Waiting

Sometimes, staying alive is the most you can do.

Some days, trying to utter ‘happiness’ feels like metallic tongs in your throat holding you from within.

‘Love’ sounds like fingernails on a wall making you wince until you shut your eyes or look away.

‘Laughter’ makes your bones ache not with the tickle or the vibration but with the weight of expectations.

Sometimes loving and laughing and even living are too much.

Sitting or standing, even sleeping is too much.

Being is too much.

On these days, the best I can do is wrap my arms around myself and just stay here a little while longer. I can’t laugh, I can’t stand, and I surely can’t love. So I’ll just try to be. Hoping that these expectations will go away, these voices in my head will quieten, and hoping that when it’s all over, what will remain here will still be me. 

The Soulmate Thing

I don’t think I have a soulmate

I don’t think I had a lover in a past life

Who completed me

Or broke me

Or left me with a promise to find me in this life

In this existence

I feel as though I had a hundred of them

A hundred lovers

Or maybe more

Who took parts of me

And promised me

That they’ll keep them safe

Until we meet again

And I ask back for myself.

I think I’m running here from one lover to another

Back and forth

From one friend to the other

Once, then again

In circles

In spirals

Opening each lover

Dissecting their love

And then cutting myself in front of them

Asking them to help me find

Which piece of myself

I left in their custody. 

I’ve cut myself open

Too many times for too many people

And I’ve tried to fit wrong chambers in my heart

I've been mistaken

And have sometimes given pieces of myself 

That have left a hole in me

And sometimes I've refused 

To let myself bleed yet again

I've refused 

To have lovers search my darkest corners

Because I'm scared of shattering

The pieces I've formed till now. 

This lover who lays by my side

Tonight

Is not my soulmate

He’s not going to complete me

He might have a few building blocks

That he gives to me each time

He looks into my eyes

The lover I lost was not my soulmate

He gave me the pieces I might have

Given to him in a previous life

Or several lives ago

He snatched a little bit of himself

That I might have been carrying around for too long. 

I’m still going around with open wounds

Hoping that along the way I’ll find someone

Standing with a gauze

To help me heal and help me breathe

He’s not going to be my soulmate either

Perhaps I'm not looking for one soulmate

Perhaps there is no such thing at all

Because all I can think of

And all I can look for

Is to complete my own self

Collecting pieces one by one

Maybe, I'm not supposed to wander around 

looking for my other half

Maybe all of these lovers

With all the scattered love

Can only help me in parts

And maybe it is only me

who can make me whole. 

Red

My grandma sat me down one afternoon

In her lap and introduced me to a colour- red

This is you, she said

This is the colour of your cheeks when

Your father tickles you after you pretend

To be upset

The colour of your hands

When you cross them too tightly

Hiding behind me when mother

Comes for you angry

And when you run outside

In afternoons like this

Red is under your feet

Tired and burnt, But so alive

Know this colour, darling

So later when they tell you it’s scary

You look them in the eye

And say, No. It’s me.

When they tell you it’s evil

You bless them

And say, No. It’s me.

Know this colour darling, know yourself

Touch. Love yourself.

When they tell you you’re impure

You know it’s not you. It’s them.

Not In Love

I'm not in love with you. I don't remember the last time I was. I'm not even crying over you anymore. I used to, but then the hurt never stopped so I learnt how to stop tears. I'm crying over myself, a little, a lot, everyday. But there aren't any tears for myself either. I'm just, confused. Where do I go from here? I know I have to go alone, but where? And where will you go? On that path we chose together? I don't think you'll go there. You're not the one I chose that future with. You're different. Thank God I know that at least because I have no idea of who I am. I have no idea of who I'm supposed to be. I know I'm supposed to move forward and move on and forget the past and forget you and forget myself but then who do I become? I've been lying here in this old t-shirt for I don't know how long because I don't know what else to do. I'm tending to my wounds, carefully caressing each scar on my skin and taking my time to learn to love myself, since I was so busy loving you, discovering your body and your heart that I totally forgot about this one. So I'm sitting here now, taking slow drags of the abundance of pain lying in front of me. The stock is full and I have no idea where it's supposed to go, how it's supposed to fit into me. There's still love inside, so I'll have to empty some space. It'll take time, some learning and unlearning and some breathing. But it's difficult to breathe here, there's only smoke around. I caused it, I know, but what could I have done? I opened Pandora's box and now I have to live with it. But how? My vision is clouded and my heart is beating too fast but my limbs are too tired now. Have you ever experienced this? When you're so aware of your breaths that it's the only thing you can feel but you're still so numb that you're not even sure if you're breathing fine. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I think I'll just feel tired today, and figure out the rest tomorrow, when I'm not so tired, or later maybe, because I don't think this tiredness is going to go away any time soon. It's here to stay, it seems, longer than you did.

At least there's space to stand

It's a busy busy day
With cocktail plans and morning wishes
There's online shopping and offline whining
Fashion wars and unsolicited advices
There's also wisdom, if you missed
Right there in those corner seats
It's too many lives for me to handle
To worry about
The one I woke up with seems too easy now
I can't talk to faces I think I might know from yesterday
or last week in the same train
I can't run as fast as they do when the train stops
Because
I'm too busy making a rhythm out of all these footsteps
It's chaotics and cacophonous
The same cacophony everyday
Honestly I'm bored of even the love I see here
Because then these faces
Are with different faces
Every month, every week, every day
I can't run fast enough to grab a seat
And I've been so slow all my life
That I'm happy with the little things
If I have someone to text or an interesting phone to peep into
Some days I'm happy when there's no one to text, also
And just some gossip to listen to
Today, I'm glad at least there's space to stand.

The Shooting Star

"You're my shooting star." I declared one night, when we were busy making shapes out of constellations in the sky.

"As romantic as that sounds, I think I would have preferred to be your wish come true. Don't you think?" He replied with a glint of amusement in his eyes. I turned towards him and took a moment to kiss his nose before I explained the meaning.

"You know the first time I saw a shooting star was when I went trekking with my friends. The only reason I went up that hill was my hope that I'll be able to watch the clear night sky and probably catch a shooting star. I'd seen it in films you know, and heard people describe it, I was dying to see one and wish upon it. I know it sounds crazy but you obviously know how much I love star gazing. It's real, true love you know. And I was excited about the night sky just like people are about having love in their life. We already know it's going to be amazing. It's already so beautiful in our heads that we even fear of it not living up to our expectations. You're already laughing. You're terrible."

 He kept staring at my face and then caressed my cheek before replying "I'm not laughing. I just love it when you talk so excitedly. I don't think it's crazy at all. I want to know all about it. Go on."

I was obviously so excited that I didn't care even if he thought I was crazy. "So that night I sat outside mesmerized by the sky. It was the first time I was seeing those many stars. I kept blinking my eyes to make myself believe that it was real. I was speechless. I was talking to my friends, still staring up at the sky because I just couldn't take my eyes away, not caring what they were saying and then suddenly, there it was- the most beautiful miracle I'd ever seen. It was just this moment you know, and I knew what I was seeing. It wasn't an illusion. It was the realest thing I'd laid my eyes on. And even then, I knew that I should make a wish. All the while staring at it, for that eternal moment I knew that I should wish but it was just so beautiful that I couldn't care less. It was complete. It didn't need any wishing. I was satisfied. And after that moment passed and I came back to my senses, I knew that I'd never seen anything so beautiful in my life. I understood why people talked about catching falling stars in songs and sonnets. And I also knew that if I ever fall in love, it had to be like that. People want love to heal them and be with them and change them or whatever, just like I was waiting for that star to wish upon it. But that's not their purposes. Neither of the beautiful night sky, nor of love. I knew that if I ever love someone, it should be so magical that I'm unable to look away, just like I couldn't look away from that falling star. And that I'd forget all about it healing me or changing me or even staying with me, I knew that if it were as real as that moment I had just experienced, I'll be too busy marveling in its magic to think about anything else. I know I sound like a romantic teenager but I don't care. I didn't care. And in all these years, all the falling stars that I've watched have only made me more clear. I've never wished upon any. I just smile in that moment trying to capture it in my soul. And with you, as cheesy as it sounds, I know that you're my shooting star. I've tried a hundred times to figure out what we have, to use logic and understand why we're the way we're with each other. But you make me forget all about it. I forget reason and purpose. I don't care if this, what we have, is there for a reason or not, if its here momentarily or eternally, and I couldn't care less. It's so beautiful that I don't want to spoil it finding purpose in it. You, this what we have, is my shooting star. and I'm just going to treasure it."

He kept looking at me for a long time obviously thinking ways to run away from this crazy-head bitch, his hands making slow circles around my navel and then without explaining, he just brought his face closer to mine, leaning in for a kiss, the gentlest kiss of my life.
He shifted both of us so now he was above me and whispered "I didn't want to scare you away by saying those three words but I can't not anymore. I love you so damn much it hurts. And you and me, baby are watching a million more shooting stars together."

Healing

It doesn’t happen at once. Never.

It happens as slowly as when you breathe deeply to remind yourself you’re alive and that’s the only thing you focus on. The breaths are heavy, each carrying the weight of all that has been suffocating you

It happens as quietly as you open your eyes when you wake up from a nap you were not supposed to take. You can’t decide whether to feel as good as you actually do, or to let yourself be guilty for being selfish

It happens stealthily, un-disturbingly while you’re lying there waiting for it, unable to realize your own hold on yourself. You exhale a loud breath and get distracted, stop waiting for it, forgetting that you were waiting for anything at all

It happens, but not as you expect it to. Not easily. Not when you plead yourself not to call his number and end up dialling it nineteen times and erasing it each time. Not when you expect a friend to call you at 3 am and ask whether you’ve been able to sleep at all. Not when you wake up at 6 but lie in bed till 10 anyway.

It doesn’t happen in the foreground ever. It doesn’t happen when you keep a watchful eye on yourself. It happens when you close them, and don’t realize that you’re not crying.

It happens when days later, you realize you fell asleep last night, without anyone checking up on you and without feeling disappointed that no one did. It happens when you realize you wanted to dial his number last night but got distracted before you could get to your phone.

It happens when you’re okay with going out alone and don’t feel abandoned

It happens when you enjoy a meal without feeling guilty

It happens when you forgive them for not being who you want them to be

It happens when you forgive them for not loving you enough

Because now

Days and weeks and months later

You’ve realized that you’ve forgiven yourself

For not loving yourself enough

Healing, doesn’t happen when you stop

Hurting yourself

It happens when you start

Loving yourself// 

Why I Don't Write

Why I don’t write:

Poems are not poems anymore. They’re broken lines one after the other and brokenness scares me. It takes me a long time to sew my lines one into the other and I don’t think I can handle breaking them again

Everyone writes. The same things. They write so much better than I do. They know what I want to talk about. My words come from the pit of my stomach. I can’t have anything new to say

The world is weird. My stories comfort me because they’re mundane and comfortable and snuggly. No one wants to read mundane today. I don’t have cold to offer and I don’t know if anyone will accept my comforter

I don’t want to see you reading what I wrote because you frown when you focus on words and I bite my lip without even realizing thinking that my feelings don’t make sense to you. You smile when you discover that I actually don’t write, don’t imagine, don’t make up things, I just watch around all day and twist the words so no one would know that I’m writing about them

I don’t write because what if someone actually reads it and then looks at me with those knowing eyes and in that moment I realize I have nothing more to offer, they know who I am

Jake

I have a pet snake
I’ve named him Jake
People call him my imagination, my wild creation
But I can’t create a snake you see
It always existed, just not with me
I don’t know the exact date he crawled into my room
But I think he was there much before I noticed him
So for the past one year
Jake has been my friend, my companion, my peer
I was scared of him initially
I thought he was here to kill me
But a few days later I realised his real name was depression indeed
I still call him Jake, makes me feel less scared
Now Jake is a great companion,
But there are a few things I need to take care of
He hates people
He hides under the bed if someone comes in my room
And I can cry and plead and show them scars of his activities
But he doesn’t come out and they don’t believe me
I try to tell people that Jake doesn’t want me hanging out with them
But as soon as I begin a conversation, he peeps up at me and crawls on my arm
He goes through my elbow and sits around like a bracelet
And behind my back, he ties both my wrists
So I keep wiggling and juggling and screaming at night
But Jake doesn’t let go of me, he has held me tight
When his anger started leaving scars
On my neck and my arms
He tried the flirtatious way
He sways when he walks
And he’s Satan when he talks
He licked me once all night
And made me feel snug under the soft velvet of his skin
That night onward he loves me each night
And tells me to beware of strangers on phone
On face
In life
To beware of friends
Of family
Of people
He made me realize that I have no one else but him
He wraps himself around my ankle
Every time someone invites me to a party
 He begs me not to leave the bed
To come back and make love to him
To lie in bed and have a day off
Even if I do take him out
He keeps pricking my ankle
The back of neck
My belly
Until I don’t get home
And then he bites me
Constantly
At home
When no one is looking
So no one knows.
But other than all these things, Jake is a darling
He’s long, dark and handsome
With blue eyes and a magical tongue
He’s also my best friend now
We lie together for hours
He caresses my hair
And looks into my eyes
He licks my neck
And kisses my thighs
He’s been here for me when everyone left
And he promises to stay for as long as he can
This pet snake has tamed me
I just try to not make him angry
Coz then he blames me
For leaving him under the bed alone and getting out
For taking out my old paint brushes and painting a bright sun or a white cloud
So I put away the paints
And got removed all the lights
Now Jake and I lie
In darkness every night
We make plans of our future
He still hasn’t showed tendencies of killing me
But he’s going to be there with me
Leaving red marks on my neck every day
And making my wrists bleed once in a while
We’re going to be together for long
He’ll sit on my bed if someone comes into my room
And try to prick them away until they go out
His slender body and velvet skin
Will wrap me in
He’s promised.
I’m afraid I can’t invite you to meet him
Because although I’m telling the truth, you can’t see him
And I will cry and plead and wail
And once again you’ll smile and say it’ll be okay. 

WHEN I MET DRAUPADI

A Vast wasteland
Reeking of blood and betrayal
A Sight of barrenness
Emptiness
Smell of swords stabbing love
Of gushing out blood
Queens and princesses losing all that they possessed
Pride, nobility, dharma, mere metaphors
Of past celebrations, memories, time that passed
Teasing, never to return
Smiles that curved, drinks shared, gulped
With promises of ties and bonds,
Never to be undone
In the middle stands a woman
Or a silhouette of one
A frail shadow of a palace
A tinge of love lost in conceit
She smiles at me
Without a glint of happiness
There are no lines of joy near her eyes or lips
But there are wrinkles
Eyelids drooping of tiredness
There is an epoch around her eyes
One that made her blind
And snatched away that tinge of love
Fearfully, I hold her hand, and she shows me around
We walk over ants devouring at corpses
Spread around like colourful marbles
We’re blinded by pyre fires ever burning
Red and orange rising from them towards the west
We look over broken wheels and arrows
And  broken promises and families
To a setting sun
What are you waiting for?
I ask her
For this sun to set
For this day to end
I’ve been waiting for years now.
When will your wait end?
She smiles at me, but stays mum
What happened here?
War, she whispers.
Its happening
And it will never end.

MARITAL RAPE

Some nights, I wake up with a snake coiled around my neck. His grip is smooth. Soft, just like your hands. He is here to kill me; I am here to get killed. There are no pretensions anymore. Or I’m probably too familiar with his intentions now.  I am suffocated by the silky coil around my neck. He’s whispering in my ear. Coaxing me to submit. Your voice is still excited, urgent. I am dying but I am not struggling to live. When was I alive anyway?

Some nights, I wake up with a huge anaconda wrapped around my body. Gripping me in. Holding me down. I can’t move but he is moving all over my body. He caresses my thighs. His sharp teeth between my legs, tearing me apart, but holding me in my place. Your tongue, working its charm like it always did. I can sense his pleasure in his movements.  I’m controlled but I am not struggling for freedom. When was I free anyway?

Some nights, I wake up with a black snake around my face. My body is free, only my senses are not. I can’t see, I can’t hear and I’m not allowed to speak. I could move, but I have to be dumb. My body isn’t trapped, but I am. Both your hands holding my face, positioning me still. I am shut up but I am not struggling to speak. Who listens to me anyway?

Some nights, I am woken up by their hisses. They are all over my bed. All over me, under me, around me. Each one of them has eyes like yours. Charming, bright eyes that did me in. I am naked on such nights. Bared of emotions, of cries. I lay still. I don’t try to disturb them. I let them have their feast. When did I ever have my body for myself anyway?

Each night you return to me thus, and each night I let you in. Each night you love me, and I give in. Sometimes, Serpents are not scary. Adams are. 

The Girl Who Hides

I hide. The corners of my bedsheet when they're messed, to not take it all off and set it again, I hide with a pillow and sleep on it.
A quiet lunch by myself. Two hours of pure bliss when I don't click a picture and don't have to check whether I held the fork in my right hand or left, I hide.
The smile I myself love! That one moment when I'm alive, I hide.
Applications to universities,
favourite new flowers,
a writer I just discovered,
a cute pup,
the sketch that turned out perfect,
that old jeans that fit me well,
the joy of my first cigarette.
That I cant sleep without songs,
that I cant eat without a fork,
that I don't love the rains,
that i don't have a gang of 'mains'. I hide.
Little moments every day. Moments when I'm reminded of my first crush in the middle of a lecture,
moments when i close my eyes and have a glass of chilled water
Moments when I successfully solve a car's number plate
When I suddenly like the vegetable I usually hate
I hide.
Not because no one wants to listen, oh so many of them do . But what then?
I say, you listen.
I say, you forget.
I say, you never forget.
Each time I say, I feel myself losing a piece of my already jumbled puzzle. I have to build this girl up. The girl with rainbow shaped hair and a floral skirt. The girl I drew in class third. I am building her up.
So I hide.
All her prices, inside myself.
Coz if I give them to you, I'll come to you each time I'm finding that piece, each time I'm working on her.
What if you lose it?
What if you refuse it?
The girl will break.
The rainbow will be incomplete.
So I hide.
All her shades, in the insides of my cheeks. I let them peek out, each time i laugh, i cry, i get angry, depressed. I let them out, and each time, with each emotion, I become.
I will show you the girl, when I'm done. I will show you the flowers she picked and put on her skirt, colours she loved and spread on her cheeks.
I will show you all her curves and twirls and curls . I will show you, when I'm not a puzzle anymore. I will show you, but not today. I will show you when I'm complete. But till then, I hide.

A LETTER TO ADULTHOOD

Dear Adulthood,

Fuck you. J

We had a pact, didn’t we? But you didn’t stick to it. You didn’t even cross that path. What the hell wrong with you?

I thought I gave birth to you. I made you, right? You grew out of me. Then what happened? You got exchanged at the hospital or something? Don’t you remember how I talked to you for months and made plans for your arrival? You were supposed to fulfill my dreams, do all that I couldn’t do back then. You were supposed to be the ideal room-cleaning-bookshelf-arranging-neat kid. Look at the mess you’ve made!  You were supposed to make me happy. You had one job, adulthood, one job.

 Listen, this is not the package I ordered. Firstly, it’s broken, and I’m trying too hard to hold all the corners, to tape it around, up and down and it will only be a little while before I break down. Yeah, this mail has the same packaging from outside….somewhat (Remember how I had clearly mentioned no acne and no oily skin) but this is completely opposite on the inside. I had been waiting for this mail for years and now I wish I just wouldn’t have ordered it. Your product description said you’ll take away my timeless cravings for French fries, give me fashion sense and confidence, that you’ll give me a real job where I’ll wear more than my bunny pyjamas and… but you know what, I should have trusted the product reviews. So many people said it’s not worth it; I should have listened to them. Coz evidently, my bunny pyjamas are still here and I’ve kinda dropped some French-fry ketchup on them.

Why did I not listen to people when they told me not trust you? Why did I think they were not good enough for you, that I would be all that you want and you will be my one true love and we’ll be a couple the world envies? They were right though, sadly. You are the playboy here. You are the dark-eyed, silky- haired guy who smokes and smiles slyly through his dimples and has already fucked most girls in college but I still feel special when he winks at me. Oh, your winks did me in. I wish I had known the dangers in those eyes that enticed me such.  All I could see were the shining stars and the twinkle in your eyes. I’m sorry, all my experienced friends that I didn’t listen to you and fell for this jerk.

I fell for you because I thought you’d be my friend. My glamorous, photogenic friend that would make a surprise entry in my life and all people around me would turn their heads when we both enter the party. you were supposed to be my make up expert friend, my relationship guru, my life counselor. And who did you turn out to be? That nagging nerd who wants to stick with me but has no sense at all. No fashion sense, no relationship advice and no photo-genes. All you have to share with me is your never satisfied hunger and your social media stalking skills. It would all have been fine if you weren’t lazy AF! And why do you need to sit with me all day and all night and make me watch all TV shows and movies ever released? I wanted to be a movie star, you duffer, not a…whatever this is that you’re trying to make me.

Who gave you the right to try to make me anything, anyway? When did we decide to make you the boss and me the secretary? And such a lazy, mean, foul mouthed boss who’s trying to turn me into same. I knew there’d be ego clashes, but I had thought I would blame everything on you. No one listens when I try to do that now. Everyone blames and tells me I am not handling you well. How am I supposed to explain that you’re the handling me? You have the reins in your hand and I am just being used for your entertainment. That when you get bored of me, you’ll make another teenager a prey and do the same with another little girl.

My head is spinning.

You know what, I resign. I resign from this phase that doesn’t give me leaves, or appraisal, or bonus or any perks that I deserve. I am going on a holiday with my laptop, my bunny pyjamas and a bucket full of French fries. I would highly appreciate if I could get some money as was promised to me in our agreement years ago.

Thanking you

Yours Truly

P.S- I would be back on time on Monday (obviously). 

THE COLOUR PALETTE

I use so many words, in my love, in my distance, in all my moods that I have no words to describe my sadness in. I sat down with colours today, I though I’ll paint my sadness and gift it to you. And then you won’t complain that I don’t express and I won’t complain that you don’t understand.

I sat with a colour palette and three brushes of different sizes and a blank paper and a heavy heart.

I started with black; I thought I’ll strike it at the top to denote my gloom. Dark colours are for sorrow, I had heard. But the black looked so pretty that I did not want to stop at all. So I put stroke after strokes. Horizontal, vertical, thin, thick, all across the sheet until it was soaked with my depression and wet with my tears. I touched it with my finger to keep some on my body for later when I am drained of all emotions and need to start somewhere. It all started with a void, they say.

I sat there with my black sheet, black paint brushes, black on my fingers and black dripping from my eyes. But I was not nearly done. The catharsis had just begun. I looked at the palette to choose my next colour and looked at all the bright colours. After the void, came light. So I chose a bright yellow and without waiting for any right proportion of water and colour, spilled it on the sheet. Sometimes, light and darkness are all mixed up. But the yellow didn’t look like light on my black universe. It looked like a kid eagerly waiting to be mixed with the darkness of adulthood. I had thought the yellow would please me just like the black had but it only reminded me of how untidy it all looks if you try to smile through tears. I’ll always be angry with my parents for not letting me cry as a child. For telling me to be bright even if that meant I had to burn the insides of my skin to create radiance around my shadow. So I mixed the yellow on the black with my finger and mixed and mixed it till it looked like a dull evening when the clouds beg to rain but the Sun doesn’t let them. I stand outside on evenings like these, confused, broken and pray for it to rain, or shine. To give me a definite answer.

In search for something definite, I took the bottle of red paint and emptied it on the sheet. Unlike yellow that had fallen on the darkness like little drops of immaturity wanting to ask for brightness, the red fell like blood in a bath tub when you imagine slitting your wrist and lying there for hours before you finally give up and close your eyes. The red was soothing me like it never did before. It was dirty under the red. The combination of a dirty yellow that made the black look like grey but not the grey sky on a windy evening in the hills. A dirty, untidy, sandy grey. The red was a dominating colour on all the confusion. See, you can repair the irreparable, it said to me. This is why you have two hands, two legs, girl. Fate and free will are on either side of your soul. Spill all your will if you don’t like what fate shows to you. So I let the red spill. I lay there for hours, watching it become a pool of blood. But it wasn’t blood I had forced out of my veins. It looked like blood that was finally set free to run in any direction it wanted to. I tried to comprehend the shape it was making, but caught myself. The red doesn’t want to be defined in a shape. Let it flow.

I tilted the sheet and saw it cover all the black and all the yellow until what I had in front of me was a bright vermilion red that did not let me look away. I smiled. Finally there was something I could be proud of- something that people won’t understand but won’t be able to look away either. I lay flat my palms on the sheet and saw my hands soaking the red. I’ll use this red when I lose to fate and forget about my will. My palms will remind me of not my destiny, but my power.

I wasn’t angry anymore. Nor sad. I was awake enough to look at purple and white in the corner smiling at me. Calm, evening colours of love and friendship. Not too pink, nor too blue, I smiled and picked up the bottles to use now that I was not boiling with black or red anymore. But if I used the purple, it’ll only make the sheet darker. Just a coat of resigned forgiveness over all my emotions. You will smile when you look at it but I will forever miss the boldness hidden under it. Some other time, purple.

But white! Oh, white I could use to keep safe all my words, all my colours. You will never know and I will scrape off a little white from the corners whenever I want to see the red, the dirty confused me/yellow or the dark night underneath.

You know what, I don’t want you to understand me anymore. My words are for you, these colours, my secret. My sadness is mine, a treasure only I know how to open and where to keep the key.

And this is how I ended up with a white sheet, black paint brushes and red palms.

“You didn’t paint anything?” You ask.

“No. I’ll just keep this sheet with me and try some other time.” 

TO YOU, FROM ME

To the girl who smiles a shy smile every time she finds herself in her favourite novel, in an article about people who love too much, in a poem some great artist wrote centuries back for his beloved. To the girl who has been broken, hurt, wounded but still believes in true love, who watches sunsets and imagines herself taking a long walk on the beach with the man of her dreams. To the girl who is tired of explaining to everyone that wanting love is not a sign of weakness.

To the girl who doesn’t put make up but defends her sisters who do, to her who will give you her hair tie even if she has only one. To the girl who wants to work, who wants to win, but when she does, she first hugs everyone who didn’t, and then everyone who told her she couldn’t win. To the girl who doesn’t pester you for good night or good morning texts but if you like to receive them, she has an abundance of love to send through texts, calls and prayers.

To the girl who knows she is hated by many but forgives anyway, who knows she isn’t perfect but tries anyway. To her, who will keep loving you if you don’t want her but only from a distance, and when you call her three months later in the middle of the night telling her you miss someone, she won’t even ask who that someone is. To the girl who heals with her words. She will talk to you, and make you laugh, she will remind you of happy times and fairy lands till you are overcome with sleep. To her, who stays up after the call wondering who that someone was.

To the girl who knows there is no space for her in the world but is bent on making one. To her, who won’t push you to the side but will gladly step back if you love her. To her who wants her space in hearts more than on land and has enough laughter and kindness to spread in the air. To the girl who works at nights because she knows she can’t be afraid of darkness. To her who sets on to colour each cloud at night, one stroke at a time- white, yellow, pink, blue, so when you wake up you look up at the rainbow and smile. To the girl who lives for smiles.

To the girl who knows the right thing but doesn’t spend time explaining it to everyone. To her who gives everyone time to know, understand and come back to her. To you, who never shun anyone away, even when they’re not sorry. To you who say sorry not because you’re wrong but because you want to make space in your head for brighter things.

Much has been said about you and to you. I’m sure people have tried to assure and reassure you about how perfect you are in your imperfections, how it’s okay to not be so perfect. They have hugged you and repeated to you time and again that they love you for who you are, even if you’re not what they want. Your skin has been caressed, your nerves have been touched, your lips have been kissed. I hope your heart has been hugged too. If it isn’t, here’s your hug. 

I’m sorry I’m bad at consolations. I’m sorry I can’t wipe your tears and tell you you’ll be okay. But you know what, I don’t need to. I’m not here to apologize. I am here to thank you. I’m here to thank you for all the sparkle you carry in your eyes. Every time I look at you in a busy metro train going to work, I smile a little brighter. Thank you for painting my days yellow when they start with grey. I want to thank you for all the kindness you carry on your lips and let fall, petals from a rose who might be hurting inside but only leaves love and a loving red. Thank you for all the devotion you carry in your fragile hands, never once shaking when you hold someone up. I know how tightly you cross your fingers before important announcements. Thank you for never letting common people like us down. I hope every time you cross your fingers, you win. I hope every time you hold someone’s hand, you never have to leave. Thank you for all the abundance you carry in your heart. An abundance of energy you store in one chamber for the kids you meet on streets and ask to recite mathematical tables before you kiss their cheek. An abundance of joy you store in chamber number two for your grandparents and give to them when you see the longing in their eyes, waiting for you to return from office and sit with them to give them office gossip about people they will never know. I know how you have to take a deep sigh and check if you’re smiling wide enough before you enter your frail grandma’s room. Thank you for your joy, it makes her day a little better. Writing error: it is the only thing that makes her day. Thank you for an abundance of wisdom in chamber number three that comes out when you see your parents acting like kids. I know it’s too much to handle two middle aged kids with no sense of timing or place to fight, but I’m so glad they have you, as I’m sure they’re glad too. Thank you for an abundance of hope in chamber number four for every one you have never met but wish good luck from behind the blue curtain of social media. I hope your hope never empties, I hope all the brightness for you. Thank you for carrying a spring in your feet. Every time I look at you from my balcony, I go back inside renewed with energy and optimism. Thank you for making my evenings shine long after the sun has set.

To the girl who loves too deeply and lives too less, to the girl who dreams too much and sleeps too less, to the girl who writes too much and expresses too less, I am no one to tell you whether you’re perfect or imperfect or perfect with just a little imperfection. I am no one to tell you whether you should change or stay the same or go crazy. But the good news is, I am not here to pass judgments on you. I know you don’t like judging people. I am here to thank you for your existence and to wish for you all the sparkle, all the kindness, all the joy, all the love and all the life.

Thank you, you. 

THE TIME I FOUND MY SELF RESPECT ON THE FLOOR

In class 9^th, we were once told to pack our bags and shift to another classroom because of some electricity problem or something going on in the school. When we reached that classroom, I saw from the corner of my eye my best friend sitting on a bench and an empty bench beside her. I would like to believe she was saving it for me but she never called out my name. Before I could go and ask her, another friend of ours came and sat on that seat. Since my then BFF didn’t oppose, I assumed she wasn’t saving it for me and got pissed. In a few minutes, everyone settled down except me and two other girls because I realized there were no empty seats anymore. Unfortunately, that room had fewer numbers of benches.  The two other girls ran to a neighbouring classroom and brought chairs for themselves and I followed suit. Just as I was dragging a chair out of that room, my class teacher appeared at the door and enquired what I was doing. When I told her, she got angry and told me to sit on the floor if there is nowhere for me to sit. I did not understand why she said so. I liked that teacher. She was a bit strict, bit rude, but quite headstrong.  I always thought she was one teacher who stood up for the right things and at the right time, but that day I couldn’t understand why she punished me for no fault at all. I was a shy, introvert and under-confident teenager, you know the ones who know the right answers but won’t raise their hands in fear of being wrong?  I was that. You know why I couldn’t ask my friend if she was saving the seat for me? Because I never believed anyone would do it. I wanted people to love me, but was scared of it. Am I making sense?

Nothing made sense that day when I sat on the floor and hugged my school bag to prevent myself from crying. No friend of mine offered to scoot and let me sit with them and I just struggled to remember what had I done that had upset the teacher, was she angry for some other reason? Should I have asked why she humiliated me like that? It might not sound like such a big thing to you, but for a fourteen year old girl with no self respect, confidence, or voice to stand up for herself, it was a deeply insulting incident that stayed with me.

Half an hour later, our science teacher entered the class. This teacher did not like me, she had never done. Unlike my class teacher whose action had surprised me, I wasn’t shocked at all when the first thing this teacher did was to give me a condescending look and smirk. She did not even consider me worthy enough to ask me why I was sitting there. She whispered and asked some other classmates and although there was no reason for it, she gave a satisfied smile on learning the reason. I had never been anything but polite to her and she had never been anything but haughty. I could have been angry, I could have abused her at least in my head. But if I had any sensible voice inside my head back then, I wouldn’t even have accepted that undeserved punishment in the first place.

You know how some incidents affect us only indirectly? They get stored somewhere at the back of our heads play with our emotions. I simply assumed that ‘I don’t deserve’ was the only reason I sat on the floor that day.  I always scored above average, took part in activities and did all that an obedient student was supposed to do, but never could stand up for myself. Never could argue with a teacher or question anything. I didn’t deserve to.

I am pursuing my Masters degree now. Yes, I have become more confident, extrovert and fun, but have I forgotten that incident? No. I can still hear the voice of my class teacher, can visualise the smirk of my haughty science teacher and see the confused but unsympathetic faces of my friends. But yes, over the years I have learned to speak.

At the university, when one of the experienced and popular professors has a lecture, our class usually has more students than the infrastructure allows. So much that we resort to sitting on the window sills, standing at the back of the class, and sitting on the floor. When I entered class today, it was already full. I was almost going to sit on the window sill when a friend said she was going to sit on the floor at the back of the class and I said ‘okay, I’ll join you’. I was used to sitting on the window sill or standing, but when I realized we two were the only people today to sit on the floor, it brought back eight year old memories of a scared, teary eyed girl who felt inferior and rejected and who, I realized today, still lived inside me.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind and said ‘Hey, there could be some space in that row if you request that girl to scoot and let you sit with her. You don’t need to sit on the floor.’ She pointed to someone at the front and although I was overwhelmed with her kindness, I was also overwhelmed with a sudden confidence and self respect. I might have sounded arrogant, but I’d rather sound arrogant to others than worthless to myself. So I smiled at her and said ‘Ah! Everyone saw us sitting on the floor. They could have offered if they wanted to. I’d rather sit here than ask everyone around. Don’t worry!’ After a few minutes, someone actually scooted and offered me to sit with them, and I accepted.

I had worked as a teacher with an NGO last year and do not miss out any chance of telling people about it. Before we had begun our classes, we were told never to enter a class upset. Students usually reflect the teacher’s mood and we should be nothing but energetic and optimistic. We were also told never to belittle a student, his emotions, ambitions or complaints. If we do that, the child only loses the confidence to further confess anything to us and we do not want to do that to any child at such a tender age. I’m glad I learned to leave my own problems outside the classroom and that because of me, no child will take eight years to realize that if it isn’t his fault, he should not be the one crying himself to sleep. 

THERE'S NOTHING HERE TO FIX

Hey you, yes I’m talking to you- you, who stays up nights checking everyone’s Instagram stories and wondering why aren’t you as beautiful at 21 as that girl at 18. Dear you, who has been a part of only one college society and sink a little deeper in bed every time you see people’s never ending resume served to you on their Facebook profile. You, who look at girls wearing high boots in winters and wish your feet didn’t ache so much in boots so you could flaunt your ‘winter fashion’ too,

 Dear you, you’re perfect.

You are perfect with that pimple right in the centre of your cheek. You are perfect with your not so perfect make up skills and attempts at hiding that pimple. Your eye liner is not winged as sharp, but who ever said you need a perfectly winged eye liner to fly on those wings? I know you think you’re too skinny/ too fat/ too short but you know what else you are? You’re you. You’re the girl hidden in the doodles in your to-do list, you’re the laughter echoing in your room on a Wednesday afternoon re-watching your favourite film because you just didn’t feel like getting out of the bed today. You’re the tears in your mother’s eyes every time she watches an emotional mother-child scene and thanks God for giving her-you.

Your poetry writing skills may not be as good as everyone else around you, but you are not everyone else either.  You’re the metaphors in your incomplete poem crumpled between the folds of your favourite novel that you refuse to lend to even your best friend. You’re not the words you write, you’re the feelings that escape everyone’s understanding, and you know why you should not worry about it? Because its not their job. Its not their job to understand you, and you’re too full of colours for anyone to make an extra effort to carefully unravel each layer of your rainbow hued skin to reach your soul. But you, you are already there. You have seen your soul, haven’t you? Yeah, it’s a little too emotional at times- crying for a robot in star wars, smiling at that kid selling balloons on the road and wondering if he ever played with them too, your soul is a little too innocent-trusting every smile and smiling at everyone- everyone who says the word ‘forever’ in your ear, who whispers ‘love’ in your dreams that you half remember on waking up. Your soul is a little too forgiving- and forgetting. you love too much and then you forgive, so you keep loving them over and over again even when they have long forgotten you. You forget, but only the wrongs done to you. You forget the nights you hated yourself for not being who they want you to be, you forget the nights you did not want to be living in this body. You forget, and then you keep doing it-over and over again. Your soul is a little too remembering too, at times,  never able to wash away the black paint from those fifteen years old memories of that one night you played with your uncle’s toy. Your soul is a little too tired, of explaining to everyone why you stopped believing in true love, why you stopped believing in yourself, why you stopped believing in life, why you stopped believing that you deserved to live too.

But why? Why did you stop believing that you deserve to live too? Not as they define for you, not as they dictate you while chaining you and safely locking you inside the fort of their expectations. Stop turning and making it easy for them to chain you.  Stretch your arms and tell them you’re not a plastic doll. Take a deep breath and exhale so loud that they have to bow down to your existence.

You know your soul. You know yourself. Then why do you listen to them? Hey you, you don’t need me to tell you you’re perfect just the way you are. You know that well enough. You just need to remind your soul not to forget it. Not to forget itself.  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.

You’re imperfect, of course. I’ll believe if you say that. Everyone will believe if you tell them- isn’t that how we always teach others to look at us? By showing them exactly how we look at ourselves. Take a good look at yourself, you. Take a good look at your body and your colorful soul. And tell them (If they don’t listen, scream in their ears) to look somewhere else. There’s nothing here to fix.

STARS, SUNRISE, AND SLEEP

 I tried waking up early in the mornings. I tried so, because they told me to.

Now see, I am a night owl. I love the silence of the night. I love how when I look up at the sky at night, its mine. Everything’s mine. I know that whatever I do or say or write or paint, no one will know about it. Everyone’s asleep and I can finally find the solitude to listen to my own voice. There are no responsibilities texting me on WhatsApp, no social duties knocking my door for a customary greeting. I like writing at night because I don’t have to hide what I am writing with so much interest. I like reading at night because I don’t have to answer anyone about why did I just close my book and start crying suddenly. I don’t have to ask for anyone’s acceptance of who I am, and yet know that all my loved ones are near me. I have the security of knowing that in the next room sleep my parents who if need be, will be by my side in a jiffy. But everyone, every Quora answer and every ‘this is what 5 most successful people do early in the morning’ article, and every friend preparing for UPSC and every Aunt interested in my daily routine and even my parents told me how its unhealthy for me to stay up at night and sleep at odd hours.  “Imagine how beautiful the sunrise looks!” My mom once said, trying to make me look at yet another perk of waking up early, others being Surya namaskar and chattering birds and fresh mind and fresh air and for a second I thought ‘wow! That’s a lot! I wonder if there are different qualities of air for people who wake up at six and those who sleep at six. “I see the sunrise everyday Mom. I stay up and I see the twilight turning into a dark blue-pink-aqua blue-orange plus reddish blue- light filled sky. It’s a wonderful sight. Stars are visible in the late hours of the night and then you can see them gradually disappearing to make way for the Sun and then when you feel too emotional or too quiet, you feel like your work here is done, you can finally go to sleep.” I tried to explain to her that my love for sunrises was obviously deeper than she gave me credit for. She shook her head and replied “You have a weird sense of colours.” before going away. But now that everyone was so concerned about my health and well being, I really felt like I was missing out on something. Like I could only be productive if I started my day at 5 in the morning. The world has very strong convincing powers. Even if you’re content and happy within your own little self, it sure knows how to fuck your brain up.

The first time I decided to wake up at 5 in the morning, I went to bed at 10 and lay awake in bed till 12, finally gave up, opened my Laptop and watched Chandler and Monica fight over the secret closet. The one time I was tired of the day’s activities, I decided to put it to my use and organized for myself the perfect calming environment that guy in the youtube video had told about. A little reading in bed, no heavy meal, dark room and an alarm clock far away from the bed. At 4.40 precisely the next morning, I remember throwing a cushion on the alarm clock in an attempt to silence it. Then rang my phone, I had prepared well last night, I thought to myself, put the phone on silent and slept a dreamless sleep. It would have been fine if I weren’t affected so much. The more I failed at waking up in the morning, the more I started thinking that I was really failing at gaining an important experience. I felt like there was something really important out there that the world could experience and I couldn’t so there was obviously something wrong with me. So one day when I was finally able to drag my stubborn ass out of the bed in time and went to the balcony, I was sleepy obviously but also impatiently waiting to experience joy, elation and the so much sought after calmness. The sky was still dark and I couldn’t enjoy the stars today because all I wanted to do was to see the Sun and get it done with. I wasn’t feeling fresh, all my excitement had drained out knowing that only in an hour two, everyone will be up and there’ll be no me-time anymore. I couldn’t think about the birds for I was busy thinking about all the things I was supposed to do during the day. I was groggy, irritated and impatient. The Sun finally rose, a few moments of beauty but nothing that I hadn’t seen before.  Only now I was experiencing it with sleepy eyes and a body aching to go back to bed. As obvious, I couldn’t start my day after that and went back to sleep after paying my greetings to the Sun God.

But after that day, I decided I am not going to wake up early. I am not going to push myself for things that don’t make me happy at the end, in the name of ‘pushing my limits’. I am going to listen to everyone, but most importantly to the voice inside me. And I am not going to quieten that voice or let it get scared by the world’s screams. I am going to decide for myself what I find beautiful and calming, and not let anyone define it for me. I may be imperfect or less productive than the early risers, but I am happy. Sure, I could have practised and made my body accustomed to waking up early, but why? Because you said it? 

MY IRRITATING TENANTS

My mother and I were discussing the pigeons in our balcony today. We have better topics to discuss, but you cannot ignore the pigeons in Delhi. They’re everywhere. And I like to believe that most of them love my balcony. They shit there, on my clean clothes pinned outside for drying under the sun, they speak/sing/shout there and I feel like strangling them. They sometimes also come inside my room which is right beside the balcony, and sit on the fan and my bookshelf. If it’s not clear yet, let me tell you that I hate them. They’re annoying, irritating and not worth writing about.  But sometimes, I tend to find them interesting. These times, when I have nothing to do and stand in my balcony for hours, I stare at them instead of the sky or the road below. Now two of these pigeons, Mr. and Mrs. Feathers as I like to call them,did some family planning and coincided their mating dates with our holiday dates. So last month when my family returned home after a long weekend away, we were surprised (shocked and annoyed and irritated) to find that Mrs. Feathers was now a mother to twins. These two eggs were laid near a plant because apparently it was a cozy place and since there was no one to clean the place for four days, it was ample time for the Feathers family to plan their future and execute their plans. I tried to convince my parents to throw the eggs away but they won’t let me. They’re kind humans and all that. So now that our rent free tenants weren’t going anywhere for at least a month, I tried to befriend them. As a good neighbour, I would visit them in the evenings and get to know the family. Mr. Feathers, I gathered, is a dedicated architect. He has an impressive knowledge of different kinds of materials used in making a nest and definitely knows where to find them. Every other day, he would try to impress my maid with an abundance of dried leaves and thin tree branches spread in the balcony. My house help, a mother of two however, was not interested. She cleaned the mess and cursed the pigeons for increasing her work, in her native language. Mrs. Feathers on the other hand is dutiful housewife. She loves her two kids and doesn’t leave their side except in the evenings, when she goes for a gossip stroll with her friends. The Feather family though a little annoying, was a simple and happy family. In time, the eggs hatched and came out the twin Feathers kids, and it is now that my real bonding with the family, and real learning started.  I saw the kids grow up and observed that in order to spend more time with the kids, Mrs. Feathers had started to sacrifice her daily flying-stroll. Mr. Feathers started returning home from work in the afternoons and enjoyed the daily meal of water and snacks(that my father kept for them) with the family. Their little shoe box house, courtesy my younger brother was now a home with two loving parents and two babies dearly loved. I however, still not interested in helping them, just grew more and more impatient. Why were the kids not flying? Oh, they’re too young. Now? Still young. When will they fly?

I asked my mom the same question today as we observed the kids walking around in their verandah. “They can fly now.” My mother declared, in her motherly I-know-because-I-am-a-mother tone.

“No they can’t. They just walk around” I argued.

“They can fly now, they’ve grown up and their wings will support them if they take a flight.” She turned to me then, smiled and said “They just haven’t realized it yet.”  I was instantly taken back to a few months ago when I had graduated, was giving entrance exams for my masters degree and was scared out of my wits. The exams were difficult, the selection process more difficult. So one day when I was extremely nervous, my mother held my shoulders, looked me into the eye and said “You can do whatever you want to. You can walk this path. You have the capability, you just haven’t realised it yet. But you know what the good news is? It doesn’t matter whether you realize it or not, you just have to put one step in front of the other and keep going on without quitting.” Six months into my Masters now, I believed when she said the same about the Feathers kids. I wondered if Mrs. Feathers too had the same confidence in her kids.

After a few hours, I heard some commotion in the balcony and rolled my eyes. The Mister must have brought more stuff to build their nest. Why couldn’t they just be happy with the shoe-house? I went out and much to my delight, the noise was their wings flapping and the elder couple kissing each other before they flew away. I looked back at their house, and the kids weren’t there. All four of them waved me from a nearby tree later as they started flying in circles above my building. My tenants had finally left their temporary house for their endless one.

Hmm.

 I’m not in love with them or anything but I don’t mind when they sometimes come and enjoy the delicacies my father keeps for them on the handrail.

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TO LET: A Shoe Box, spacious and solid, overlooking a wide verandah. Meals provided, cleanliness taken care of. If you know any other Feathers Family looking for an accommodation, contact below.