I was born from the ashes of fear, guilt and shame.
Cut me into pieces and I will grow separately from all the blood-spattered pieces of my being.
Freer than before.
I have those cuts hidden somewhere under my skin.
I still breath through unhealed wounds.
I still bleed every month.
I still believe in lies.
I still choose the wrong path.
I don't need your religion to believe in myself.
I don't need you to wipe my blood stains.
I don't need you to tell me what's right.
Not this time.
Burn me and every inch of my flesh will explode viciously to reborn again and again.
Fierce than before.
My blood is still boiling and running through my fresh veins.
I won't let you drown in the hollowness
I won't immolate myself
I won't give you a chance to carry my burned flesh.
I won't follow these path of illiberal rules.
I don't want you to compromise your love.
I don't want you to devour the poison.. alone.
I don't want you to suffer ..just because you are supposed to.
Not this time..
Not this time.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT AND REFLECTION !
The Mandir, Masjid, and the Church, each contain six words.
The Geeta, the Quran, and the Bible, each contain five words.
Collectively they all proclaim that God Is One.
Yet we ignorant human beings, over religious differences have
cut each other’s throat for centuries!
More lives have been lost in religious wars, than all our
World Wars combined.
Religion has divided, instead of uniting mankind!

MANDIR = 6 words  ……………..    GEETA = 5 words
MASJID  =  6 words  ……………..    QURAN = 5 words
CHURCH = 6 words   …………….    BIBLE = 5 words

                 6 – 5 = 1   (GOD IS ONE)
                                                            ­        - Raj Nandy

No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!

It's luck or choice
to be a soldier,
For a mother,
is a difficult question.
Her piling up pain
she masticates,  
Since her son
braved at the border,
And after much toil
he couldn't survive.
It's an enterprise
for the whole family,
And for her
a great sacrifice for the nation,
Wrapped up with
selfishness and corruption.
Who knows her own desert
Where blossoms will never bloom?
Who cares of her eyes,
Catching his face in the air,
Vanishing in a blink of an eye?
Who thinks of his wife and children,
Rebuilding the broken walls
of their house?
Is being a soldier a wrong turn
At the particular intersection?
Is being a soldier honest devotion?
You could offer your two cents.
Your right.
Her right? Her happiness?
Her life?
Luck and choice
are chalk and cheese.
Life travels through
rough stones, a pause.
But living such a life is a forgotten  tragedy.