Where I sit, in a closet full of greys, which aren’t greys,
But colours of the rainbow, gleaming with a diffused glow,
I am not colour blind, but she was, the day I entered her closet,
But now she isn’t, for I have seen her feel the colours,
And sometimes you need not see them, to feel them,
You just have to wear them and see the world outside
through that gleaming diffused glow,
with a butterfly or two in your gut;
you’ll realize that the world is a closet too, that needs to be opened by the might of the strayed,
because the world is colour blind,
just like how she was when I entered her closet.
So, while I sit in here, I wonder what my role is, for I have built a castle in one corner,
just above the drawer where she hides her deepest secrets;
Maybe I am here to show her the light, so that the greys can become the colours they deserve to be
and then her closet can become the most colourful of them all,
and I can watch her be herself, not just in our closet,
but also to the world outside,
For I fell in love with that woman, who is not afraid to be herself, for she can carry any colour with poise, elegance and freedom.
That’s what the world should see and learn, from the most beautiful woman, that I share my closet with.

The prayer room, was empty,
except for pictures of her favourite gods and their idols,

The house had slept,
although her laughter, her voice,
could be heard from a distance,

The house didn’t smell of spices anymore,
And the aroma of her cooking which brought a smile to everyone walking in,
Had disappeared.

I wasn’t hungry any more.

I lit the lamp, and I turned around and called out her name,
Forgetting for a second that she is gone,
And my heart filled with a pain that felt like a knot,
weighing me down
For the house didn’t feel like a home
And her son didn’t feel like a child anymore

She’s no more,
The doctor said –
The day before she had cooked all my favourite things,
Few weeks ago,
She told me that the good times are about to begin,
Few months ago,
She told me that I dance well (although I didn’t)
Just few years ago,
She held me in her arms and ran an entire household, all by herself
Cooking, teaching, living life, the way it is meant to be lived,

Few seconds ago,
She was alive,

Now, she is no more.

And I ceased to be a child,
As I touched her cold feet,
And I told her,
I will live,
“I will live for you,
For I know you are in every breath I take,
Every drop of blood that run through my veins.
Every second that I live, will be for you, will be for your legacy”

And I will live life, just the way you did”
No more

Husband to a wife who has passed,
My father;
Just stood there, holding her cold hands.
He was praying for her soul,
Because that’s all he could do,

The sound of complicated instruments,
reverberated across the hall,
Through which I walked out,
A motherless child;
Because that’s all I could do

And as I did,
I thought of the pain she endured for me,
Third time lucky was unheard off,
But she took the risk and let god deal with the odds
And let the doctors lay the knife on her womb again
Here I am today, years later, alive and breathing, her youngest,
Walking away, wishing she could be my mother again.

Home is humane
much like a mother's love
that's omnipresent, caring and warm,
Much like her absence, is the house that is just
brick and mortar.
For in her absence,
the roof changes into dark clouds,
the floor cracks into an abyss,
shaking my hold on the earth,
to that of a child who is on his feet,
for the very first time,
Where is my home?
the space so familiar, but the feeling gone?
The child I am,
stood there waiting for a hand to hold his,
to show him the way.
but all I saw,
was brick and mortar.

In a world where the virtual self precedes over the actual,
the middle ground is where your darkest secrets rest,
Near the cortex or wherever your brain has that abyss,
is where you shed your insecure thoughts, your masks, and your Instagram filters,
and there you will find yourself all alone with your actual thoughts that don't fit in the virtual world,
because you are no longer special, no longer significant, no longer you,
and the only part of your existence that truly belongs to you is that reality.
So I am logging out
with the hope that I will come find you in your abyss,
with the hope that together we can find our analogue world,
where the sun rises in the east, sets in the west,
where the smell of the first rain, still brings a smile on your face,
where the wind and the tide, usher in good memories,
memories that we made,
memories that we lived,
memories that are etched in that middle ground,
the middle ground which once, was a happy place.

Let's talk mental health
Oh yes, I did say the word mental
not cool, I know
coz I am a man,
I am supposed to have it figured,
be it physical, metaphysical or otherwise,
I am not supposed to falter,
Coz that would be uncalled for,
to alter the course of life for  "man" kind
would mean I am  "out of order"
So when I walk into that cabin where the therapist is at
I know I need help, and I am just getting to that,
but the walk to the door is not that easy,
For I am a man,
I am invincible,
But now I am just invisible
Cause nobody can see through the thick skin they presume I've got
the six-pack that I am supposed to have,  ain't gonna cushion that punch,
I am not strong
I am sensitive,
I am breakable,
and I do cry.

"So how can I help" the therapist asked.

Where do I even begin mankind?

I was always told that I am the 'sensitive type'.
I was told to "man up", "grow a pair" and whatnot
Now in hindsight, I feel that nobody really cared about me or my feelings, or "the pair"

The men were just too busy trying to act strong
Or they were too busy being men.
As for the women who made such comments, I would just give them the benefit of the doubt,
For they might have been surrounded by men who had "***** of steel"
So they might have assumed that my ***** were made of cotton candy.

**** all of them.

Because I am hurt.
And when I am hurt, I cry.
Not because I am a crybaby, but because I feel things.
Oh yes, I am not numb. I never was. I never will be.

I have a pair, but do I really have to be a man?  
a woman?

Or just a "human" being?

Brisk, warm, and easy to move on
No, not talking about a one night stand,
The cutting as they call,
The chai with the twist
Just enough to momentarily pause
Before you dive right back in
to the whirlwind of hope

Oh you saviour, of the rags and riches alike
The favourite of students, labourers, executives and wise
The in between of a mattress like loaf
Easy on the teeth, pocket, and hope
The staple of Bombay, the vada pav stop

You count the number of days to the next paycheck
Surprised as you may be, distant as it may seem,
These are still and will always be, the best days of your life

They say, in the city of dreams
We only look towards the sea in the west,
The open, the surreal emptiness
amidst all the concrete realities.

The waves recede to only come back stronger
As if they are listening to our voices,
While colliding against all that is brick and mortar,
Spraying the fruit of a wasted effort,
On the children of the promenade

The bricks are here to stay, and so is the sea
Both in mutual agreement to not harbour
Any more than what they can take

Swipe in to enter
The machine said
And we did
we intend to do the same
on a daily basis,
Immerse ourselves into a fake promise called
Income, stability and a preconceived notion
called “life, the way it is”

For once the machine, couldn’t recognise
The faded lines on the thumb,

Walk away,
we walk away till we reach
the queen’s necklace
where it all began,
Dreams, hope and salvation.
The perfect place to revisit
Decisions, choices and the way forward
But we fail to look into any as we take a pause
From all that is normal.
To gaze at the surreal horizon
Ebbed in the promenade that is home to all of us.
“Swipe out to exit” Nobody says
As we dwell in the possibility of a better tomorrow

The local, strides through the rotten rails,
Metal to metal, rust to rust
The boggy sways and along with it, the hangers who
Hang in there, not by choice but by the might
Of time, distance, and bills to pay
The feeling is mutual as we stand, sway
Push, pull, and grab on to anything just to balance
Yet the journey never ends
It only begins.

The long breath before the plunge into the sand,
That which makes you want to not pick yourself up,
For once you know, you get ***** by the end of the month,
But the greens you can count on,
Makes it rather a fair deal, or does it?

The real question is, would you rather deceive yourself
and the rest of the world, for the denomination,
to only trade your fortune to be in the rut  that is called
the day to day life of the survivors,
Suffering from the plague that is called The Normal