Was it the Fear?Was it the Joy?

The fog outside
the cold nights
the shivers – Warned about the year end.

I pretend to love the cold
It’s been twenty two years since I’m on this battleground,
Fighting with the winds, destroying the soul
filling it with despair.

With tears I see around
I couldn’t hold back,
As I also cried,
Was it the fear?
Was it the joy?
Know not I.

While you sit across the window,
following the routine
Sipping the coffee,
I wish it doesn’t remind you of the bitter and cold state he left you in.
It might make you weep
But you’ll never stop and make yourself witness the same cold you did.

Perhaps now it’s never too late for the sun to shine,
And always early for it to set.

Stopping the teary and joyous moment,
I play ‘connect-the-dots’ with freckles moving ahead
To welcome the new beginning,
Living in grey and adding a bit colour to it –
Little by little.


Let not the Heart turn as cold as the Weather!

There are people who’ll walk over your face to tell you how good you’re at everything you do,

then there are people who would walk down miles to criticise you –
It’s just what they learnt back home.
This needed to be long gone,
She felt another friend hitting her
With bullets of words
Which surely did not shed any tears but made her loose trust in humanity,Even more.
She spent days in bed debilitated by loss,
She made attempts to cry
but the eyes shined like ice.
The friend told her to stop eating,
She would pinch her belly till it bleeds.
She lost the count of days,
Became a ghost
With dozen different thoughts
that would tear her apart each day,
Not just once but innumerable times.

She then met a woman,
Who would call her an inspiration
and how she wanted to have a cup of coffee
discussing about the artists whose identity faded.
Talk about men who had novels in their name.
Talk about Mary Ann Evans,
JK Rowling
Bronte Sisters
And how they’re criticised.

Is this what we call art?
Is this how this community is?

Let’s not the heart turn as cold as the weather,

let’s appreciate
let’s enjoy art.



I was still close to it, even when you were two months old. I could still go back and hold onto things even when they hurt. They would call our connection strong,and I would believe them. I would belive them when they tell me how strong I was.

When you grew 8 months old. The heart began to beat at a pace which wasn’t the same, it started beating faster. Our connection seem to grow even stronger, I would still come back to you no matter how it would hurt. Again.

When you’re a year old, the heart was in race with itself. It started beating faster and faster, for it was waiting for those endless stairs to end. There was a fight between you and strength, which would continue for days and days with the aim of defeating the other.

You,are three now. Having lost the sight of what the other end looks like, I still yearn to live on the side which hurts but having lost all the strength – I yearn to takeoff just as a plane with a technical issue does.The stairs I’m climbing seems to have no end.
I envy people who stand on a point where they’ve attained contentment, their inner peace – The strength within.
Stories seem to pour harder than the cloudburst outside, we got plenty of time to kill it – But it isn’t dissolving.
It isn’t.

Today, as I flip through the pages of an old photo albums they tell me the image I reflect in the mirror is no one but Me.But why do I fail to recognise myself?

A bottle filled up with a message waiting to say it out – Loud enough,

for you to hear.

Until I gather the courage,
I request you to take a little longer to come back,

Yet Again..

Break the Nib!

Let’s chew the fat and talk about a gender we seldom talk about,
A gender whose identity is always put to doubt –
This time it’s not about WOMEN but about MEN.’Perfection‘ was said to have different meanings, but
When it comes to stereotyping the basis are the same –
Both for Men and Women.

Let’s stereotype Men today :

A voice bold and loud,
A physique well sculpted,
Eyes full with rage, and
Never to shed a tear –
Because only weak men do that.
Dressed up like a gentleman,
Not just today but everyday.
Does everything that makes him Masculine, and
Adapt the changing definition of Mascularity, just as “Changing Fashion!”

Strong. Tall. Big. Handsome. Robust. Vigorous. Sturdy. Sinewy.

Let’s not frown upon Men wearing pink and Women playing football,
Now, let’s do away with the sarcastic ink that says ‘Men will be Men’.

Acceptance in White!

I wake up, look around and wonder what’s wrong,
Move around a little,
And collect some decor to pretty my house!

Then, I look at me and wonder what went wrong?
Every night I scrub a mask, layer it with apologies of Acceptance.
I look straight into the sparkling eyes of the frail girl – I see in the Mirror.

Come on,
Shine to me like that Meteor – I tell myself.
Let’s put up that White Dress-
Fits through my bust, Long enough to cover my thigh.
Turn a little right, a little left,
Stand straight,
Turn a little more – Until you accept the light your sparkle.

Do you see yourself shining like a meteor in the daylight without a mask or a highlighter?

Now that’s Acceptance!

(Published with Fashion Herald)

Women, Inches and Perfection!

At an age of 5,
She was taught to smile pretty,
Play it safe.

Words came to her like a bullet,
She had no choice other than to rot,
That’s what was being taught!

‘Perfection’ seemed to have different meanings,
For Women it were Inches,
For Men it were the qualities they possessed.

The Scars, the Skin,
The Inches, the Derm,

Even rains couldn’t wash the Black alluvial soil off the Skin,
Leaving her unfit for the world,
Left behind like those unfortunate droplets against the windowpanes, which cannot be a part of something B I G.
Just to deeper the scars were the words of the society.

Each morning, as a I crawl out of my bed,
I wash Yesterday out of my Hair –

“I’m an art,
With my own perfections and imperfections.”


The eyes hurt from the tears they’d shed this morning, last night, hiding away.

I was happy until I saw you crawling up yet again.

Those vibrant coloured pills helps me in forgetting everything, but Oh! How you end up crawling

E A C H and E V E R Y T I M E.

I try to set myself free from your world that tries to grab my soul and push me in a pit that’s Dark, so dark that I can’t even see myself.

My heart aches, I start to cry.

You have no idea, how my soul sinked.

I cried, cried and cried..

But you seemed to take no notice of – You pushed me even deeper.

I wonder what happened to my happy soul. What happened to that perfect life where,

I laughed, laughed and laughed..

There was a time when laughter was inseparable from me but now since you crawl up, Every time..

I learnt that how we take everything for granted.

I see the lady next door, waiting for her husband to return from the border.

Two days later I find people standing in Army uniform, with a wooden box covered with the National Flag : Knocking her door,

What next, Is known.

She has not seen her husband for 8 months.

244 Days.

I can write EIGHT in innumerable ways-










Likewise, the days and hours.

I see a father narrating small little things happening around, to his child who has lost his Vision.

I learnt that dark rooms are the best to take away our pain, and Cry.

I learnt to cherish my own company, alone yet HAPPY.

I learnt how a 15 minutes shower when extended to two-hour, leads to all good;

I learnt how good it is a place to hide all your sorrows and wash them off with water running down your body.

I learnt how running away leads to no good.

I learnt about privileges.

I learnt how necessary is it to let yourself free from the company of your Best Friend – Loneliness.

Let your eyes cry,

Let your soul try,

Let your heart die,

Let’s G R O W