Lost souls
Hidden beneath
I Crawl in pain
Leisurely he breathes.
Tears fall,
Smiles are faked
Roses have thorns
Petals are burnt
Sunlight is dark
Darkness feels light
The devil kisses every inch of hers
The snow feels warm
And the wind feels cold
It's numb she knows
It's a story no one has ever told.

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

But then, how do I express all my emotions in
one poem...

Only if there are flowers on the other side,
I would cross the bay.
Only if there is a moon at night,
I would bear the sun during the day.
Only if I could get love in return,
I would live in agony and vain.
Only if I could live once again,
I wouldn't mind dying now.
Only if I could hide my tears,
I wouldn't fear to face the world.
Only if I could see you again,
I won't fear our separation.
And only if I could be myself,
I wouldn't regret my life as much.

Orange-
Fruit or colour?

Your 'I love you'-
For me or for her?

There is an
'over'
In
'Lover',

But not in
'Love'.

"Gain some weight you will look pretty"
They told
"That's a well-maintained body"
She laughed off

When they look at my body,
they giggle between their teeth that are crooked but they call them curved. They perceive how curveless I look
and tell me to perform yoga
so that my curves can be defined,
so that I can shape my convexes and concaves.
I smile as bright as I can because probably those are my only visible curves.
I tell them how every time I sit to write
my pen curves on the pages
that are thumbed on the corners
so they seem curved too.
I begin by writing the first letter of the English language
and make slopes and valleys of this alphabet.
I form serpentines and swirling cyclones of my words,
I curve my 'S' to form into an infinity
so that I can hold on to him for as long.
I stretch my 'K' until the end of the earth
and make it look like a single leg shoulder stand.
And as I take all my alphabets,
I turn them from staff position to the plough position.
I make my words turn into Paschimotasna,
and my noun tries to perform Kundali.
My pronouns sit in vajrasana.
My similies stress themselves and flex,
while my metaphors curl into themselves and hide as Marichyasana.
When I am done,
my poems form themselves into Pindasana.
However,
I remain coverless,
as straight and sharp as the pen I use.
I remain 'Arjuna's' bow
so he directs me into my own self,
my own heritage
and I end up killing my Bhishma,
my self-respect.
Hence while my words perform yogasana,
I stand still in tadasana.

Well, you're swallowed by isolation,

And you call it 'peace'.

Photography was his hobby,
And she became his favourite scenery.

You call them poems,
I call them hope.

Poems which rhyme are written with rhythm in the ears,
Poems which do not are written with kaleidoscope in the eyes.

She never cared about how she looked,

Until he found someone prettier

Stolen kisses, pretty lies
Untied hair and tears in her eyes.
Trembling hands and
Quivering tongue
Her tried throat knew she cried.
Broken promises lay down
Shattered dreams on the ground.
Her broken wings were lying there,
How could the bird sing now.
Flowing blood and silent shrieks
All her cries and long sleeves,
Hid all her scars beneath.
Falling down, no hand to hold
Crashed upon the love she holds.
Life she lived and life she lost,
Frozen heart and painful thoughts.
Cold feelings but warm breath
Who could now mend her heart,
She lost today though died everyday,
An angel brought a hideous beast from inside.

Faces covered with
All shades of
Matte
And
Glossy
Makeup,

Yet, her sweaty face after the dance was the most radiant.

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.

Would they have still been remembered,
if they lived for each other instead of dying...

And all the thorns that have ever pricked,
were from all those roses to which I questioned playfully
Whether you 'loved' me or not...

You search for him in the poems you read.
And he, well, he writes them.

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

She preferred to be 'the villain'
instead of 'a hero'.

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.

She smelled like 'sin',
and
He was known as 'The Saint'.

" Short stories to make you fall asleep. " Typed the insomniac.
After 15 minutes ...
" Where are grandma's fairytales? "
The kid inside her wondered.

What's the hardest thing you've ever done?
"I've smiled".

The last time
I was having fun,
I was not sober enough
to know what I did.

If the blood in the body
was a dictionary,
Yours would have skipped the word love.

"If you ever fall in love with someone,
Who is not me,
Make sure she's not a writer."
She requested.

"But why?"
he questioned, puzzled.

"Because I don't want her to steal the only place where you belong to me forever."
She replied with teary eyes.

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...?

I saw her eyes, pure and white
I never saw her face because she warned I might go blind.
I never saw her smile, not even once in a lifetime.
She warned me not to go near earthlings
For people, as far as she told, hated us.
I didn't know why,
My mother and me were detested so much.
Maybe because we were rich, for we could take anything we wanted.
Humans, she told would avoid and fear our arrival.
Why did their lips never formed curves to welcome us,
I wondered.
'Oh!' They say,
'Death brings misery with herself'
But of course, a mother would take her child with herself,
wherever she goes.

And if the universe could make a sound,
it would have been your voice
when you call my name.

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

The shades of the summer sky are nothing more
than the skins of every person in this Republic.

The sky in the morning,
Yellow, sun on the sunflower.
Basking winds and ‘dark-coloured’ skins.
It’s the skin of sweepers and sleepers,
who sweep the streets while their bodies become *****
and who stay awake all night, so we sleep.

The sky at noon,
when sun’s at peak.
Bright, blinding, unapproachable- Masculinity, it sounds like.
Of every man who’s bold and macho enough
to slap a woman
and then cry on every video game he lost.

The sky at one,
exhausting, tiring, perspirable.
Its every worker’s flesh that burns in
shinny kerosene, dark mines, bright flames and
stinking rupee notes.

The sky at three is
Foreign invader, refugee.
Like those who are unexpected, uninvited, unwelcomed
and either beaten or enslaved.
So, we make refugees regret seeking refuge
and perhaps being human.

The sky at five is
Settling into all colours and hues of the day.
It’s pastel and rainbow.
farmer,
who sets and rests smiling after everything the day does to him.
So,sky plants seed for the day coming.

The sky at seven is
blue, ultramarine, trying to become black, accessorizes itself with stars,
like girls who themselves as ‘woman’
and boys who try to become ‘black’, ‘strong’ like ‘men’.

The sky at nine,
all colours into one,
and all differences that can be distinguished to be appreciated.
It is every religion’s turban, tika, kufi and cross;
mixed into one India.

The sky at ten,
Dark, bleeding, silent, cold and warm.
A kiss after a slap.
It I an beaten,
her scars deepened,
her wounds opened;
silent.

The sky at twelve,
Black, starry, formed after mixing all colours
garnished with the moon.
It is the skins of all migrants coming to this republic
and calling it home
because they know they are farthest and closest to it.

The sky after twelve,
quiet, crying, waiting and hopeful.
It is every empty stomach’s hope and every broken heart’s faith.
It is people on the sidewalk and inside the palaces.

Right now, it is the sky at dawn.

Dark – trying to become light,
Hope- trying to be.
My skin- trying to become the sky.

These are all, the skins of every person in this republic.
The shades of the summer sky are obviously nothing more than this.

They said she was 'too sweet',
I knew she was 'too meek'.

Even when you were with me,
You searched for her.
Even when you called my name,
You spelt her syllables.

I've never tasted death
better than today,
And I never want to taste it again
after today.

Symptoms of diseases,
Diseases never heard of,
Symptoms were pain, agony and tears
Tears never shed
Diseases which took eras to be discovered,
Diseases that lay hidden,
Hidden behind smiles
Smiles hiding pain, agony and tears
Tears never shed
Because there was no one to see the tears,
Tears lay buried
Buried behind 'I'm fine'
'I'm fine' was a cover
To shield the delicate heart
The heart which was scratched and torn millions of times
And millions of times the memories were reminded
Memories which were to be forgotten
To be forgotten and thrown away
Thrown away like the heart was
The heart now only had tears
Tears never shed
Because there was no one to see the tears,
Tears left to dry
To dry without being wet
The heart also dried
Dried out and fell
Fell like the petals of roses
Roses which are only left with thorns now
Thorns which ***** and the heart bleeds
The heart bleeds the blood of hatred
Hatred risen from love
Love which led to the diseases
Diseases known as heartbreak, dejection and desolation.

Words are not written
to pierce hearts,
To mend the broken ones
To heal the bruised ones
To stitch the torn ones
To love the lost ones
To kiss the hated ones
To miss the gone ones
To lose the loved ones
To stab the honest ones
To hurt the feeble ones
To tear the soft ones
To break the hard ones
To melt the cold ones
To feel the fallen ones
To crush the smashed ones
To throw the plastic ones
To pick the everlasting ones
To cry for someone
To lie to the only one
To steal someone's only one
To **** the brave ones
To crown the coward ones
To laugh on meek ones
To smile for no one
To see the invisible ones
To hear the mute ones
To scream to the deaf ones
To defeat the invincible ones
And to win the heart of someone.
Words are just written,
And for every reader,
every word
Every punctuation mark,
And every space
Tells a different story.
That's the beauty of words.

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.

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

For the chapter is over now.

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.

She decided to build herself a road,
instead of taking 'The Road Not Taken'.

And she's still standing there,
On the shore of her memories.
With her lost dreams and forgotten laughs,
With her vanished hope and obliviated time.
With her stolen reminisces and extinct days.
In the blink of an eye, the time flew by,
In the flash of an eye, the seventeen year old grew up, why...
And she's still standing there,
Slowly sinking down the earth.
Wondering when did she lose it all.
When did she lose her smile,
When did she lose her mother's hug.
When did she lose her golden days,
When did she lose her life.
When did she turn thirty.
In the blink of an eye, the time flew by,
In the flash of an eye, the seventeen year old grew up, why...

Dear 'those who left',

Thank you, for coming.

As I am done with another poem,
I put my pen’s tip to rest
on the white chest of my paper,
and look at the clock
that runs from its own shadows
and chases its own reflection,
While it reaches the unanticipated.

Terrified, I close my eyes
and think of a moment
when the close does not matter,
when it grows so tired of running and chasing itself
that it stops.

Now as the clock has been silenced
And I can no more hear it shrieking,
I hear her voice.

Her voice, calling my name
like a leaf gently lying on a pond surface
that had been mute for too long.

Her lullaby, ringing like a wind charm
that has been touched by a raindrop,
makes me sleep in my thoughts.

Her hands, holding me into her arms
like the sunlight embraced tightly by
a droughted land.

Her fingers, feeding me food of thought
like a drop of ink that falls the pen
and fills the paper.

Her eyes, looking at me with love
like mine looking at the clock
that has stopped moving while
my pen at rest has not.

Her smile, that she throws at me
like the dandelion which throws
her children away to be free,

Her tears, that slide down
From her eyes to her lips
like the rocks on the mountains
that cause avalanche.

Her food, that she cooks
While she burns in and out
like the cells of the body that
die out quickly
for the new ones to be born.

Her stories, that she teaches me about
the world around
like the wind that whistles to the
water that never stops flowing.

Her lessons, that she wants me
to learn and remember
like a book that turns to the right page
with every command the wind makes.

Her love, that keeps me alive while
she is dead,
like the earth that gives birth
to her new ones from the womb
she no longer owns.

I think of her as I realize
How the clock has paused
I now know, she and her thoughts
stop time.
My mother, stops time.

So, I lift up my empty pen
from the ‘just blue turned’ chest of my paper
and look at the clock
that is again chasing its own shadows
and running from its own reflection.
I am done with another poem.

If you ask me what is more difficult,
'to love' or 'to hate'...

I might answer,
but you will hate me,
If I do.