Two inches of you- Poem

Frostbite, bleak night, inner fight,

A curve lifts on your face,
I’m forced to break pace.
The smile lifts my being,
I can feel the cold fleeing.

It’s a wonder that the tumbling dew
Is no match to two inches of you.
Appears as though all the chill
has come to a standstill.

My freezing soul thaws
as you warm the cockles of my heart.

WordPress Daily Prompt: Miraculous


Signals- Poem

I say Never Again
You hear Maybe Someday;
I say No twice,
you hear try again.

I say Leave me alone
You think its a call for help;
I beg you for some Me time
You assume I need cheering up.

I don’t know what stereotypes you hold,
or about these “codes” you seem to unfold
And I don’t care.
But don’t you dare
dictate what I mean.

When I paint words, clear and bold,
Simply trust what you’re told.


Here’s to the hero!- Slam poetry

     Slam Poetry     

The main protagonist in a work of fiction
A child is told
That’s true for eyes that only look
But for eyes that don’t just look, but see,
Heroes don’t have to be memorialised under domes
Heroes can be found closer to home.

Schooled with agendas when you can barely walk
So you can master the syllabus of society’s talk
Read. Repeat. Recall. Revise.
To make you forget there’s more
to life than 2+2 = 4.

A victim to the lesson’s deafening noise,
Reduced to the structure’s play toys,
You fall for their ploys
and lose your voice.

But here’s to the hero
Who wages curriculum wars
and resists A+ bars,
Who sees education as a farce
That won’t take him far.
The hero dares ask questions in exams
that only expect answers, rote learnt.

When a shorter skirt and a higher heel
Will be sure to seal the promotional deal,
When a brighter shade of lip gloss
will make you a favourite of the boss,
It’s an easy way up the corporate ladder
The reality of office politics couldn’t be sadder.

But here’s to the hero
Who’ll adorn, true to the identity she bears,
Who is sworn, to resist cubicle nightmares.

When clouds of judgement don’t let you rest
Giving in to pressure may seem best.
When bricks of your mind are tricked in the grind,
Its all too easy to leave yourself behind.
Aligned with others, still confined,
Your instincts blind in a social bind.

But here’s to the hero
who knows you don’t need to feign a lie
to reign in hell,
Who calls the gamers on their fraud,
Says : Away with the facade !

When pain cripples, you succumb and crumble.
Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds mumble.
The clock’s chime, to catch up with time :
An impossible feat, even for an Olympic athlete,
Rather than take the heat,
you may meet with defeat.

But here’s to the hero
Who chuckles at the fire because she’s the ocean,
She buckles, she may tire, but she’s always in motion.

Each of us carries a hero within :
In a world that schools you what to think,
Asking questions is rebellion’s first ink !

Who says B can only follow A ?
Not when brush strokes are bigger than
bigoted agendas !
Who said Battles need armours, bullets and loaded guns?
We wage wars with loaded minds and bloodied spines
From the stabs in the back.
Still, we’ve the knack to ask questions.

I’m not talking of the dying embers of a fire humble
But the lightning cracker that precedes the thunder’s rumble.

Here’s to the hero screaming inside of you and me
Empty speeches and classified niches
are not making us heard
So let’s shoot the arrows of the word.
Forgive those who laugh,
Forget those who scoff,
because that’s the very ingredient
Revolutions are made of.


SONDER- Slam poetry

      Slam Poetry    

is to realise
That everyone you recognize
Has lived a tale
You’ll never fully unveil :
A tale with Fisherman knots and an intricate plot,
A tale that can’t be explained or taught.

This is just as true for you and me
As for the stranger on the street.
We are walking stories, talking experience,
We hide siren alarms and syringes
up our sleeve
and paint our scars with Mascara
In the tales we weave.
Torn. Worn. Forlorn.
Yet we never cease to believe.
So when whispers of envy tickle my ears
I laugh at the fickle truth.

A whisper says: She’s so together
I’ve been broken in ways you can’t imagine
Like a fish carved apart into gill and fin.

A whisper says: She’s brave
Yes I’ve braved the monsters
Not those under the bed, but the ones in my head.
Not those that hide behind curtains,
but those that crawl into hearts.

A whisper says: she’s so free
Free, indeed, from the bonds I’ve been tied to,
From the many ways I’ve been lied to,
When the clock ticks bedtime only when validation strikes,
When thoughtless words metamorphosize into sharpened spikes.

A whisper says: She’s complete
Depleted I was once,
Though now replete.
Maimed much, aimed at,
On the end of a tight death grip
Of an invisible White Walker’s fingertip.

I wiped off the grease,
Picked up piece after piece,
I’d signed no lease with life,
It was my job
to find peace with strife.

So I bundled up the loss and guilt,
Tossed them into my patchwork quilt.
When I embraced the monsters at night
I realised they stopped putting up a fight.

Carefree today came with money,
To land at the hills, I crossed pits many.

Yet, if you take a very close look,
You can read some pages of my book.

See the war’s blood red in the blush of my cheeks,
The turns of fate in my twisted green veins,
Find the whiplashes on the creases of my palm,
And you’ll uncover the story behind this picture of calm.

That’s why
When I see
A sea of people
Who always seem
complete and replete,
fair and free,
I’m reminded that they’re
stories within stories.

And I whisper to myself

Myriad Musings

Say do you care ?

Whip !

Lashes from the dreaded cane now slashed his wrists, carving new lines across his palm of blood red, the same wrists that had carried blood red roses moments ago for the woman wielding the cane. His precious sister. An embodiment of patience, the mountain of her calm had crumbled due to his misadventures and the rocks were now raging and tumbling uncontrollably.

The spell of silence she had held was now broken and words were pelting like a flurried volley of raindrops. “What do I have to do to make my little brother care ? Sacrifice my education; work to pay for his; strive to feed, clothe and educate him ? Hold on! I’ve done those exact things for a decade now. My rewards : Detention, notices from teachers and now you’ve managed to get yourself suspended! ”

The sting of her pain coursed through his body and sealed his lips shut. The flood of her burden was now creating havoc as he had inadvertently broken the dam.

“It is your indifference that hurts the most. I wish you cared about me.  I’ve been unable to take my eyes off wedding arrangements and that was time enough for you to give trouble the first invitation. Bribing me with roses won’t spare you. What was it this time? Cheating in tests, prolonged absence, talking back to the teacher? Answer me.”

She threw the cane away and shook him, as though hoping to jolt the truth out of him. He pointed in silence to the roses on the table, that were discarded when he had handed her the suspension letter. “I wanted to g-give back, I mean, give you a gift for getting married, so I plucked them from the school gardens and I-well, I got caught,” he stammered aimlessly.

The tears on her face now continued to roll, but they were tears of relief, of happy realisation. Her efforts were not futile balls thrown at baskets without hoops.

Her brother cared.

Myriad Musings


“ ~Show mercy on the poor old woman ~~ Give alms, without qualms – oh, oh, ohh- show mercy on this poor old woman ~~,” I sang. I know the word around town paints me as the “loony grannie.” Perhaps, I am. My life certainly carried sufficient trauma to justify the insanity I am accused of. A lady clad in silk by the temple drops a hundred rupee note on to my weary palm. A generous tip but my eyes don’t leave her purse. The purse draped in soft blue, like mine once was, as though wrapped in clouds of shyness and secrets.

I had accidentally forgotten my soft blue purse in the canteen, caught up in daydreams and fallacies as twelve year olds often tend to be. Lo and Behold, it turned out to be a blessing. Who returned it but the most desired chap in our grade ? One of the TDH guys- Tall, Dark, Handsome. My purse was safe, with all its myriad contents intact but for one. My photograph was missing.

I swagger up to the tea shop and pick up a newspaper while sipping my cup, uptown girl style. Vestiges of the past remain, you see. The owner still smirks at the idea of a literate beggar. Even after a routine two months, my curiosity for the news amuses him.

We were pouring over the newspaper, me and my TDH guy, surveying national problems meticulously, enraged and proud at all the right places. He says, “Our empty words are not making changes. Being is futile without doing” and I agree. My mind turns the page of every social service option until the unexpected word is hurled at me : Soldier. That’s what he wants to become. I can see his resolve in the tightened muscles of his lanky frame. I try to wear a sense of worship in my eyes, but they betray fear.

Ongoing Peace talks. Student Union Strikes again. I read the headlines mechanically. Old habits that refuse to leave like unwelcome guests. There’s one headline that clutches my heartstrings : Ring finger wrings hearts. About a celebrity’s engagement.

Tenth grade. While my peers were busy with Figures of Speech and Trigonometry problems, me and my fiancé were concerned with flower arrangements and guest lists for the wedding. The gleaming diamond on my ring finger emitted a foul smell, perceptible only to me, for I foresaw what was to come. A life of abandonment. Penniless. Widowed. Moving out of a house that was too close to “us”, away from a town whose street corners and pillars spoke my husband’s secrets. Estranged. Widowed. Penniless.

An array of excited school boys ran past me, with the vigour of an army about to launch their collective forces. A sports team. Cricket, Hockey, Football – Football, I decided. Seeing children and lamenting my childless days was a thing of the past. A pain I had grown numb to. Still, at the sight of their uniforms, a cold dread wrapped around my heart, disguised as a safety blanket, while it was in reality, a prickly porcupine shawl. I always have the sense to  go into hiding on Republic Days and Independence Days. I should’ve added Sports Day to that list. What torpefied me into submission once now startled a wail from my unsuspecting throat.

The sight of the tricolour symbols on their uniform.

Symbols that cost two lives.

One dead.

Another buried alive.