

The loud noise of which,

douses mom's voice, making her

repeat her question for the third time.

Little does she know, that the noise

douses the voices in his head as well.

On a usual outing,

as Dad starts chatting with a stranger,

as if they were old chums,

mom shakes her head in exasperation.

Little does she know, that extroversion

is just a mask, which hides his real self.

In a usual gathering,

Dad starts debating on a recent event,

Which has little to do with him.

I always thought him to be eloquent.

Little did I know, that that is the only way,

he evades talking about himself.

On a usual day,  Dad says that

he will go to the market with us,

even if it means taking a leave from office.

Mom gets a little frustrated at his clinginess.

Little does she know, that he feels all alone,

and is afraid to lose us too.

On a usual evening,

Dad tries, but can't call his own mom.

He wants her affection as his brother gets,

Only to be blamed on each call,

for the things he didn't do.

Little does he know, that I've seen him

on those days, holding his tears,

and cracking his old jokes.

On usual days, Dad stays at home.

When prodded to go out,

He says, he has nowhere to go.

So he sits and scrolls through his phone,

Little does he know, that even today,

He is searching for a warm home.

As I flip through my journal,
I see pages and pages of lies,
that once used to be truths,
now stacked one above the other,
aimlessly...hopelessly....like us
I see the bench where we sat,
centimeters apart, so to say,
yet miles apart in every way.
'Are you okay?' you asked me
on page number fourteen.
'Of course' I lied with a smile,
for an umpteenth time
on page number seventeen.
Three pages and already
three months have passed.
Oh, wait a second,
'what was the question you had asked?'
Was it on the pages I tore,
Or was it on the ones you stole away?
Or is it my amnesia,
getting better of me every day?
'Liar' you called me,
sitting on the bench,
on page thirteen
with a smirk on your face.
Making me wonder
if lies are so easy to trace...
Who was the liar then?
Was it you or was it me?
As I turn the last page over,
I see that there were two liars in the story.
One who lied to himself,
And the other who lied to everybody.