a tribute to ordinary there is nothing about the circles of a fan, the flight of leaves, or in a bird's wings nothing in hairy thighs, a sweaty spine, thirsty lips, and underarms in the bumps of a road, in roti or ghee, or me that screams of extraordinary the only thing that screams are my insides, trying to deal with the sheer simplicity of who i am funny, but not too little not too much occasionally melancholic occasionally kind occasionally nothing ambitious and lazy, lazy and driven where do we drive to? look at my face, i say to the mirror so ordinary, i sigh worried about such surface things, this ordinary mind occasionally a flicker of fire occasionally a snowflake occasionally a dew but more often than not, just an ordinary you as ordinary as toothpaste on a toothbrush in my mouth once in the morning once at night on Monday, another face in the crowd it could melt me away another one at work, am i a cog in the wheel? am i enough? my silly typing speed...
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An Ode to Sadness Where does all this sadness go? First I thought it passes on to someone who needs it more; Then I tried forwarding it, like a Diwali gift - unopened and unneeded But true to the nature of an unwanted gift, it found home in me again; For a while, I wondered if it can be converted to laughter By some scientific formula that was yet to be discovered; Is there a recipe to turn it to minimum biodegradable waste The kind I can use to make better things? Or will it run and and break dance inside my veins Till I turn to stone and crumble to the ground? Ya phir shareer ki tarah ye dukh bhi bhasm ho jaega Poof, and it vanishes to nothingness? Where, dear sadness, do you go? Tell me, for this fool does not know. You came to me after so long, like a romance At first I thought we shall ball dance So I entwined my fingers in yours, and smelt the musk of your chest Let you grab me by the waist and put on a slow song We moved slowly all nig...
My heart skips a beat and then stops at the sight of you and just as quickly Goes back to beating normally again My body does not know what to feel about you Neither does my brain Or my heart Kyunki sometimes you are walking magic with sunshine in your eyes You warm me up and give me light And some days you are just too far, a fainting star even though bright Kya kare ye dil, tum kuch bolo toh sahi Aur bina lafzon ke yakeen mujhe hoga nahi Do I get to hold you when we see each other And can our lips some day meet? Can I do to you what spring does with the cherry trees? Bolo tum, You potential partner My Schrödinger's lover
From the Waiting Room: The Void of Romance
For the past two years, Fatima has been through a lot – she had nights of sleeplessness, couldn’t properly or think clearly, and felt restless. It is interesting that while the therapist may, after further questions, diagnose her with an anxiety disorder, our dear old Bollywood love songs may call these the “symptoms” of a blossoming romance. Aisa lagta hai jo na hua hone ko hai Aisa lagta hai hosh mera khone ko hai Warna dil kyun dhadakta, saansein kyun rukti Neendein meri kyun ud jaati? Fatima knows it is not a new romance, she has been in pain for a while. I ask her about her story – how she started feeling this way, what helped, and what did not. Despite all my best efforts to let the conversation flow, I have a set format for these conversations (some would call this history taking). I wonder what we would talk about if I just let the conversation be. She traces back to her life, an unconventional woman coming from an orthodox family where she would...
National poetry month Day 11 – why humans speak (in 50 words) Because all noises and any sounds are better than none the quiet would force us to listen to the beating of our broken hearts and to hear the screams hidden in silences that are so much easier to ignore and because words can, often, help hide what we really want to say.
National poetry month Day 8 – the last line of my favorite poem is the first line of my poem first, here is the one favorite poem i'm using today - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cACbzanitg When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple People will tell you that madness has finally overcome me This woman was showing the signs all along, a pre-disposition In behaviours and moods and rather odd eccentricities World knows, we all like a weirdo in every group in every place They question the lines and boxes and somehow All of them have a sense of humour we can appreciate But some people are far too gone, their minds too lost Like this one, they’ll say What kind of an old woman wears purple, a colour of youth She’s in denial, they’ll say, with no insight, they’ll say Of course, we’ll have to restructure her maladaptive beliefs Teach her how to see her own self as an old woman The old age colours will follow Her self-concept shows an acute absen...
National poetry month Day 5: from the point of view of an object in the room A poem by a laptop titled 'hope' I've heard his pain and fears In ted talks and spoken word and in half written diary entries he never saves I've felt the smoke on my screen The cough in his laugh and the scent of his breath The letter R now malfunctions after that night of tears S bore the brunt of a very stressed out day And A got a little burnt by a poorly placed cigarette Some days he just keeps pressing the 'ctrl' button There were nights we stayed up, the horrible days when sleep betrayed him Those days we even looked up astrology and palmistry to see If the future looked any better And some days he would shut me up And just cry and cry Later he would shut me up And just smoke and smoke Now he doesn't cry anymore Alas, i cannot offer a hand to hold Or a shoulder to lean He makes me wish I could speak To be able to offer words of comfort But all I do ...
National poetry month Day 4 - five things you want to say to the rain बॉम्बे की बारिशों के लिए एक, तुम आते हो यूँ गरजते हुए, बरसते हुए, मेरी ज़िन्दगी के कुछ महीनों को अपना बैकग्राउंड म्यूज़िक देने - कभी कभी 'तुम से ही' स्टाइल में नाच लेती हूँ मैं भी... दो, तुम दिखाते हो लोगों की resilience जो डूबते घरो में भी, घुटनों तक भरी सड़कों में भी किसी न किसी मजबूरी या चाहत से काम पर जाना बंद नहीं करते; दिल्ली में तो बारिश का मतलब छुट्टी... तीन, तुम गुदगुदाते हो वहाँ जहाँ कोई नही छूआ - नाक की गहराई, गले के भीतर से चीखें आती है छिकों के भेस में और मैं फिर ग्रीन टी पकड़े तुम्हे चाह कर भी अपना नहीं पाती... चार, तुम्हे भूलना चाहूँ तो भी बदन से लिपट जाते हो, मैं भीगी सी फिरती हूँ, कपडों में हर वक़्त तुम्हारी महक और वो कीचड़ के निशाँ जैसे कोई लिप्स्टिक लगाये चूम गया हो... पाँच, तुम्हारी फिर भी बहुत याद आती है आज भी, हमेशा आएगी तुम्हारी याद।
National poetry month Day 3: poem starts with the first lines of your favourite song Using the first lines of your favourite song कि उजला ही उजला शहर होगा जिस में हम तुम बनाएंगे घर पेट्रोल मैं डालूंगी, इक नाज़ुक सी चिंगारी तुम देना बीच इक बदलते शहर के, हम तुम बनाएगें घर आग के ढाँचे में डूबा, पीली जलती रौशनी में चमकता कि उजला ही उजला शहर होगा जिस में हम तुम बनाएंगे घर
National poetry month Day #2 - Letter to my twelve year old self Over the years you will learn that the boy who annoys you Will shut up if you call him gay That when someone makes fun of your body which is starting to sprout hair You can always laugh at the girl with a growing moustache to feel better You will learn to judge girls who kiss boys and wear skirts And you will pride in being the child your friends' parents like I'll tell you, it's not always a good thing So next time the whole class boos at someone Calling them ugly or fat or stupid or gay You find your own words And let them be kind.
National poetry month Day 1 Prompt - Write a poem from the point of view of your favourite fictional villain count Olaf The name of the Count has been ruined by those wretched orphans and that annoying Snicket The one sided tale on this unibrowed man who at one did impressions with his babbles and boobles Twice I was approached to be the lead in a movie/tv ("unfortunate" events), alas, twas not too good for me And before that came the annoying crowd of three - the Baudelaires whose fortune I had to steal I set fourth with a map of secretly stained locations, one my home not far from here Where poisoned darts punctured my dear parents bodies, "I'll be five", I said heavily Then was born Al Funcoot and his theatre troupe of six Several times seven days of the week I chewed on rasberries and planned I ate them and eight them and ate them and planned Sometimes I even schemed all day and nine In thirteen books that took me a decade to read,...
I have unconsciously written a series of poems on love - unloving and being unloved loving someone without them loving you back falling in love with someone who is not thinking of you the kind of person you should fall in love with falling in love with someone else and here's another one now. Clearly this woman comes from a lot of experience! wanting to fall in love for three years I have barfed at the L word and apologized to lovers whose holding hands I’ve wanted to puke on i’ve read literature that invalidates romance and fallen deeply in love with the gifts of friendship i’ve deconstructed the L word and said to myself how gendered it is, how limiting, how suffocating i’ve spoken quite fluently about the ills of monogamy the internalization of a romance from movies and fairytales and unapologetically refused to give in but now there is a voice behind my chest a bluebird that had been tucked away, who sings again i cannot decide if her voice...
on my fingertips I can count the number of friends i've had since ten, twelve, nine years, and in between but there's one i can't forget i met Aloneness (A) in school, she was the dark mysterious girl in the backseat who everybody wanted to know but I liked colors and company and cold drinks, A and I only crossed paths she would watch me take friends to the bathroom and back she saw me skip lunch when by myself I would run into her dining at restaurants, she needed no company I thought she must have never skipped a meal we stayed apart, A and I, our worlds were different, too different but in college it got harder to find people to go the bathroom with me they told me I could do it alone – travel from point A to B and B to E those were the days when I saw A again this time an old woman, she looked so free while I missed talks and lectures because my friends were on leave A was there learning about the Mahabharata and existential psycholog...
We are fragile humans with a survival instinct We die without morning coffees and outlive abuse We giggle in terror, laughter is our reaction to fear I have a friend with broken bones who will cycle uphill They’ll peddle and sweat and peddle and sweat Who hurts bad at each beautiful song We are walking jars of shards of glass And warmest cushions for those we love We are the birds who fly with broken wings The fragile humans with a survival instinct poetry is back after months (what felt like years) of silence :')