Meeting you was an accident,
And
You are the scar
I never want to heal from.

This is one interesting day
when my father gifts makeup kits and concealers
to my mother

To hide the slap marks gifted to her a day ago.

I like women's day.

It is the only day,
When men finally respect women

For 24 hours straight.

When the tale of the kite wraps itself around your neck,
And yet continues to fly, freely
You should now know that freedom to one comes at a cost to the other.

But you must wonder, as Jupiter and Zeus watch this storm,
that leaves nothing more than dust in their eyes;
It's funny how kites are a symbol of freedom when they are actually tied to a glass-coated cotton string.
The same cotton, that another boy who looks directly into your eyes could have worn.
It's funny how when one side of the coin is painted in platinum
and the other side struggles to know whether it's still a coin with value as it is being corroded.
Yes, they were one coin. Once.

The tulip blooms fade before the foliage dies,
every flower that dies is not reborn
But on the land it does, is.
When the flower is no more,
the green stem still remains.

But did the flower die from the wasp
that stung its nectar and perhaps even the pollen
or did it die from the feet that stepped upon
because they were inside the duststorm that disallows them to look at the ground.

Do all flowers that die are reborn?
How many flowers can one wasp even sting?
How many times can you stomp over one flower until it has no petals but only your footprints?

As you wonder,
The tail of the kite has been detached from its throne,
You look, as you wonder, if this is freedom or that was.

And another Hassan chases it yet again.

They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Panchali's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.

My eyelashes are shooting stars,
least appreciated for their beauty.
Much trusted for their
'Wish fulfilment'.

" I  can treat you better, than he can "
I sang in front of her.

Thanks to Shawn Mendes,
I proposed her without feeling embarrassed.

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.

My teacher, during the class said
"Women are Paralympians".
I had never heard a truer sentence.

He loved the way she laughed,
With all his heart
And
No effort.

Red, is the colour of​ Love.
Red, is the colour of courage.
Red, is the colour of strength.
Red, is the colour of bravery.
But then why does the red colour on my jeans, has to stop me ?
Why, every month do girls need to question their potential ?
Why can't I say the word 'PERIODS'  in public?
I'm afraid all the while,
This word has to be in hushed tones, in 'whispers', so that I 'stay free' of the whispers behind my back.
I need to carry sofy, so that I stay confident and comfy.
When my emotions have to be concealed behind the four walls,
But every night,
I fear that the wind would silently come while I'm asleep.
And would laugh and chatter with the trees about me insecurities.
  I know that my periods are my strength.
My periods don't cage me because I am a bird set free.
I am the Lady Bhagirath,
For I resurrect the sacred red river, once, every month.
Now I go out more easily when on my periods,
rather than staying at home and now I walk with pride.
Now I don't bring my pads wrapped in the black bags because I am not ashamed of carrying them .
I was Daddy's Little Prince who's now become a Wonder Woman.
So I tell every girl to walk with pride,
Not because they say
'Chin up princess or the crown slips'
But because I say
'Keep your head held high wonder woman or you won't be able to fly.

She was like the moon,
      They wrote 'about' her not 'for' her.

Misogyny tastes like the sanitary pad that has been used by her,
over and over again.
So it is not stained in blood but
soaked in blood.

That’s all it takes to make a woman quiet,
to silence her.

A slap, a word, a scream, an eye
and perhaps a kiss too.

But there’s a different story for my mother.
For the three words, she spoke
while her heart was struggling to keep alive,
She was given a slap.

A slap whose loudness,
I still hear somedays
when I go to bed and when my mother wakes up.

I think she has been silent for too long
to even count now.
So, I pretend I never heard her speak in the first place.

But there is a different story for my sister.
For her Thumbelina sized request,
she was shouted on like Lady Tremaine did.

In a voice so loud that
It was all she could hear for years to come by.

So, while hearing that, she forgot to speak.
She did not know who to search for
when your ‘Prince Charming’ becomes your ‘Wicked Step-Mother’.

But there is a different story for her.
For tears in her eyes
and the words that were just a zygote in her mouth’s womb,
she got a stare.

A stare, that froze her down
and her words had to go through a miscarriage

So, she went through an unplanned abortion
that made her mouth infertile.

But there’s a different story for her.
However, somehow, they are all the same.

Because that’s all it takes to make a woman quiet,
to silence her.

A slap, a word, a scream, an eye
and perhaps a kiss too.

"Would you like to be mine ?" He questioned with sincerity.

"I would, but before being yours I'd like to be mine." She answered.

My dear, you are not the sun.
You do not need to blind others or overpower someone's light to shine.

You are a star.
You shine the brightest along with all the others,
not without them.

If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be red,
Running down his veins
and kissing his
Curves and corners
and edges and vertices.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be pink,
I'd be the loving heartbeats that beat synchronized
and the love which is in the air.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be yellow,
I'd be the sunflowers in the field
smiling at the sun with sorrow.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be brown,
I will be the colour if his eyes
and the sparkle in them that never dies.
The soil on which he would sit and cry
and one fine day
leave me with a dejected goodbye.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be black,
embarrassing the moon and earth in my arms,
I'd be the colour they see
after the eyes are closed
and the world is dark.

When Sarah Kay said "we all sound the same underwater"

I realised some people belong to outer space.

I will be waiting for him,
At the end of the world.
Where the stars don't shine,
And there is no sun.
Where the sky isn't blue,
And the wind doesn't blow.
Where people are not found,
And the birds don't fly.
Where the land comes to an end,
And the sea doesn't begin.
Where love can't be seen,
And hatred can't be heard.
Where life is lost,
And death is not found.
Where I can't speak,
And he can't hear.
Where I tell left,
And he walks to the right.
Where the day doesn't end,
And the night doesn't begin.
Where everything is dark,
And darkness is too bright.
Where I cry for him,
And he smiles for me.
Where I become weak,
And he becomes strong.
Where we finally kiss,
And yet don't touch.
So when the night comes,
I'll be waiting for him,
At the end of the world.

When 2 persons are in love,
it is not love anymore.
It is home.
And in this world full of homeless souls sleeping on pavements,
I think we need more of it.

I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.

I took my camera and checked up the lighting,
as I wanted the picture to look 'natural' and 'candid'.
A cameraman rushes to her to click a picture
as he is a magazine photographer searching for stories real.

I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.

I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.

I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.


I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.

I swiped from filter to filter
selecting an 'aesthetic' one.
She drinks the pitch-black liquid,
they tell her is water,
without even demanding for 'cleaner' one.

I finally edited and made a perfect picture,
with my wide grin sealed with a gloss,
And the cameraman too asks for her to smile for once.
She with her deserted lips forms a curve that makes the cameraman frown.

He deletes the picture from his camera
as it would be disliked by all,
It got 1.9k likes,
The picture I posted on the internet today.

Her eyes, were
dark,
dreamy
and
alluring
As dark as the shades of night ,
As the universe,
Hiding deep secrets inside them.
They were dark but crystal clear,
I could see my reflection inside them.

Her job always has had an inflated demand
and ironically surplus production too.

The men’s job, I wonder if
it is their hobby or job.
So, the men’s job has demand amongst themselves
and production too.

Hers is a common and a well-reputed career,
until it is achieved.

The men or at least a man
might choose not to opt
for this career.

She, however, has no choice, as always.

So, she looks at her ancestors,
Her great grandmother who was a wife.
Her grandmother who was a wife.
Her mother who was a wife.
Now, she too has chosen this job.

There is no other choice, of course.

This job has not been her job
since history began.
This job has been her job
since her-story began.

Her job does not require
travelling nations and crossing borders.

Her job requires
staying.
Confined, caged, in-home.

That’s home for him,
not home for her.

That’s her experimental laboratory,
She conducts experiments.
That’s her cricket field,
She plays.
That’s her hospital,
She cures and treats.
That’s her restaurant,
She cooks.
That’s her engineering workshop,
She creates and invents.
That’s her writing room,
She writes.

And that’s her prison too.

And in this prison,
she is her own jailer.

Her job requires only
a few tasks to be taken care of.
Tasks assigned to her sound easy and self-fulfilling.
But she must do them dutifully.
For she, is a wife now.

Nothing more,
Nothing less,
a wife.

But her husband,
is not just a husband.
He is a man.
The man.
A child.
An experimenter,
A cricketer,
A doctor,
A chef,
An engineer,
A writer,

A politician and A king.

And his kingdom,
belongs only to him.

In this highly reputed job,
this only job that she is supposed to have,
and stay loyal to,
with her body and soul,
she is expected; expected of a lot
but never supposed to expect from
and express to.

So, she is expected to not wish.
Because wish leads to worry or somehow even vanity.
Wish kills her work
and that is her tagged happiness.

Thus, she must work,
so, she is called happy.

She must be a wife,
so, she has something worth living.

Her job is the one that requires
her to reach nirvana,
before she starts living.

It is not forced upon her
to choose this job.
It is bought to her
in a jewellery box,
as a necklace,
that she continues to wear
even after it hides the tattoo of her personality,
carved on her neck;
chokes her every time she tries to speak
and eats her words before she births them.

She still, however, continues to wear this necklace
because she has been conditioned
“Beauty is pain, Pain has beauty.”

Songs like “beloved wife” and “my wife”,
make her love her job, but hate herself.
So, she listens to them over and over again.

She avoids reading the newspaper or watching the news
because she knows that if she reads them,
no husband, not even her own,
would be able to look at her in the eye.
And she will not be able to look at them without crying (or killing).

In her job, a resignation letter is the same
as being expelled.
So, it is made sure
that if she takes such a step,
she is not capable of moving anymore.

But out of all these, what makes her job the funniest
is the irony within.
Like she has freedom
but should not be free for her freedom.
Like she is protected but from others
in danger of her own self.
Like she has all the happiness
but she shouldn’t smile too much or make any noise when she laughs.
Like she is a wife
but she is not loved and has done nothing to deserve that love.

What was her mistake that she should not be loved, you ask.
Well, nothing and perhaps everything.

Sometimes, when she is tired and exhausted of her job,
and you go ahead to ask her
“what is more difficult, to be a wife or to be a mother”
She would look at you, for not more than 10 seconds,
and say,
“to be a woman”.

If there is something, she needs to be wary of,
It is people and words.
Because there are certain words,
that if used for her,
would disrobe her in a public square,
where her husband
would be a witness
or perhaps a member of the disrobers.

So, all she should be wanting
to be called
is a word or a name,
to get disrobed by just him
or disrobe herself only for him.
There is much scope in that.

In her job,
she is expected not to wish.
But she does.
She wishes too much sometimes
and on somedays,
just one thing.

She wishes not to be his wife
or ‘a wife’ at all.

But she does nothing more than to wish.
She cannot do anything more.
Because her job always has had an inflated demand
and ironically surplus production too.

"He is such a ****, why did I date him even after knowing he likes James Potter."

2." My award ceremony is tomorrow, I want to attend it."

3."Why was my last food a Margherita Pizza, I want a White-Sauce-Pasta for my funeral."

4. "I wanted to tell mom that I gave her son the idea to drink the toilet cleaner for an easier death."

5. "Dad, I am sorry."

6. "Am I dying?"

7. "I anyway had too many debts. I think God saves everyone from this life."

8. "I want to hug him. Just once. Please."

9."My new CD will be a waste. Mom will scold me...oh yes now she won't be able to."

10. "Our trip to Goa was my biggest dream...why am I dying before fulfilling it?"

11. "Why did I even come here!? I should have listened to mom.."

12. "Mom, I love you"

13. "I wanted to let you know that you were going to be a father of two kids."

14. "I heard their conversation and saw their faces. I need to catch the terrorists."

15. "At Taj, guests are our God and I need to protect my Gods."

16. "Which music am I hearing? What song is it? The hymn of death?"

17. "I don't want to die! Please."

18. "Let me be reborn as their daughter once again. Please"

19. "I think so many people are pleading so thank you for this life."

20. "Don't ever let her read the letters. She will be heart-broken."

21. "I cannot do it anymore but I need to stay awake. Stay aw..."

22." I want to eat a burger."

23. "Mom"

24. "Please let him die with me. He will not be able to survive without his mother."

25. "Please. Not today."

26." She is stupid. Who even likes Snape? I like James, he could marry his love. I want to marry her."

Too young I was,
when I read about them.
Cinderella, Snow White and Belle.
Eyes glimmered, hope shimmered.
Young as I was,
So even I wanted to be like them.
Like Jasmine, who declared she was not a prize to be won.
Like Belle, who hated the misogyny that encircled her.
Like Merida, who challenged gender norms.
Like Tiana, who followed her passion.
So even I wanted to be like them.
Because they were the ones who showed me what I wanted to be.
But then I grew up,
I guess I grew up too much.
I heard questions and false accusations,
I saw them point fingers.
Point fingers at my idols.
They said,
'Princesses do not exist,
And even if they do, they're too perfect, too fake.
Too unqualified to be real because they do not make any mistake.
They laugh at the way Aurora let a stranger kiss her.
The mock the way poor Cinderella became a Queen.
They say they are weak.
They are weak? Why?
Because they dream?
Or maybe because they're too kind and too strong?
Too honest and right to be proven wrong?
They say they are weak because they do not fight for themselves.
But the Disney Princesses I've known,
do not need armours, wands and guns.
They do not need shields and magic and ammunition.
Oh yes! They might be just our imagination and nothing real.
But somewhere deep inside our hearts, they've given us hope made us all warriors.
So the Disney Princesses are the real warriors I've known.
They are,
the silent warriors.

The brave at heart, deal with their brains before other's bullets

Her love was like the moonlight,
Somedays too much love,
And
Somedays no love.

Poetry is not the blood you bleed,
Poetry is the bandaid you need.

He belonged to the universe
that hid inside her eyes.

I inhale the air
that escapes from your tongue
when you call my name.

They ask me a question every day,
They ask me 'Oh darling! How much do you weigh?'
And I answer this question every day,
I wish to tell them,
'I am not made up of flesh and bones,
I do not weigh on scales and stones.
I weigh the love letters never sent,
I weigh my heart I gave on rent,
I weigh all my insecurities,
I weigh Ganga's purities.
I weigh the prayers of my mother.
I weigh the hard work of my father.
I weigh the thirty-two-inch smile I carry and flaunt every day,
I weigh the fears which haunt me every day,
I weigh all the love I have for him,
And I am certain that weighs more than the stories I dream,
I weigh the fairytales I've read,
And I weigh the kindness I've fed.
I weigh my hope,
And I weigh my dreams.
I weigh my faith,
And I weigh my screams.
So I weigh the lightest I could ever be,
And the heaviest you could ever imagine being.'
But then in the end,
I murmur the words '47 kilograms',
A lean and skinny girl is what I am.

There was a ****** in my nation today,
There was a ****** in my nation yesterday.
But unlike the other time, my nation did not cry.
It did not bang the doors of justice,
My nation did not try.
The criminals sat on thrones and proved themselves innocent.
The innocent became guilty as they had only a few pennies and no more cent.
I did not see people cry,
I did not hear the pain
I did read the news where they said, 'The murderer fled by a train.'
I could not see the people hugging,
I could not see love,
but in my nation, I saw a dead, white-feathered dove.
The peace in my nation died,
the girl in my nation died.
The people in power laughed while the nation cried.
I saw the flag of my nation but all I saw was white.
I saw my nation's condition
but all I could do was to write.
So, I will tell you how there was a ****** in my nation yesterday,
and there was a ****** in my nation today.

To the girl who died young,
Who left the world
When she had to play with dolls and bears.
Who went too early
Who was
A best friend
A classmate
A daughter
And a student.
Little birdie, you went too early.
I know you had dreams
To touch the stars in your spaceship,
and
Go to Paris when you turn 21.
I know you wanted to celebrate your 18th birthday with your girl gang.
I also know you wanted to achieve that gold trophy.
But, yet, little birdie, you went too early.
I know mom promised to get you
your favourite dollhouse,
If you get well soon.
I know dad said, he'll take you to Disneyland,
once you get well soon.
And you promised your best friend
That you'll come back to school soon.
But, the words never turned into actions.
Little birdie, you went too early.
If they cry for hours and days,
Would you come back to eat the birthday cake?
Would you come back to hug mommy once again?
Would you come back to watch the movies again?
Would you come back for daddy's gift again?

Dear little birdie,
Why did you leave too early?

She was like the shallowest part of the deepest ocean.
While,
He was like the deepest secrets of the shallowest hearts.

"Thank you for everything." She said.

"Thank you for being everything." He replied with a smile.

We are not feminists because we want to win,
We are feminists because we have been losing.

I will turn the pages this time,
Not the tables
But the pages

For the chapter is over now.

Mom told me about the abortion,
Well, it's good that you're home again, little angel.


     -yours
                          A lonely brother

When I finally embrace death,
I want him to tell me
I am warm and comfortable.

She said
" The story you told them was incomplete,
You did not tell them how did I feel. "
But darling,
Every story would remain incomplete in this light,
Because you're the victim of your story
And I am of mine.
Even the Evil Queen has something to say
But all we know is the story of Snow White.

We search for better stories
while writing about how our's is the best.

A wardrobe full of branded clothes,
Still mummy's gift on her birthday will always be the daughter's favourite dress.

He speaks words
that melts my heart
like the fire burning in a Christmas furnace
which releases hope in every spark.

He speaks words
that dance together
on the music of his heartbeat,
on the stage of mt heart.
So with every word he speaks,
I come alive.

He speaks words that spark joy
like the firecrackers on a black windy night.
like the daffodils, Wordsworth talked about.
So every time he speaks
my heart does not skip a beat
But rather doubles it.

He speaks words
that I have never heard
Like the retro songs, no one recalls
And are yer loved by all.
So nostalgia makes me sing his words.

He speaks words
that I like to hear
as a morning song or night tale.
So when he speaks I sink in his stories
of how he wants us to be.

He speaks words
that kiss each other
with love in the consonants
and passion in every vowel
Just like how he kissed me
when I told him I love him.

He speaks words
that belongs to me
Every sentence he speaks
I call mine,
like every inch of his body.

He speaks words
that have poems written on them.
Written but never read.
So every word he speaks
I keep in my heart
like I do to him.

I walked down the snow-covered land.
It was windy but I could not breathe.

As I walked, the snow under my feet whispered,
'there are lovers more in love than about who Shakespeare wrote,
but such stories once heard get stuck in the throat'.

So, there I lay down on the snow,
the snow felt warm.
It narrated the story of a man and a land.
How the land love the man and the man loved the land.

The man's love was the one that would last forever.
It was not the kind that would sink into your heart
but float right through it so your waves long for more.

The man loved so much that,
the cold snow on the land made the man's blood boil
and the land stayed warm.
The land loved the man so much that,
her rocks became his stage
and he acted his last act with love.

The man love the land and so much that,
his breath made her tricolour hair fly.
The land loved the man so much that,
her shrieks turned him into an artist
and he painted it all red.

The man loved the land so much that,
his blood left his body to embrace her
just the way Bhagirathi descended on mother Earth.
The land loved the man so much that,
she embraced him tight under her snow blanket to protect him.

The man loved the land so much that
his body lay on the land
while their stories loved each other.
The land loved the man so much that
she let the man lie on her
while she was crushed under all the weight she held.

His body was still holding the land,
the snow was still red.

The man loved the land so much that he died for her.
The land loved the land so much that she lived for him.

Sometimes I just wonder,
Will you still love me even when I change?
Will you still love me even when I'm strange?
Will you still love me even when I'm no longer me?
Will you still love me even if I'm not what you want me to be...?

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

Dear Love,

Don't leave.

She never cared about how she looked,

Until he found someone prettier

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.