Play along.

We are
falling now
in the kind of loves
that allow us
to like ourselves.
Just a little.
And all our dreams
are being dreamt by
wakeful, watchful eyes.
And so,
what we are living now
are mere travesties
of what could've been
our lives. 

The Miracle

Motherhood. It must know

no shame, no hesitation.

Mothers must not bite their lips and 

clench their fists to clamp down 

their screams as our children are born.

They must let the world know 

that life wondrous has come into it. 

They must love, nurture, protect 

fiercely, freely, openly, unabashedly.

For Motherhood must mean,

what nature meant it to be.

A miracle.

Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami

                                                                                                        

The Miracle

Motherhood. It must know

no shame, no hesitation.

Mothers must not bite their lips and 

clench their fists to clamp down 

their screams as our children are born.

They must let the world know 

that life wondrous has come into it. 

They must love, nurture, protect 

fiercely, freely, openly, unabashedly.

For Motherhood must mean,

what nature meant it to be.

A miracle.

Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami

                                                                                                        

This life and that

They said 
a few good things
and lay her 
to rest.
It's not easy to 
forgive the living.
But it's simple enough
to make peace
with the dead. 

This life and that

They said 
a few good things
and lay her 
to rest.
It's not easy to 
forgive the living.
But it's simple enough
to make peace
with the dead. 

The Girl from Istanbul

A girl, not too old,
sits musing,
by the side of this road.
And I see that she oscillates.
She oscillates between
the quiet emptiness of stark whites &
the deep blues of cacophonous nights.
And this girl, not too young,
she tries on different shoes for size.
Just like she tries on maybe, probably

different loves, perspectives, lives.


Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami
                                                                                                        

The Girl from Istanbul

A girl, not too old,
sits musing,
by the side of this road.
And I see that she oscillates.
She oscillates between
the quiet emptiness of stark whites &
the deep blues of cacophonous nights.
And this girl, not too young,
she tries on different shoes for size.
Just like she tries on maybe, probably

different loves, perspectives, lives.


Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami
                                                                                                        

That day

It was the kind of day
when you’d want to
walk alone on a beach
and fill your pockets with
conch shells and pebbles.
And even if you were to
throw them away later,
for a moment you’d feel
knee-high and invincible.
It was the kind of day
when the sea sang
and the sand danced
and the crabs scuttled
and the wind whistled
and the waves broke
on that wondrous beach of
broken toothed smiles.
It was that kind of a day.

Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami 

https://www.instagram.com/nasarhusami/

That day

It was the kind of day
when you’d want to
walk alone on a beach
and fill your pockets with
conch shells and pebbles.
And even if you were to
throw them away later,
for a moment you’d feel
knee-high and invincible.
It was the kind of day
when the sea sang
and the sand danced
and the crabs scuttled
and the wind whistled
and the waves broke
on that wondrous beach of
broken toothed smiles.
It was that kind of a day.

Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami 

https://www.instagram.com/nasarhusami/

Mumbai

In the darkness
of the skyline
eyes stared at me.
Eyes in which
roamed silhouettes
of struggling lives.
Eyes hunted
and hungry.
Eyes stalking
and starving.
Eyes lethal
and longing.
The eyes of my city,
they light up every night.
Afraid to sleep. 

Mumbai

In the darkness
of the skyline
eyes stared at me.
Eyes in which
roamed silhouettes
of struggling lives.
Eyes hunted
and hungry.
Eyes stalking
and starving.
Eyes lethal
and longing.
The eyes of my city,
they light up every night.
Afraid to sleep. 

Free

I saw them dancing,
with abandon and
without embarrassment,
to a song tainted popular.
I thought to myself,
Oh how silly they are.
And it made me think
how small we are.
Satisfied and pompous
in our small worlds,
looking inwards,
cool and all-knowing.
We build around ourselves
brick by judgmental brick
walls of prejudice.
And not once
does it occur to us
that usually it is those
who are outside of walls
that are called free. 

Bleak

It's so much easier
to write
when you aren't
worrying about
putting together
a certain kind of

Life.

Life.
It can dissolve
the poetry in you
and leave you
for dead. 

Bleak

It's so much easier
to write
when you aren't
worrying about
putting together
a certain kind of

Life.

Life.
It can dissolve
the poetry in you
and leave you
for dead. 

The Airport

We wait around
the carousel.
Craning necks.
Shoving shoulders.
Our straining eyes
give away
our impatience.
And they give away
our refusal
to understand that
what has to come
will come
only when it is time.
Even if it
belongs to us.

The Airport

We wait around
the carousel.
Craning necks.
Shoving shoulders.
Our straining eyes
give away
our impatience.
And they give away
our refusal
to understand that
what has to come
will come
only when it is time.
Even if it
belongs to us.

The Summer Teacher.

That summer,

when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,

she decided to send me
to an art class.

Early in the morning

I was woken up.

My sketch book, 

pencils, paints

and brushes packed. 

My teacher had 

a grey beard, 

thick glasses,

a penchant for

clean, crisp shirts

and a smile

which made

his eyes crinkle.

He looked us over.

A large group

of barely awake kids

forced out of beds 

early on a
summer holidays
morning. 

He had two rules,

he said.

We hated rules.

You all need to 

take a bath before 

you come to class.

We hated baths. 

And the second rule?

When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.

A blue sun.

Red grass.

Yellow crows.

Pink elephants.

And purple people

were perfectly acceptable.

We stared at him

trying to fathom

a world where 

no one was telling us 

to colour within the lines. 

And just like that

we started taking baths

at 6 AM every day.

Without a single complaint.

The Summer Teacher.

That summer,

when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,

she decided to send me
to an art class.

Early in the morning

I was woken up.

My sketch book, 

pencils, paints

and brushes packed. 

My teacher had 

a grey beard, 

thick glasses,

a penchant for

clean, crisp shirts

and a smile

which made

his eyes crinkle.

He looked us over.

A large group

of barely awake kids

forced out of beds 

early on a
summer holidays
morning. 

He had two rules,

he said.

We hated rules.

You all need to 

take a bath before 

you come to class.

We hated baths. 

And the second rule?

When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.

A blue sun.

Red grass.

Yellow crows.

Pink elephants.

And purple people

were perfectly acceptable.

We stared at him

trying to fathom

a world where 

no one was telling us 

to colour within the lines. 

And just like that

we started taking baths

at 6 AM every day.

Without a single complaint.