I passed the joint To the demon beside me I'm fine as long as I'm In this blanket I'm getting used to these Dangerous liasons A couple of decades of pain Pulling me in I swim up Surface Go back down I'm getting used to these Deep waters The dim lights Don't light my way I'm so used to this Cloudy mist Wash the salt off these wounds I can't go back home I'm getting used to this Floating along
Yesterday, I had this sudden urge to drink filter coffee at the small shop nearby. Without much delay, I threw on a t shirt and shorts and started brushing my hair. In the mirror, an apparition of a girl from three years ago, wearing the same navy blue t shirt stared back at me.... Holding a cup of coffee in her hands and dreams in her eyes. "Not now", I told myself. I took off the t shirt and pulled out another one from my wardrobe.
A black top, with golden buttons. I found myself standing in Nalla Beach Resort, wearing it, admiring the ocean and the night sky with you. I put down my beer and went down on one knee. You gasped. I said my vows and you said yours.
A voice was screaming inside my head. "NO! NOT NOW", I tried to follow that voice, but felt myself fall in to an abyss. I became one of those two wild haired hippies in a jungle, listening to the cry of water hens.
An hour later, I was sitting on the floor in my bra, surrounded by a pile of clothes and many apparitions. You were there too, in a white t, smoking a chillum. Your big round eyes pensive, telling me calmly that at some point, my throat would stop burning and my body would stop hurting.
This poem is no crash course Nor does it come with a starter package Or a reader’s manual / guide Much like the Whatsapp forwarded jokes Of a man searches in google ‘How to control your wife’ And google has zero search results This poem is as dry as your sense of humour And the repetitive need of controlling All the woman around you This poem is dry As dry as the summer nights Where the ac fails to work And you have lived enough To see the nights treachery And died enough to mourn for the dawn This poem is the discomfort As you switch positions And end up curled in the foetal position Imitating a mother’s womb This poem is the fundamental human instinct Of demanding familiar physical touch Yet as the Sun arises And the leaves sway with the wind It only reminds you of women swaying hips The type you would secretly ogle As you come across lingerie posters And underwear adds When you think no one is watching But we women always know Call it a woman’s instinct For last summer a girl of 14 Had her first menstruation and the Whole village celebrated her ripening / fertility The next day as she sits on the local bus To school, the journey feels a little longer A little more unnerving And suddenly the bus ticket collector’s gaze Feels a little more disturbing As her stomach churns unpleasantly As she notices a man thrice her age Staring at her and then at his manhood She pulls her skirt further down And the man grins That pure predatory grimace Her heart shudders and mouth shutters She’s felt fear Fear of being a woman For the first time After all ripened mangoes must fall of the tree Suddenly he stares at his handkerchief And the name of his wife Woven with strings borrowed from the Sun’s ray And he looks away as the girl descends down the bus
( II) Close your eyes gently What happens when you think of the word W-O-M-A-N Do you see women running? Running in wheat fields or mustard if you are that creative as their lovesick lovers run behind close your eyes or have them done so by a woman seductively, as she feeds you grapes and what not do you see woman with purple skin and neon highlights as hair whiskers and ears of a cat political and profound or do you find them shying away, their cheeks now a pomegranate as you pull their drape or do you find them sitting sitting at a family function all nice and tidy even when the touches are far from acceptable or even decent, do you find them cowering away Or do you find them with their hands shaking Eyes downcast as they give you the glass of milk And crushed almonds on their wedding night are they feminists and feral? Are they submissive or dominative? Are they bottom or top? Are they shy or a tease? the girl and the woman the girl with the woman the girl now the woman are all this poem with no syllable count Nor even your aabb ccdd they do not rhyme they don’t need to but in the kingdom of poems where the rhymes sits as a monarch and creativity will be a slave where every syllable shall praise As haiku's and limericks giggle Over a cup of masala chai this poem will be a prude, an outlaw and when they shall search this poem They'll raid it's home, it's identity It's origin and individuality And after they have checked all the surveillance devices CCTV footage and of course the internet strip a poem, you will find a woman Strip a woman, you will find a free verse.
I'm not back. Just wrote this because I wanted to and I could. Illustration by @/ richakashelkar on IG I'm starting to hate everything I write Stop deleting your posts beautiful hooman. Or else I will shave your eye brows
Whenever you feel like the day isn't being kind to you, or the night is being a little too rude, you can feel free to crash into my stalwart arms. I won't mind for how long you stay or how tight you grip me, I will grip you back just as hard.
Born an individual With a distinct identity Made a name for himself And it soon became an entity. Voice got deeper Influence got stronger Chaos occured It didn't held longer. Came unexpected As expected from life His presence got neglected Got stabbed with an invisible knife. He built his skyscraper and felt pride He saw it falling down, his tears were bonafide. No matter how powerful He thought he was Mother nature made an entrance Earthquake came a cause. His mind got broke And soul felt DESERTED His breathe got choked And everything reverted.