Every day, as the clock ticks
and I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is an interruption
and another interruption.

So whenever,
I pick up my pen to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My mother shouts from a corner of her room.
Her voice crashes to every notorious wall
that claps with its ears.
She asks me to do her a favour
and every time this happens,
the favour she asks me to do,
somehow slit the throat of the wire
that holds the chandeliers of my words.
In the end,
my words fall into the wells of my eyes
and my poems turn me blind.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,
I turn to a blank page to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
The clouds race with each other
and the sun becomes their referee.
They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organised by Bushell.
The lightning cheers for them in awe
and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds.
When they finally reach across the finish line,
It looks like my negative 1 has turned
into positive after crossing 0.
They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush.
My words disappear and what remains is a wet page,
Still blank.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,
I sketch some lines and curves to words,
to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My thoughts begin to perform flamenco.
They lift their filters in the air
so that I can see my imperfections,
to which I chose to turn blind
as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes.
So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance.
My pen stands dried
as if someone stole the gold thread,
I was going to perform kintsugi
on my paper with.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,
I begin penning my words to write a poem.
I get interrupted.
My surrounding performs an orchestra,
While I run to my words like
two lovers separated by fate.
My hair race with the clouds that just stopped,
for they were tired.
I jump through the hurdles that
the leaves outside
and the people inside my window create,
and while I jump,
They pull my hair
and a few strands fall.
With every strand,
my poem disappears.
So by the time I reach
and kiss my words,
I become full of words
but 'poem-less'.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.

People tell me to live my life without any expectations,
But,
Well, is that even a life?

She has the kind of eyes,
They write poems about.

Not everything that breaks, falls.
And
Not everything that falls, breaks.

On her knees, begging down, she falls at the foot of the fatal grave,
because only the darkness knew, darkness hid  what she craves.
Hearing her silent screams, melody of shrieks in her ears,
Now, no one heard her cry or saw her fallen tears.
The joy she had, delight she felt was all hallucination and dreams.
When it was all dreadful and lost, she couldn't even scream.
Slowly the darkness creeps inside her, she fades away,
Death's shadow ate her, emptiness
Had it's own say,
No one heard her cry or saw her fallen tears.
She wall left alone in the arms of pain,
She screamed and cried and tried but it was all vain.
The death hid her inside it, wandered she slowly,
She was hung in the arms of darkness, it was lonely.
She bled from all parts but it was the Death's greed.
The sharp knife of cruelty made her bleed.
But no one heard her cry or saw her fallen tears.
She cried as she died again,
But couldn't be revived again.....

I feel the power,
I feel the wind,
I feel the sky,
I feel it all,
Beneath my feet.
I feel the love,
I feel the hate,
I feel all the feelings,
You've never felt before.
I feel the strong,
I feel the weak,
I feel what I want to be
this time.
I feel the words,
I feel the spaces,
I feel the stories never told
And
The poems never penned.
I feel the rage,
I feel the wolves,
I feel the wild howling inside.
The forests in me are burning me down.
And the animals are ready to chase.
It's not stopping now,
There's no end.
This time I know
I will be the power,
I will be the wind,
I will be the sky,
I will be all I want to be.

If I could make a film,
It would have been on her life,
Because I have not seen someone more inspiring than my mother.

She used to say
that
She was fire,
So,
He became her Phoenix.

I cook my food on the flames of broken hearts and hatred
And
Boil my water on the heat of agony
And
They ask " why does it taste so well? "

Every day, she asks me a question...
" Am I good enough? "
Every day I look at her awe.
It feels like the sunflowers are asking,
Whether they make the world bright.
Or
Like the stars are asking,
Whether they make the night hopeful.

Every day, she asks me a question...
" Do I have a quality good enough? "
Every day I look at her with awe.
It feels like the sun is asking
Whether it warms the earth.
Or
Like the moon is asking
Whether it makes every woman feel beautiful.

Every day, she asks me a question...
" Do they like me? "
Every day I look at her with awe.
It feels like the earth is asking
Whether it is loved and accepted.
Or  
The clouds are asking
Whether they make the flowers come alive.

Full stop.
Too strong to end any sentence.
Too weak to start one.

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

They have good days,
I will have good decades.

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.

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.

He enjoys listening to me,
but hardly understands or believes
what I tell him.
I think for him,
I am nothing but mythology.

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.

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.

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

His name was nothing more than a typical Hindu name but when,
I recalled his name again,
It felt like warm snow was kissing my face.
His name sounded like I was bathing in hot chocolate
or
like in the dark sky he was the only shining star,
His name was ' SANSKAR ' .

Deep down the soul
Arises her song
Sung by all,
Heard by none.
Contentment is bitter
Silence is louder
Deep down the soul
His thoughts cry
Satisfaction is no more
Rest are all lies
Maybe presence of one
Is absence of the other
It's only 'Hope'
that
Can be seen
In the world of blind possessions.

A colon stands for something;
a semi-colon stands before something.



I think I am the former.

'Of all the stories you have ever written,
       how many have you forgotten?'

They asked.

And suddenly I remembered you.

I think I should stop writing now,
because
I cannot.

And on some days
I just can't write.
I skim through pages
and
scribble my name a thousand times
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
My diaries and notebooks lie open,
Blank,
White.
I look at my own words
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
I stumble upon words
And fall insides holes of oxymorons,
And I end up realising,
my name and writing together are also an oxymoron.
I look for inspirations and motivations
But end up realising,
I just can't write.
I personify my emotions,
Add similes to my feelings,
Just like a heart broken by love does.
But I still end up realising,
I just can't write.
I read poems and stories
Of writers who could write,
Feeling, maybe someday even I would be able to.
I battle with metaphors
and
Scratch the onomatopoeias,
I injure the meanings
and
Spill my thoughts through my veins.
I shout " Alohamora " to my heart a million times.
I trace through the lines of the endings of my stories.
I try to go on like the brook forever,
and
I hear the voice of the solitary reaper in the daffodil fields.
Yet, as the day ends,
I end up realising,
I just can't write.

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.

You make me search
for the stars
in the daylight
And the sun
in the darkness of the night.

There was a boy I knew.
He used to say,
He was scared of death.
He said it felt dark
And
hidden
And
engulfing.
He didn't want to die,
He was too scared of death.
But this boy I knew,
Fell in love,
Fell in love with a girl,
Whose skin was as white as snow,
And as soft as velvet of all the shades he could wear in on go.
Whose hair was dark and black as ebony,
And light and brown as a berry.
Whose eyes held the stars
And
Dreams,
And
carried hopes which were heavier than reality.
Whose lips were not as red as a beet,
But
Were as pretty as a September peach.
Whose body was not as clear as that of the magazine girls,
But
Yet she was made up of stardust and yellow pearls.
Whose nose was not the perfect shape,
But
She was his 'idol' kind of face.
Whose body was not as perfect as the stories they tell,
But
As the thousand imperfections like in the poems she wrote.
Whose curves were not as defined as apples, peaches and spheres,
But
Were as captivating as the life of his dreams.
Whose voice was as sweet as milk and honey,
he said.
And whose talks were the only words he wanted to hear.
Who was as precious as life for him.
Whose kisses were burning fire in the mahogany woods with the essence of ambrosia.
But little did he know
that
She was the death he feared to go near.
He loved her,
He said.
But he was scared of death,
He used of say.

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.

Her effervescent soul was searching for a nonchalant voice to speak for her,
Dwindling the songs she's never heard before,
Wishing upon the stars to be independent from her own barriers.
She was rising from the flames of the fury that burned inside her.
Strong she was, she wanted to show.
Fearless ahead she wanted to go.
A place for herself she wanted in this world,
An abode where the sun would never set and the stars would never go.
She was just another woman fighting for her rights, believing she'll get them someday.

He looked at her with all the sincerity in his eyes,
Leaned forward and slowly kissed her.


But then,
Skype came in between.

And the leftover pieces of my heart,
fit perfectly in between his broken ones.

That is what makes legends interesting,
They either tell good stories
Or hear good histories.

The truth is always dark,
if looked at using the shades of lies.

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?

Her love for him was as true as death itself.

I met a boy today,
at the end of the road.
A young one, somewhere between 9 or 10.
He looked at me with his eyes on the ground.
"Where can I find Love?" He questioned.

I did not answer him.
Because I could not.
In the library, I go daily
I find books of genres
one such is 'love'.

But the books are not different than 'Horror'.
The 'horror' covers are black,
absorbing everything I tell,
The "love' covers are white,
reflecting everything I hear.

I went back with a dictionary
and a book of all the love letters
that were never written.

I saw him again
at the end of the road.
This time he looked away from me
while looking into my eyes.

I answered him,
because I thought I could.
'In the petals of red roses,
in the knelt proposes,
in the thumbed love letters.
in the woollen sweaters.
in the candlelight dinner
in the lines that win her
in the dark sunsets
in Romeo and Juliet.
in the surprise gifts
in the heartbeat that lifts,
You, can find love.'

I went home proud,
for I knew, he will find love now.

Eternities and forevers later,
I met a man today,
at the beginning of the road.
An old one, somewhere between 90 or 100.
He looked at me with his eyes staring inside mine.

'In the thorns that *****,
in the words that trick,
in the letters never sent
in the people who went
in the handmade food,
in the sceneries you never viewed
in the lost sunrise
in her eyes and lies
in the gift wrappers never thrown,
in the hearts that have become stone.
I, found love', he finally replied.

I went home proud,
for I knew he found love now.

And the irony is,
Those who ask themselves every day
Which mask to wear,
Are the ones who want me to be real.

Dear Love,

Don't leave.

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

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

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.

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

My dear tide,
Don't be fooled by the moon,
He just pulls you closer
and then pushes you away
without letting you feel him.

Ernest Hemingway said
"Write the truest sentence that you know",

So, I wrote you.

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.

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.

She used to dream of a future bright,
He used to dream of ' her ' every night.

I stay up all night,
watching romances I have seen about a hundred times.
Looking at passionate kisses that jingle and rhyme.
I stay up all night,
comparing his love for me to all the loves that have ever existed.
From all tragedies like Romeo and Juliet
to all success like Ron and Hermione.
From all I love yous
to all infinity and beyonds
From all moons and tides that love but never touch each other
to all parasites that touch but never love each other.
From all poems and stories written
to all love letter burned and burried
From Hollywood to Korea
I stay up all night,
thinking if he kisses me with all the love he has
and loves me with all the kisses he can give.
thinking if his words are as true as him
and the truth is nothing but his words.
thinking if he looks at me like the moon looks at the earth
and the earth looks at nothing else but the moon
thinking if he will stay with me forever
and forever will become always with us.
I stay up all night,
but when I fall asleep
He comes and tells me tales of his love for me
with kisses on my body
wrapping me in his dreams so
I stop thinking about staying up all night
and sleep with my love and his dreams