10 failed poems later
I go running to free verse
whose arms are always open
in welcome, in acceptance,
unconditional and forgiving.

Perhaps a little cocky,
it frees me from the ropes
of syllables and meter,
allowing me space
to build, shape, and tie
my poem together
as if doing me
a favour.

i'll tell you something, cat.
right now,
i just don't know where i'm at -
emotionally speaking,
everything is confusing
exhausting
testing, my patience
trying to teach me some lesson?
but i just want to be.
like you, you kn-
where'd you go?
seriously? seriously.
that dead yellowing half-eaten leaf
is more interesting than me.
okay.
guess i'll just be here
still talking
cat-less.

सकाळी उठल्यावर आधी झिपऱ्या बांधायच्या.
रात्री उशिरा झोपायची सवय लावून घेतलीस तर लग्नानंतर मोडणं कठीण होईल.
दिवसा वापरलेले डबे रात्री घासताना कुकरमधलं खालचं गरम पाणी वापर.
ऑफिसमधून घरी आल्यावर आधी कुकर लाव, नंतर कपडे बदल, म्हणजे तेवढा वेळ वाचतो.
हाक ऐकल्यावर आधी ओ द्यायची.
बाहेरून घरी आलं की, आधी पाय धुवायचे.
विरजण मागायला शेजारणीकडे संध्याकाळी जायचं नाही.
चहाकाॅफी पिऊन झाल्यावर कपात लगेच पाणी घालून ठेवायचं.
ताटातल्या मिरच्याकढीलिंबाची पानं काढून केरात टाकायची, सिंकमध्ये पाणी तुंबतं नाहीतर. सिंक च्या जवळ केराचा डबा ठेवायचा.
गूळ घातला की, भाजी नीट मिळून येते. फोडणीत साखर घातली की रश्श्यावर तवंग येतो.
धिरडं घातलं की, तुळशीला एक फेरी मारायची, नाहीतर ते शिजत नाही नीट. घरी एक तरी तुळस असायला हवीच.
काय गं कार्टे- ओ कोण, तुझा बाप देणार?
आणि गोट्या कसली खेळतेस, मुलगा आहेस का?
आता लहान नाहीयेस, एवढा मोठा मांडा ठोकून नाही बसायचं. आवर!
आजीआजोबांना तुमचे विचार समजवायला जाऊ नका, ते जवळजवळ अशक्य आहे.
कोणाकडे गेल्यावर मदत करू का असं आपणहून विचार.
उठल्याउठल्या हातासरशी अंथरूण आवरायची सवय लावून घे.
खाताना तोंडाचा आवाज करायचा नाही.
ओढणी घेतल्याशिवाय बाहेर पडू नकोस.
मोठमोठ्याने हसायचं नाही, आपल्याच घरी का होई ना.
चपलाबूट विकत घेण्यासाठी संध्याकाळी जायचं, तेव्हा पाय जरा सुजलेले असतात. सकाळी घेतले तर बूट चावू शकतात.
कुठेही असलीस तरी रात्री दात घासल्याशिवाय झोपायचं नाही.
झोपताना स्वच्छ मऊ सुती कपडे घालूनच झोपायचं.
उष्ट्या खरकट्या हाताने वाढायचं नाही.
लोणच्यात ओला चमचा घालायचा नाही.
पैसे झाडाला लागत नाहीत, जपून खर्च करायचे.
पैशाची किंमत कमवायला लागलीस कीच कळेल.
रांगाेळी काढता आली पाहिजे मुलीच्या जातीला, लग्नानंतर उपयोगी पडेल.
छोट्या छोट्या गोष्टींवर रडत बसायचं नाही, लग्नानंतर असली कौतुकं चालणार नाहीत.
दुसऱ्या जातीत/धर्मात/समाजात लग्न केलं तर बाईलाच तडजोडी कराव्या लागतात, त्याही स्वयंपाकघरात. नेहमीच्या सवयीचं जेवण नसेल तर माणसं कितीही प्रेमात असली तरी काही दिवसांनी बिथरू शकतात.
परक्या पुरुषांकडे पाहून दात काढून हसू नकोस.
अरे ला का रे करायला शीक.
तुझ्या शरीरावर हक्क फक्त तुझाच आहे, हे लक्षात ठेव.
कोपऱ्यावरच्या पानवाल्याला तुझं पान माहिती असलं पाहिजे.
भाज्या घेताना भाव करायची वेळ आली नाही पाहिजे. (जर आली तर?) एवढं सगळं सांगितल्यावर भाव करायला पण मीच शिकवायचं?

It’s one of those
nights, right -
The remnants of rain
bouncing off the train
door
More
water on the seats
neatly left alone,
no glances thrown.

Tired women catching up
on each other's days
and work,
giving in to sleep
one by one,
until I’m the only one
up,
gasping
at the deafening wind.

It’s a new world
when the train stops
and the wind drops.
So my feet take me
home.

It’s one of those nights
Every night.

red summer sunsets and droplets on flowers
pink cotton tunics and lost things in drawers
brown girls who rule with their eyeliner wings
these are a few of my favourite things

a touch of the cheese and a taste of the lime rind
earrings that dangle with a swirl of the wind
rain and the fragrance of trees that it brings
these are a few of my favourite things

when the shoe bites
when I have mood swings
when I am feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
and then I don't feel
so bad

मसला मैं, जवाब तुम
प्यास मैं, शराब तुम

लफ़्ज़ मैं, ज़बाँ तुम
काग़ज़ मैं, किताब तुम

मैं पानी, तुम दरिया
मैं  तरतीब, बेहिसाब तुम

sleep eludes me
when i finally go to her
after a full day of
being, doing, trying
just like poetry does
after a day of
nothing.

five years after
going cold turkey on kajal
because it made you look different to others
than what you think you really look like

now,
when you put on dark brown liquid lipstick
starting from your near perfect cupid's bow
and finishing with your glorious lower lip
and draw symmetrical, sharp wings
like acrylic on canvas
and choose to look like that
for yourself

i am grateful
because i grow
when you grow

नीयत की जब बात हो, बेचेैनी जग जाय।
'गर स्याही की रीत हो, तब कुछ संयम आय।।

Writing nineteen lines
for the sake of rhyme
is turning out to be a ******...

Need me a little pop:
perhaps watermelon and some lime?
Writing nineteen lines...

I'm afraid this is becoming a sop,
but seasoning it with some thyme
is turning out to be a ******!

I keep going back to the top
So...if I cheat on this, is it a crime?
Writing nineteen lines...

Cleaning up with a mop -
spilling words and time
is turning out to be a ******.

Regrettably, I must stop.
This poem isn't worth a dime.
Writing nineteen lines
is turning out to be a ******.

on a particularly cold, sleepless night
there's an orange full moon
in the azure sky,
split in four by the metal grillwork
on the window

a lone dog howls
as the Earth shies away from its only companion
as if to not look back ever

and we think day has come
again

चेंबूर अग्निशमन केन्द्रच्या समोर
एक पिल्लू पहिल्यांदा
उडी मारतं
त्याची आई इकडे तिकडे वळते
कोणी बघितली का तिच्या चिमुकल्याची
पहिली उडी
माझी बस जणू या दृश्यासाठी
वेग कमी करते
आणि माझ्या चेहऱ्यावर
छोटंसं का होई ना
हसू उमटतं

आज मला यायला जमलं नाही
पण तुला माझी आठवण आली ना?

समुद्र तू असशील रे
पण बाप तर माझाच आहेस ना?

Playing rummy is a lot like music.

Rules to guide you
A pure sequence to bind you
Leeway otherwise, to slide by
A pile to dig from
A companion to play with
(or against?)
And a purpose
to find.

"Poetry is for everyone,"
says my father,
"it's what makes the heart burn!"
Poetry is for everyone -
Kolatkar for me, Keats for you, and Borkar for some.
But there is he who accepts poetry, and the other.
"Poetry is for everyone,"
says my father.

प्यार चुन चुन के करती हूँ
कभी तुम्हारे आँखों से
जिसमें मिट्टी बहती है
कभी तुम्हारी बातों से
जो ख़ुद में मशरूफ़ रहती हैं
कभी तुम्हारे हाथों से
जो ज़ुल्फ़ों को सहलाते हैं
कभी तुम्हारे होठों से
जो ग़ुस्सा पिघलाते हैं
और कभी तुम्हारी धड़कन से
जो वक़्त को रोक लेती है

I pull my suitcase out
from under the bed
hoping to pack away
the baggage I have been carrying
everywhere.
On it, I see
is a cat
asleep
probably dreaming:
her paws come together
and part
in a rhythm
as if in prayer.
And I think
I'll carry the baggage along
for one more day.

Brush, bathe, breakfast
Reach, learn, unlearn
Meet, share, laugh
Lunch, nap, hustle.

Every time I visit my nani
Aai has a new memory to tell.
This time it was about
a tree
in the building compound.
It has existed, lived
for longer than Aai has.
Blooming, yellowing, eventually
going barren,
and then growing again.
It  has stood there,
watching, giving, supporting
the children playing around it.
It stands there now,
with the adults
watching, giving, supporting
it,
recounting its life
intertwined with their own
and coming full circle.

A Monginis Cake Shop flex hangs
above a hardware and electronics store
and a man in front of it
speaks loudly into his phone,
trying to explain this his location,
slapping the other hand on his forehead.

Another man, this one on a scooter
going slower than a public transport bus
has his helmet resting in the front
between his feet
instead of on his head.
(Is this blatant disregard for life
or staggering confidence about it?)

An old Nauvari-clad woman
bearing a big vermillion stain on her forehead
innocently spits her paan on a
Clean Mumbai, Green Mumbai graffiti.

I get up to go stand
at the front door
and someone else takes my seat.

They will see a skinny girl
typing furiously into her phone
this very poem.

I sit there,
laptop in my lap,
after a full day of Visual Imagery,
about to give up on writing a poem,
irony with her delightful tongue-in-cheek sense of humour
looks at me from the space between half-closed door,
and Baba, sitting beside me
picks up the hairclip before him,
puts it in his hair,
and smiles the most sincere smile
at my sheer inability to write a poem
seriously.

an empty vase sits
upside down
on the glass panel
above the television
in the living room.
it is forgotten about,
ignored and abandoned:
its existence not giving to the environment
nor taking away from it...
until
someone brings home
a showy bouquet of flowers
that needs a lap to cradle in.

side hugs are like
performative wokeness;
shallow, flaky, meaningless
convenient, censored -
appealing, yes?
appeasing, too, i guess.

but no
i demand the real deal
furnish me with both arms
disregard my weak frame,
i promise, i wont break
let me have it
im not a snowflake
just a girl who
likes to take
on the world
with hugs
as her weapon of choice.

A wave
reaches the shore
noisily, impatiently, predictably

The silence
in the moment
that it turns around,
leaves the shore
proves that goodbyes
are so much heavier
than hellos.

gene
inexorable, industrious
evolving, selecting, bequeathing
what makes you, you
DNA

The shady bar aesthetic
is for select people
who enjoy the steel tables
which could’ve easily been
in a hospital somewhere
and dim yellow lights
that make photographs look
cool
and the smell of dhoop
disguised as a blessing
from some God somewhere.
Because faith is weird.

Droplets on a glass
Heady feeling of the end
And steady chatter