letters begin with a greeting, don't they?
how many worlds can I gather in my arms - one
for each tongue that builds it - and shower them
across parts of the motherland.
how many lives,
just how many lives won
and lost,
does it take it build bridges
to cross over from the experience of one tongue to another?
my eyes hover over words
that sound more like themselves
in another part of this nation,
and my eyes know not to hurry.
my hands try to feel the authenticity of a maatra,
lying just below the surface of italicised english,
half-sure of finding the sound of the earth
pulsing through the page.

there are so many worlds
that I am yet to gather in my arms
- how can I look beyond the horizon
if its shadow lines lie just beyond my vision?

Under hooded lanes on my skin,
you're making homes
to house each memory
you breathe onto it.
No door is shut in these homes,
No window latched,
No bed unslept in,
No cry unheard in.

Swirling concrete,
******* hearts,
And the faith of young people -
Three impossible stories that you're teaching me to read.
Word by shaking word,
Syllable by foreign syllable,
I learn these stories slowly -
Your heartbeat is my meter,
Your shut eyes are my verse.

We're learning of new tongues drenched in alcohol,
forbidden by the weight of countless accidents.
Fallen-star-paperweights,
Slurring-satin-papercuts.

We're tasting new lives,
new times,
new seas and pools,
and all they can say is

*we're speaking easy.

Many days,
Poetry will not coax me out of my stupor
with the zest of a child
on the first day of summer.
Many days,
she will not make a sound
as she runs through a house
made of my words - no anklet tinkling against silvery feet,
no soft swishes of her dupatta across the sofa.
Many days,
Poetry would like to leave me alone
- in my home of rust and rubble,
in the middle of technicolour trouble,
me surrounded by blunt edges
of half-chipped words,
half-baked rhythm (never rhyme), half-sighed syllables onto blank paper.
Many days,
Poetry sees me accept complete defeat,
with art gathering dust
in the pages of notebooks that will never need filling,
with pens that will never be picked up, with ideas that will never be strung into a poem.

And yet here I am.

Picking up frayed string ends,
trying to tie them into a verse,
to leave it on the first shelf for her
to hopefully pick up.

It might be time for Poetry
to take 29 slowstumblingstuttering steps towards me,
this is me taking the first.

Do you know I can see you
tucking your fears
behind your ears
as you watch me watching you?

Do you feel your eyes on you,
when I show you the magic
you've stashed away
in all my corners and edges?
Are you moved
when I watch you move
side to side,
from the shores of one insecurity
to another?

Because I do.

I do,
and I do not think anyone so ornately flawed
must strive so hard
to lock up every shard
of themselves
behind every ray of light
you get from me.

Pick up your falling smile,
because I can see two hands
reach out for the parts of you
that complete you.

I watch two eyes
watching every joy
that etches itself
in your skin.
I can hear you dreaming
of perfection,
without realising that
it lives in you.

*And it lives in me.

click
    click
clack
On a white marble floor
If you're a woman,
you already have
one foot out the door
of a room filled with
all the conversation
and opportunities
that a man can afford.

This is a scene we've all seen before.
Paid way less
when you're told
that you worked way more.
I'm sure a client will adore my face
in a meeting,
but what do i do with the horror
when he hears me speaking?

I'm reeking of the sour aftertaste of everyday misogyny.  
My worth measured
by the distance between
my skirt and the floor.
And when I protest,
politely, of course
Being told that I can do better,
I can be more than a bore.

My skin revolts
From the last time a colleague
brushed his hand accidentally
against my everything.
My strength and independence rot
in catacombs made from begrudging wombs,
waiting for their lives to begin
before building a tomb for another.

My ears hear no corporate conflict.
My eyes read no unjust verdict.
My knees wobble of no panic.
My voice even now is not frantic.
I try to use my woman card as a shield,
But they already know I'll yield
Because sadly
Feminism, safety, and my daily routine
don't get along very well with each other.


If I could stretch myself to my full capacity;
Correction.
If you'd let me stretch myself to full capacity,
I'd be taller than these nine yards,
Stronger than this silken thread ,
Darker than this black,
Louder than this naked mic.

My worth is equal to the number of folds in this sari.
Uncertain.
      Defined.  
           Redefined.
                Ever changing.
As I shift move walk stumble run shuffle sprint
Dive
Into the storm.

Riot chhod,
I'm a civil war of colour.
Black sari
Black eyes
Black bindi
Golden jhumkas
Red lips
Multicoloured sword at my hip
Swinging at the shackles they placed on me.

Din ke dus dangey lad jaati hu mai,
Saal ki solah siyaahein bharke ruk jaati hu main,
Kabhi kahin khade rehne ki jagah mil jaye,
Toh iss duniya ki acchhaai se thak jaati hu main.

Sometimes,
i wish i had hollows for cheeks
so your hands would brush
an e m p t y s p a c e
filled only with the weakness
that you think i possess.

Sometimes,
i wish my smile revealed
histories of stories untold,
the crux of a plot
now never to unfold,
the heart of soul
that didn't mind going cold.

Sometimes,
i wish i stood a little taller
so i could e
                      s
                         c
                             a
                                  p
                           ­          e
the condescending petting of your hand.

                   floating fingers

                      that land
only to let your fingers glide
along the few strands
of unnecessary ambitions
that run deep in my brain.

Sometimes,
i wish i could shrink
back into the flames
that left me with the thirst for more.
i wish to go to back to the times
that you thought i could not settle a score,
when you saw me as weaker than i was before
when you thought that
my only refuge was
the cold hard floor.

Sometimes
i think that you hold me -
all 5-feet-nothing-chubby-cheeks-childish-smile-bulging-tummy-old-l­oose-clothes
i think that you hold me
to a lower standard than what i started out with.

Sometimes,
you make me want to scream
my strength out.

Sometimes,
i feel like breaking forts and castles purely made of doubt.
Sometimes,
i even wonder what a book about me be about?
an above average worker
or a little girl with a big mouth?

Sometimes,
you make me want to underachieve -
to grieve for my triumphs,
because now,
they need to sit in full public view.

***** you.

I talk at the speed of trees
that pass you
on a train journey.
Hundreds of thoughts
planted
tall,
loud,
incessant.
 I don't expect you listen to me,
I don't expect you to notice,
but then you pick out
one leaf
from the twenty-eigth branch
of the twelfth tree
 and ask me why
it's painted a deep scarlet.
And there's n o t h i n g
that stops me from turning that hue too.


*"To Stop Train, Pull Chain"