I tried to write about the tricolour today,
I lifted the pen and spilt the ink on the paper,
the paper was white, white as in the tricolour
the spilt ink was navy blue, navy blue as in the tricolour's wheel.
I then dripped my hands in it,
my hands too became navy blue as I wrote the word 'INDEPENDENCE'
But that word did not belong to me, not to us, not as yet.
The 'Independence' I proudly talked of,
the sacrifices I mentioned,
were all foreign.
they were all spoken and written not in my language but in somebody else's.
I took two seconds to write 'INDEPENDENCE'
and eight seconds to write on my own.
I then realised we're caged and perhaps this time we don't wish to free ourselves anymore.
Two 'teardrops' fell and it became 'DEPENDENCE'.
well, even the tears were foreign and so was the mind.
I crushed the paper that looked foreign too,
and sat on my desk reading about my language.
So that next time when
I try to write about the tricolour,
I write in my own tongue.

The hardest questions to answer are the ones that end with a full stop.

While passing from the roads I take daily,
I noticed a mycorrhiza on a tree.
Wrapped on the sweaty hands of the tall,
Entangled into each other.

I heard them whispering
"I love you",
" I love you too",
and I saw the little plantae
embracing very leaf of the tall,
kissing every inch.

It was symbiotic, I believed.
too symbiotic to be separated.

I took four steps closer,
and I noticed it was a cascuta on the tree.
Engulfing the sweaty hands of the tall,
climbing onto the top of the other,
I heard them whispering again,
"I love you",
" I want you",
I saw the little plantae
suffocating every leaf of the tall,
******* and tearing every inch.

It was parasitic, I knew.
Too parasitic to be together.

My mother has been reminding me of things,
since I was 4,
and the school started giving homework.

She reminded me of
the notebooks I needed to take,
the drawing  I needed to make.
the exams and competitions coming,
the girl, I thought I was becoming.
The answers I needed to remember,
there are 31 August 30 September.
the handkerchief I must never forget to bring home back,
the books that needed to be kept when my bag when I used to pack.
The words 'harsh' and 'cruel' that I should never speak,
Gods and mythology all Indian and Greek.
The way I should sit and walk and behave,
the Queen's like Lakshmibai to tell me even I am brave.
The lights that needed to be turned off and to shut the doors,
to be careful while painting and not let the colours spill on the floor.

My mother still reminds me of things,
now I am 17 and school still gives homework.

she reminds me of
The lakes that a deeper than a sea,
the Queen's like Lakshmibai and Sita because that's how I want to be.
The kingdom that flourished, the kingdoms that vanished,
the dream she lost and her words that were banished.
Herself, who is  like the bank that is washed by the soft Ganga waves,
Her sandy words that grow roses and sunflowers and then dig their own Graves,
The stars that are lonely and yet together,
the places where people go to find themselves in pleasant weather.
The handkerchief that I must never forget and bring home back
the books that I need to keep in my bag when I pack.
The lights that need to be turned off and to shut the doors,
to be careful while painting and not let the colour spill on the floor.
The prayer and the love that she carries in her eyes,
the hope and the faith that she tells me, 'never die'.

My mother still reminds me of things.

In the evening, yesterday,
We again battled with words,
And, you, threw spears of alphabets
which embraced each other
as if they were meeting for the last time.
And I promised my reflection
I would not be guilty this time.

Minute 1:  I threw all the glasses of your trust
                 and cut down all the threads of your love.

Minute 2:     I looked around to search for me,
          but all I could see was you.
                      I knew I was delusional so I went
          to wash my face.

Minute 3:    I stepped on those glasses and my
                    eyes were filled with currant and
       crimson.

Minute 4:     I reached the basin and washed
    my
                    face while my feet were painting
       themselves.
                   And all that dripped down from my face was my commitment.

Minute 5:      I slapped myself using sheets of water
    But I was not as injured.
    I believe,
              I needed more, so I continued.

Minute 6:   I closed the tap and the remaining water fell,
Drop by drop.
I heard myself fall too,
Piece by piece.

Minute 7:                   I started the water again,
                                 My basin overflowed with  
                     you,
                              Oh no, it was water I knew.

Minute 8:               I heard the water, fall again
All at once.
                               I could hear myself fall too,
All at once.

Minute 9:                      no more water was left
                To be shed.
                             No more I was left
               To be dead.

Minute 10:                 my feet had become sore,
                                 And blood now drained away.
                      I knew what I did,
                              I didn't know what
        happened.

Minute 11:     I looked at myself in the mirror,
                    Like always, it again happened.
         My reflection faded away.

And if the best poems are written by squeezing the heart,
And by dipping the pen in the ink of agony,

Maybe, I've not written mine yet.

And I looked inside that well today,
I saw a hologram of water.
Beneath which I heard the deafening silence.
The silence, which screamed too loudly to be heard.
I looked around and I saw,
Scarlet Gangas flowing from every body that was thrashed.
I saw a mother, holding her son,
Tight enough to suffocate him,
Strong enough to let no bullet touch him.
I saw tiny hands shielding their father,
Hoping,
Maybe,
Just maybe,
They could save him.
I saw two hands entangled,
Even death applauded for love before wrapping it.
I saw them covering each other
Praying,
Maybe,
Just maybe,
Someone could save them.
But their Gods were sleeping,
And now they are.
I looked inside that well again,
And I saw nothing but opaque water,
Beneath which I heard nothing but the deafening silence.
I looked around and I saw,
Flower bed on the soil,
Paying tribute to the mourning place.