Tag: poet

dinner table conversations.

they drank till their slight touches turned into slaps,
and repeated their favourite line,
‘tu haan kar,
ya naa kar,
tu hai meri kiran.’

translation: ‘even if you say yes,
or no,
you are my kiran.’

my uncles liked having loud conversations,
they liked keeping count,
of how many people survived,
and of how many died,
they liked arguing over policies,
capitalist or communist,
conservative or socialist,
as if the leaders involved were just by passers,
diplomats in their monarchical world,
they liked to talk while chewing,
often spitting in each other's plates,
secretly staring verma aunty up and down,
her liberal mind was too much to bear,
some days were worse than others,
for they drank till their slight touches turned into slaps,
and repeated their favourite line,
'tu haan kar,
ya naa kar,
tu hai meri kiran,' 
over and over again, every single time.
my uncles liked to take names,
calling the pakistani traitors,
and the bangladeshi bastards,
sharma uncle would always say that our politicians were corrupt,
that the strikes were staged,
and the roads were never built,
for the taxes we paid were rather used,
for their luxurious spa treatments,
eyelid surgeries,
and sarees of silk,
but he never dared to speak,
of the tea stained rupee notes that he slid,
to the man with stars on his vardi,
nor of the abundant notes he gave to his son's principal,
and how he just forgot to mention they were farsi.
but the women in our family,
well they never spoke, 
they'd clear the tables,
throw away the seeds on the orange peels,
tidy up the washbasin,
while uncles smoked their pipes and went to sleep,
although they weren't literate enough to read,
and their lips remained steadily shut,
their ears always perked up,
for they longed to hear of a day,
when the headlines would talk about their win,
and the misogynists' defeat,
the day they could be the ones commenting on medha pathkar's feminist ideals,
and the outspoken female who only won one seat,
until then,
they would continue to scrub the spots of the dhotis which smelled like mrs.sharma,
and put cotton on their swollen bruises,
they would continue to nod and say 'no matter,'
and then leave to take care of chores,
for whether or not china chose to avenge itself,
whether or not the workers staged their strikes,
whether or not policemen took bribes,
they'd have to grow barley and pluck their weeds,
uncle would continue to come home at 11,
although the security guard said he left at 7,
friday evening dinners would still turn into political campaigns for the parties which paid more,
for even if the economy slows down,
glaciers melt,
and all those endangered are gone,
their world,
manages to go on.

padmavati; the symbol of sacrifice.

Padmavati was the Queen of Chittor in the 13th century. She was married to Ratan Singh and was known for her surreal beauty. People yearned to even catch a glimpse of her exquisite features. Alauddin Khilji was one such man. However his greed and lust caused him to declare war against Chittor. When it became clear that he would win, Queen Padmavati made a decision which would go on to impact millions. She committed Jauhar which is defined as the act of mass self-immolation by women in parts of the Indian subcontinent, to avoid capture, enslavement and rape by foreign invaders, when facing certain defeat during a war.

Although the goddess like Queen died, Indian history immortalized her.

And this is her story.

p.s: part two coming soon:)

Praises of her pulchritude,
Fill the ancient halls of Chittor,
Hira Mani tells tales of her beauty,
The rajput warrior desires to know more.

She walks in her ghagra choli,
Embellished with heavy gold beads,
Blinding mirror sequins,
Like a lotus flower amongst weeds.

He reaches the doors of Singhal,
Wins the swayamvar as his duty,
Marries the legend of folk songs,
Padmavati, the epitome of beauty.

Nights in Chittorgarh seem like bright mornings,
For her divine glow ignites the sky,
Maybe that’s why the moon hides behind the sun
The Queen’s royal glamour makes it shy.

Alauddin follows the tittle tattle,
With his desire to own every precious thing on land,
Ratan Singh mistakenly prepares to battle,
But Queen Padmini is Khilji’s only demand.

Yet looks don’t limit to her charms,
She allows a glance,
The catch? 
Seeing her reflection is his only chance.

Furious sultan deceits the trusting Ratan singh,
His lifeless body falls to the ground,
Men with armours clench their shivering swords,
“Jai bhavani,” they scream as mughals surround.

Alauddin storms inside the majestic fort,
A surprise beholds his eyes,
Sixteen thousand women in crimson red ghagras,
Dressed as newlywed brides.

They’re more than enough to take him down,
But they don’t,
Instead they fill the palace with echoes of their cries,
Chanting, “jai bhavani”
Ready to sacrifice,
As each second, a braveheart dies.

Yearning to catch a glimpse of Queen Padmavati,
Khilji sprints across the halls,
He screeches as the gates close,
And she embraces the fire,
With no tears in sight,
For they may have killed the rajputs,
But Padmavati won this fight. 

Aur yeh hi, Alauddin ki sabse badi haar thi.

Sita, our Goddess.

In the Hindu epic Ramayana, Goddess Sita was known to be Lord Rama’s wife. She accompanied him in his 14 year long exile along side his brother Lakshmana. They spent a few years at Panchvati, also known as the site where Goddess Sita’s abduction by Ravana, the ten faced king of Lanka took place. She is often regarded as the embodiment of wifely devotion and self-sacrifice.

Fabric the colour of saffron,
Gently lays,
On the eccentric green grass,
Her sari spread like rangoli’s rays,

Her thick silky hair,
Bound by elastic,
Few short strands flow,
With the breeze that blows,

Congested in a bijou hut,
Near the free fragnance,
Of dear Godavari,
Lies the confined heart of Panchvati,

The cold damp gufa,
Where sits the almighty shivaling,
Echoes her silent prayers,
Enclosed by 14 years of unfair penance and care,

Yet her genuine heart,
Sees no disguise,
A starving beggar appears,
Mouth full of hungry lies,

She steps out,
Crossing the holy line,
He doesn’t take a second to grab her,
And divine Panchvati loses its shine,

The elastic loosens,
Black locks gather apart,
Her shrill screams haunt the hut,
Remorse fills her heart,

They fly away in his grand chariot,
Ten faces laugh aloud,
Yet the sky cries with her,
Her anger as heavy as the storm cloud,

Panchvati bids goodbye to its queen, 
Lord Rama shouts in agony,
For he failed his promise,
But long gone now is,
Sita, our Goddess.

There may have been several ramas but only one sita.

~Swami Vivekananda

Kaagaz Nahi The.

happy new year everyone:)

i was going to write a sappy poem about how great 2019 was but i figured i should be somewhat real and talk about how our country is doing right now as the world’s largest *coughs* ‘democracy.’

Just one shop sells dhokla,
and halwa,
Just one whatsapp group sends eid mubarak,
merry christmas,
and happy holi,
Just one street has had ram mandir,
and babri masjid,
And when that one foreigner asks me about India,
The first thing that comes to mind is,
Unity in diversity,
Ekta mai hi shakti.
Lekin abh nahi.

For now,
When I visit that one shop,
I see that it’s once so welcoming doors,
Are now shut,
I ask kishore bhaiya why,
He tells me, 
‘Ahmed ke paas kaagaz nahi the.’ 
When I check that one whatsapp group,
I see that the ‘same to you,’
Has been replaced by,
blue ticks,
For sometimes,
Silence speaks louder than words.

And now,
When I walk past that street again,
Instead of groups of pilgrims,
with devotion in their eyes,
And faith in their hearts,
I still see groups,
But of people trying to scream loud enough.
For their voices to be heard,
Of people who haven’t gone home in 134 days,
Of people who seem to have lost the spark,
Who seem to have lost hope.

Hope that one day, 
They’ll see Ahmed again,
That one day their father in law,
will see past the clothes on their body,
And the name they chant,
And when that foreigner asks them about India again, 
One day,
Unity in Diversity,
Will be the first thing they’ll say.

When We Meet.

But when it comes to you,
You and I both know that’s not true.

I keep imagining, 
That when we coincidentally collide,
And my eyes get a glimpse of your familiar face,
All those memories filled with a mix of pain and hatred,
Would rush through my veins,
And I would put on a cold outside,
Murmur the most harsh, ‘Nice seeing you,’
And force my pierced feet,
To walk away.

But when it comes to you,
You and I both know that’s not true.

For darling,
It takes everything in me,
To not melt into your wide arms when I see you,
Because with your vanilla scented hoodie,
And stupidly charming aura,
I can just be. 

And when the world stops moving,
And the tik-toks pause,
Is when you and I will meet,
And I’d ask you how you’ve been,
‘Just fine,’ would form on your lips,
And I’d think how having long eyelashes,
With dark brown eyes should be a sin. 

And no matter how much I try to hide,
You’d read me so easily,
For my face would scream come back please,
And you’d know in a second,
The kind of power,
You so effortlessly,
Still keep. 

Every Part Within.

They say God created heaven, hell, mountains, and rivers,
To burn our thirst,
But for what it’s worth,
I think he must have made you first,

you make my knees feel weak.
They say God created heaven, hell, mountains, and rivers, 
To burn our thirst,
But for what it’s worth,
I think he must have made you first,
Traced your freckles,
With every minute detail,
And moved up to your light brown eyes,
Which left the tannest of faces,
Awestruck and pale,
Next, to your uneven,
But dark and curly locks,
So you could push them forward so swiftly,
And melt the hardest of rocks,
Then down to your lips so imperfectly perfect,
Taste so luscious,
I think I could call myself an addict,
Your cheeks were next to be touched by the brush,
Adding a little bit of chubbiness,
And a bit of glimmering blush,
Made your eyesight weak,
Yet strengthened your charm,
For God only knows,
Those black frame glasses,
Were bad for my poor heart, 
Now down to your arms,
Veins popping every second,
Making your wrist look tight,
Fingers slender,
And palms wide,
Lastly to your big beating heart,
Trying to come out of your chest,
And grab my whole soul,
To love and adore,
Every part within. 

- darling, your flaws define you.

A Glass Of Rose.

But those roots below your heart,
Will wrap around my neck,
Crush my throat,
Burning it more than this glass of rose ever could.

alcohol is a sin.
With a glass of rose in my hand
And a raw cigarette in the other
Tonight I gaze at the front door
In an uncomfortably comfortable silence
And wait for you to come home 
And I seem to have lost count of how many times I’ve landed here
Sitting on the chestnut brown stairs
The same shade as your locks and mine
The ones you parted in the middle,
And flaunted your distinct bald line, 
I imagine you coming through that door
Any minute, any second
Shouting you’re back  
hoping I’m not up
For sleep doesn’t come,
Without you by my side anymore,
Ironically my toxic habits now,
Are why you’re lying within four white walls, 
This glass is my way to cope,
And sometimes my mind drifts to the possible future,
And my throbbing head in your lap,
But those roots below your heart,
Will wrap around my neck,
Crush my throat,
Burning it more than this glass of rose ever could,
And yet I’ll lay there,
Over and gone will be the wait,
For you’ll finally be here,
But all that pain makes me wonder,
That maybe,
Just maybe,
This time for me,
It will be too late.

- 'i'm sorry but his liver is too damaged to save.'

Mahabharat and Bharat

 They say Mahabharat and Bharat aren’t the same,
Yet husbands still seemingly own their wives,
Yudhistra gambled Draupadi away,
Marital rape is still legal,
For law doesn’t care about a wife’s say. 

They say Mahabharat and Bharat aren’t the same,
Yet women are still touched,
Like their bodies are pieces of fabric,
Just like when Dushasan touched Draupadi,
Sanji Ram touched Asifa,
And Mukesh touched Jyoti.

They say Mahabharat and Bharat aren’t the same,
Mariyam screams 
‘Talaaq, Talaaq, Talaaq’
Farooq laughs,
Another woman moves in the next day. 

It’s 2019,
And Draupadi is still considered a victim,
Not an empress,
For even now,
Being an assault survivor is considered a shame,
So tell me how Mahabharat and Bharat aren’t the same.
Ladies, we flawless. Even Beyonce agrees.


or maybe,
we will finally learn,
to appreciate this beguiling world,
and for all.

Colours are a delicacy,
one only some are lucky enough to see.
Sometimes I think,
were the world colourless,
where would we be?
Would we smile as often
Would we feel as free
for our minds would be black and white,
and so would our dreams.

For sometimes,
colours can represent us
more than words,
Look at me right now,
not knowing what to write,
but mind full of shades,

Each soul has a colour
Each feeling has a shade
Who knows,
a world so colourless,
and bleak
might leave our fragile bodies,
and our overbearing hearts,

Our vibrant thoughts of bliss,
will be sucked out
like a dementor’s kiss.
Will we become numb?
Will we lose it all?
or maybe,
we will finally learn,
to appreciate this beguiling world,
and for all.