Change

When I was five:
A painting class at school
I drew a crow that was green and blue.
My furious teacher tore it apart.
“A crow is black, you stupid girl!”
Change- was what she told.

When I was seven:
I finally told mom I don’t like pink.
And frocks don’t fascinate me anymore.
“You’re still a kid. You don’t understand.”
Change- was what she told.

When I was ten:
My first argument with dad
His flesh and blood with a paradoxical thought
“How dare you back answer ME?”
Change- was what he told.

When I was thirteen:
I chose my God.
I chose what to pray.
I chose my scriptures; needless to say
Huddled by an intimidating society.
Change- was what they all told.

When I was sixteen:
My first best friend, whom I worshipped.
Beyond whom I saw no life.
The one whom I adored and respected the most.
In whose word, my life and breath stood.
Debauching the sunshine of my life,
His boneless tongue said
“Everybody changes. So have I
Change...”

When I was seventeen:
My sweetheart turns up to me one day,
Annoyed and burdened with all my love.
Trying to justify it all;
Change- was what he told.

What do I change about myself? Can anybody please tell?
My creativity?
My individuality?
My faith?
My trust?
My love?
Myself?
What do I change? What do I??

A Symbolised Life

In spite of living in a world which speaks about woman empowerment, gender equallity, equal opportunity etc, there still remains a little corner of the world which reflects the dark, unnoticed fate of women, whose lives are inevitably influenced by those around them. Here is a small reflection into such a woman’s world, drawing parallel with literary punctuations and symbols.

A Symbolised life


Comma (,) – Was what that was put on her when they realised that she too was a girl.

Brackets ( [ ] )- Were always used to enclose her within mind numbing rituals.

Asterisk (*) – Was on her mind (only) when she abused those bastards, before shedding those indiscernible tears.

Positivity (+) – A state of mind she perpetually faked.

Dollars ($) – A distant dream which never became hers.

Question mark (?) – An intimidating gift from the society.

Exclamation mark (!) – When she felt his sweat down her neck for the first time.

Semi colon (;) – A mature woman she gave birth to, from within.

Oblique (/) – When she got to make her first (obvious) choice- life/pretending to live.

Full stop (.) – Was all that she could choose after sixty years of a symbolised life.

Mr.Imperfect

He’s not perfect. No he isn’t.
His clothes never match
Lil’ rugged beard under his chin.
Umpteen phones sagging down his pants.
Busy-ness personified.
A d.j draped in simple clothes
Ironic to the pennies
chuckling in his piggy.
He never calls when he says he will
and when he does, he lulls to sleep.
Makes me wait for hours at the coffee shop.
Makes me text “:-(” and “X-(“ more than “<3”...
His forgetfulness will infuriate you
His laziness drowns you to depression.
He is not in the word of any laureate’s pen...

But beyond this, he’s special to me
For that word to update his wardrobe.
That “clean shaved” look he promises for tomorrow.
For switching off his phone when I demand
and singing my fav. slow track when am sick.
For being a spend thrift on those surprise gifts;
his endeavour to smile even amidst pain
just because I love his dimples.
For treating me like an infant;
securing me in his arms, tightly, so that I don’t trip.
For those “sholly baby. I love you” texts
For sipping a cappuccino he dislikes
just for me.
For those genuine tears when am in pain.
Those hands to hold throughout my way.
Those stern glances when am wrong.
Those silly pranks to make me smile.
Feeding me food when am not hungry
just like my mother...
(teary eyed)
He’s not perfect. No he isn’t.
His love is beyond a laureate’s pen...

The tale untold

Concealed and cagey in the scarlet vale
elucidated a woman, of a beautiful tale.
A tale of love, togetherness and despair,
a profound secret lost in air.

Her thoughts preceded to the times of yore;
to a castle on the fringe of a shore;
where Romeos and Juliets danced in merry
with no frets or agony in their life to decry.

She saw him there, the Prince of her life
with whom she knew her days would thrive.
A man of beauty and charm was he;
with a saccharine voice and eyes pale green.

He took her hand; the ballet queen
Gliding in the ballroom, all through the eve
Like Romeos and Juliets they danced in merry
with no frets or agony in their life to decry.

He promised to return and ask for her hand
to sweep her off her feet and take her to his land.
Through fading eves she lingered in vain
on her Prince and the white horse who never showed again.

Decades later, she recalls that night
when she was depraved of love by a glorious Knight.
Whose eminence triumphs throughout mankind
but left his woman far behind

In a rugged paper she scribbles a note
to unknown faces, of her lover’s quote
Hoping to remind him, she still exists
And waits for him, for that first kiss...

She crumbles the note and shudders a tear
and blows the millionth kiss in air.
After an era, she sleeps in ease
Leaving her soul to rest in peace

The woman insane

Perhaps a moment, a minute maybe
is all that she wants, ‘tis all that she needs.
The woman whom ideally they call insane
whom they call a nuisance, a threat they blame.
What is with her? That she scares the passer-by’s
with a stone in her hand and fury in her eyes.
“Where does she live?” a child out of innocence
asks his mom as they whizz past by.
No time for the woman,
not a minute at all.
To listen to her woes, listen to ‘em all.
In a perpetual murmur she speaks out her words.
Alas! To the little lad they seem unheard.
With a courageous heart, she ought to have lied;
when she laughed through her voice, with tears in her eyes.
Are there no hands to wipe them out?
To ease the crease of her frown?
Perhaps a poet like me might want
to purge off her woes with a magical wand.
Or slap her hard, at least make her cry,
such little do we think, seldom do we try.
The lady in the bus who laughs in haste
of her son, whom the mad woman had chased.
What matters? We don’t have a moment or two,
for we have our own lives, our sanity to pursue.
Miles apart from the woman, I now travel by
thinking of her, with a tear in my eye.
Maybe I should have gone, least should have tried.
Bound by my helplessness, to ease out the pain
to resurrect the soul of a woman insane
who yearns for a moment, a minute in vain.

The November Rain

Its pouring here, its pouring there.
It’s raining everywhere
What more do we have with us
but the rain that we share

Set apart by worldly norms
are the days of yours and mine.
Tired of the infinite coldness
across the distant line.

Resting on the gliding clouds
I send my words to you.
Seize them if they come as drops
or behold the morning dew.

How I wish, I could let you know
of my heart’s aching pain.
These are the tears of an unknown woman
that descend as the November rain...

Colours

What colour is it?
A wounded badge; stained clothes,
half dead souls of yours and mine
the child’s cry, or the mother’s agony.
Imparting pain to thy brother.
Its bleeding red...

What colour is it?
For a soldier’s last breath
seeking peace, heaven and God.
Someone asking him to walk that alley,
turn left and climb the winding staircase
to the Father, pleading for forgiveness.
Alas! It’s too late
to knock on heaven’s door.
It’s serene white.

What colour is it?
A lil bird’s flapping wings painting the sky
or the sad woman’s state of mind?
Shades which follow through the day
and sink in quietly at night.
The colour of life;
infinite and impalpable.
It’s blue.

What colour is it?
The scorching heat of a summer wave
or the interminable greed for gold?
The spark in the eye of a young lad
or the morning’s colour that unfolds?
It’s gleaming yellow.

What colour is it?
The colour of the smoke from guns
or the colour of devastation?
The colour of holes left behind
by incessant firing of bullets.
The colour of death in the name of valour.
The colour of the cloud that descends.
Yes! I can see the cloud,
it’s black.