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My grandma is an old woman
With shiny silver hair
Like the queen's hat
I go to visit her on Sundays
Her face lights up like
Night sky from the old moon
She smiles the most gorgeous smile
Her teeth make a little window
To her heart
Love finding its way back
My grandma prepares
All the dishes that make my mouth water
She begins at Saturday morning
And finishes by evening
Slowly, bit by bit
My grandma is aged but
her love is like wine;
The older, the more intense
She feeds me with her fragile, shaky hands
The paneer tastes creamy
The jalebis are like her skin,
Brown and sleak
It has been 6 weeks
Since I have been meeting her
Every Sunday
Today when I checked my weight
The machine pointed at
Sixty four point five
From fifty eight point seven
It is her love that has found home
Within me.
Kavya Mukhija Mar 26
I loved to paint.
The walls of my little room, thus
Were dolled up with an exhibition of my art work
My mother tells me that I spent
Hours at the stationery shops,
Buying paints, brushes,
And every other pretty looking material
To create my own little gallery of colour blotches.
From stick figures to trees and birds
It moved on to pretty, cheerful woman and flowers.
Ten years and a few days later,
I still visit my childhood fascination
And see the brush kissing the white paper in broad daylight.
It leaves behind
a trail of red;
Imitating us.
Paper turned out to be a better absorber of my sorrow
Than human beings.
So when nights became sleepless,
Days lonelier,
And I, unhappier,
I took to my friends and painted my distress,
an orange sunset and love birds heading back home.
The blue of the sky was amiss
Because it was on my skin
So when my blue body turned purple
And your hand hardened,
I held the brush in between my fingers
That stung with cherry sweet pain,
And painted
The walls, the sketch pad, whatever could soak in
My sorrow.
Now when it has been seventeen days since
You went missing,
The walls make up for your absence
For whose blood would have been redder
To grace the reddish sunrise on the wall, dear husband?

- Kavya Mukhija
Kavya Mukhija Dec 2018
It is your childhood bestie on Facebook,
Miles away,
Yet just a tap away.
It's the sun shining from behind the clouds
On December mornings
While you work your *** off on your laptop
In bed in your 4-BHK apartment.
It is the soap bubble that bursts
Just with your one glance
Because memories are fragile.
They aren't made of hearts of stone
And kinetic sand.
They're made of soft toys
And fur animals.
Nostalgia is the balloon-seller you whizz by
At the traffic signal
Every morning.
It is the sweetness of strawberries
That falls drop by drop,
on your tongue,
That has forgotten to taste.
It is a subtle symphony that coffee plays
That only you can smell
Every evening.
It is the obedient smile that dances on your lips for a while
But fades away
As the smoke of dead habits take over.
It the closed window behind the curtains,
The forgotten post-its on the fridge,
The giggles trapped shut in between the pages of ******,
It is the withered rose on the tombstone
And the eulogy never spoken.
It is a teary-eyed laughter
In vacuum.
It is happy faces
In a photo frame.
It is the dictionary in a sentence,
Not something that can fit into a stance.
Kavya Mukhija Nov 2018
Opposites attract.
I had learnt the year in which I learnt to tie my shoelaces
And differentiate between the left and the right
But still not between the wrong and the right.
And may be, that is why on nights
When I pulled the blanket of pin-drop silence over myself,
My mind swayed back to my past,
As the night darkened and the silence deepened,
So did my thoughts; become
Fluid flows from high potential to low potential.
I had learnt the year in which I understood
The difference between the right and the wrong,
And may be
This is why my mind drifted back to my past
On sunny days and sparkling evenings.
Today, when I sit across the table with my hand in yours and sip the freshly brewed latte,
I am happy that
The past that haunted me was the 'low'
The place I'm in right now is the 'right'.

- Kavya Mukhija, 2018.
Kavya Mukhija Oct 2018
With the disease spreading like wildfire,
You really don't know who's clean and who's not,
About who doesn't have a black dot
And who's past is an entangled knot.
But I wanted to give it a clear shot
And make this relationship work topknot
Because you looked handsome and hot
And you had in my heart, a soft spot
So I ditched my parents who cradled me to sleep in that apricot cot
Shoved in tight the values they had taught
Stayed out all night yet didn't get caught
But their daughter was one in a lot.
They trusted her at the sound of a gunshot
That night, I sent them a snapshot
Of us in the parking lot
wearing yellow shirts with Polka dot
They finally lent a free thought
And understood that I had for him a soft spot.
Tried an all rhyming poem for the first time. :)
Kavya Mukhija Oct 2018
At times, I wonder
if my face flashes
in front of your eyes
when you see them,
there, laughing with
their stomachs aching.
At times, I wonder
if I ever interrupt
your train of thoughts,
like the silent touch
of the cool breeze
On a hot sunny day.
At times, I wonder
if you too have a picture
on the frame of your mind,
of us, sitting
by the window sill
watching the rain drops
race down the window pane,
with a cup of hot-brewed coffee
clutched in our hands.
At times, I wonder
if you too think of me
while I'm thinking of you;
if your fingers itch
to dial my number
if your ears go numb
to hear my voice
if you ever crave
for my presence
Like I crave for yours?
Kavya Mukhija Oct 2018
Every moment spent with you etched itself
On the canvas that my mind was;
Like the elite form of calligraphy
I wanted to treasure life long
Until the pages turned yellow
And smelled of must.
So, in a bid to treasure even those moments of low-yet-high level exchanges,
I laughed until my eyes sparkled
And tears welled up to the brim,
Imitating an ocean, just as how you would say
So, I laughed
And I laughed until I cried.
Years down the line, today when you are oceans across,
In a land that you now call your own,
I sleep with the bubbles your memories
Safely tucked under the lids of my eyes
Until the lids feel heavy and are shut tightly
And the bubbles burst,
Gushing our memories out from the clasp of my eyelids.
They seep in through the knittings of the pillow,
Into the gateways of my mind
Slowly, drop by drop.
I dreamt of us that night
And I laughed until I cried.
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