"kurta" poems
We are stopped for special checks
At TSA and immigration
We are murdered
In our house of worship
Six innocent lives lost
Oak Creek Gurdwara, 2012
Racial slurs hit our hearts:
Sand ******
ISIS
Towel head
Out of fear
We stop wearing our beautiful salwar kameezes, lenghas, saris, and kurta pajamas
In colors and embroidery your clothes could only ever dream of
We take off our crowns you call turbans
And replace them with baseball caps
We think twice about speaking Punjabi,
Our mother tongue,
Around those that don't recognize it
We stop packing our grandma's handmade saag and roti
To school for lunch
And start eating
Processed Lunchables
We separate into two people
Our American selves
And our Punjabi selves
Almost never does anyone meet both
All because
You don't know
The difference
Between a Sikh and a terrorist
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
The one who is seen by you or the one who lives inside me?
Am I fake outside or inside?
How I seem to be is not who I am inside.
But then I pretend to be whom you desire.
I struggle or may be just pretend to be a perfect daughter, a perfect sister, a perfect wife, a perfect daughter in law, a perfect mother,
overall a woman that is considered to be a perfect woman by the society.
I don't want to wear Kurta Surwal,
I don't want to drape a shawl,
I don't want to wear a pote, neither I want to wear a Tika or chura.
But then I wear them all when I come in front of you.
You say it's a tradition, it's a culture and related to husband's lifespan
I don't believe these nonsense but I never let you know my dislikes rather I choose to pretend..........................
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
You probably saw her sometime, but
Didn't spare her more than a second look,
Demure girl, purple kurta-white salwar,
Quite routine, nothing out of the books.
Oh but I saw her, the true her,
Slender hands controlling a sturdy Enfield,
Salwar flapping wildly, freely against the wind.
Must admit, I couldn't stop looking!
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
When all the world is a giant burden,
Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.
“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,
Says always my friend Banarji, never stun
Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.
Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,
Or India with psychology, without an apron.
Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;
With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,
Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.
Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”
Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?
He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,
Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.
He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,
Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.
Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,
With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.
Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron
He is through with all, has a great fortune.
Appreciates my Monorhyme and region
Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.
Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.
Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
The lull of the summer evening
would make me a silhouette
If not for
my white mul lucknowi kurta
flying, flowing
swaying, as if
to the beat of dadra.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
We’ve clicked zero photos, Motu
Not a single frame to freeze us in pixels,
No smiling selfie, no captured chai cup,
No picture to prove we were ever “us.”
But what is proof, when da soul remembers?
When da eyes hold stories no lens can capture,
When silences between us have said more
Than any caption ever could.
We are a friendship without filters,
A story written in whispers,
And not crafted for timelines
We are da invisible thread, Krishna tied
Without needing flash or filters.
We fought…yes!!!
More than we should’ve.
I don’t know whose nazar passed over our bond
But I know it’s not stronger than what we’ve built.
You say this equation is difficult…
I agree.
But I also know da rarest bonds…
Are never easy to explain,
They are only meant to be felt!!!
Motu, I might be flawed,
But my intentions, they’re sacred.
Like temple bells at dawn,
Like verses whispered in Vrindavan’s breeze.
I didn’t come to this course to find anyone…
But I found you!!!
And that’s the twist in da story
My biggest gift wrapped in an unwanted journey.
So yes, we’ve clicked zero photos.
But we’ve lived a thousand moments.
Moments that breathe in my notebooks,
Moments tucked between lectures and lingering glances,
Moments scribbled in blue ink on your kurta,
Moments that feel more real than any frozen frame.
Ours is not a story for Instagram.
It’s a sacred secret shared between
A boy who fumbled with words
And a girl who saw right through da silence.
And someday, when life scatters us like paper boats,
When people ask me… Do you have a photo of her?
I’ll smile softly and say,
No… but I have everything else.
By:- Kanishk Baghel
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
Somewhere in a casket,
Random in my ransacked room,never opened.
I have your silhouettes stored,
Those which I presume a man would never behold.
I imagine your shoulders broad,
Splendid as a bridge across my glee,over which my eyes could be driven.
While I could be soaked in your chest,
For you be so taller.
Your skin being tight and thick,
Such as it already feels to be bugging in.
Your kurta being loose weighed down,
Revealing the sweated collar bones,and much of the rest.
Your complexion could melt upon me,
Wallowing under the sheets.
Your caustics could potentially outshine mine,
Up to the brink, your douchebaggery could shine.
You may sing anything, Ghazals or even hums,
Your baritone could lull me to sleep,with the heft and flatness of it,with some added tunes.
Our towns could be kilometers apart,or the residents even for light years,
Might be the same for our creeds.
Your breath could be a bower,
To the desert of mine.
Your eyes being shrunk crescent moon,
With the lashes too dense,but sight like an arrow piercing.
Your poetry could define,
And for being poet from you I wouldn't envy.
Your resilience could be better than mine,
And your adamant nature,suffice to repeat an act a million times,to achieve the desired.
Unlike me an ergophile,
You could draw a better parallel line.
You were allowed to smoke,
For it, I have an affinity untold.
Your profession be any,
Your passion be vehement,I promise then, to find you in graphite and mullar and heard in Mozart's.
Your hands masculine,with the veins bulged,
And circlets and totem wrapped,red and orange around.
Skies be your preferred roof
Under the rainy sky,the sharing of petrichor shall feel sanctified.
Your gales be a crescendo
Of delight.
Your age could be more to mine,
But things could be divine.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 1:02 PM UTC