Behind closed doors and forgotten walls
Adorned with a garland around the frame
Is a black and white photograph of my grandmother
Worshipped each morning by my parents
You won't notice her if you pass by
But if you do, stop by and look
Her piercing gaze will remind you of all your sins
And make you wonder if photos actually have meaning
Her eyes will stare deep into mine
And tell me to talk, to make up for the conversations we lost
She will make you wonder what kind of a person she was
Did she want me to be who I am today?
Did she get stored in this photograph to remind me of her everyday?
Of a life lived long and the lessons learnt
Of the values and love that she holds
I talk to her sometimes
I'm partly amused at the stupidity
But partly intimidated by how her hidden presence
Tells me that I'll be fine no matter the circumstance
As long as she is there
Trapped in this photograph

The old man comes to the park every day
He walks with his left hand outstretched
******* poking out, waving in air
As if that's the imaginary walking stick
With which he controls and coordinates
He turns and his other hand slides up
His slender arms like a bird's wings
That flies him to places we cannot see
And many may call him mentally *******
But I say, he lives in dreams

I speak from the landfills, dumpsters and gutters
I speak from the corners you ignore
Because you don't want to acknowledge your contributions
You know you add to it more
Everytime your car passes
Your inner voice rants and screams
But you look the other way
And scrunch your nose up silently
No one wants to make a move
While we live in our fantasies
Away from the rag-pickers and sewage cleaners
Who segregate our waste for a mere salary
Who clean our **** while we throw some more at them
Who are not treated as human
We just want to get rid of things so we throw
Throw on the road, in the rivers and lakes
In the forests, in other peoples' place
We urinate and spit red paan on walls
We do our business on railway platforms
We live in a such a mess
We are such a mess
Our ideology is as filthy as these places
So I'm sorry, for such a disturbing poem
But it's time you better be disturbed
"Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny..."
70 years ago, these were Nehru's words

Once I was 6 years old
My papa told me
"Be curious and question
Nothing is meant to just be"
And so I questioned
Everything that I came upon
But nobody knew the answers
And I just got completely lost
But still I dived deep
Creating confusion
My curious being
Started living in a maze of questions
Whatever was said
Were broken bits
It didn't make sense
Knowledge became unfit
Maybe people didn't know
Maybe they never thought so
But they seemed content
With everything that was written
What? Why? How?
My papa said,
"Minds have become a pretense"

She wants a house
With a terrace garden and a bookshelf in her bathroom
So she can read while pooping to save time
She says she wants a tree house
Where she can put fairy lights
And spend her lonely nights
She wants a cot where she can doze off
And ooh, a shot glass collection
From all the places she has gone
Though she would not drink because
She does not believe in substance abuse
She wants to grow creepers on the walls
And have a bird feeding area
She wants many dogs who know
How to open the door and bring stuff over
And she doesn't want a bed
She wants a tent that she can move
And sleep in wherever the hell she wants
She wants a huge oven
Where she can make pastries and cookies and brownies and cupcakes
She wants a hot tub in her bathroom
And a chocolate fountain in her kitchen
Which will be open for the neighbourhood children
Because she always wanted one when she was young...
But now she's old
And things don't make sense anymore
The taste of reality is bitter
For her soft and rosy lips wrinkled with time
She doesn't want to be asinine
Mediocrity looms over her like a storm cloud
But it's okay, she says
Maybe someday, I'll live up to it
Knowing within that she wouldn't

He can play the violin
With such grace and love
I wonder if he might be capable
Of giving the same to me

He can move the strings
On his guitar with such a rhythm
I wonder if he can move his fingers
Like that on my body

He can sing in a voice that
Sounds like all the truth unfolds
I wonder if he can do that
At night when I can't sleep

He's a musician with talent
And I'm one in the audience
If only he could look through the chaos
If only he could acknowledge my presence

Music inspires me
And I look outside
The silhouette of
Leafless trees
Against the dawn
And I think of anyone
Anyone, I know
Like life
I changed
For good, for bad
But I left you
Without reason, just
Fear of being faked at
And I wanted to
Tilt, to go back
But it was too late
And curse me
Your memories
Will be of that
All the older ones
Will evaporate
And when I'll leave
They'll ask
"Remember her?"
And you'd say
"An altered acquaintance
She was"
So I'm sorry
I hope you'll forgive me