Atheist!

I’ve put a mix of
Ice, menthol and aloe vera
To soothe my fuming head,
Gobbled down three scoops of
strawberry ice cream,
To ease my burning heart,
Have been moon gazing
The entire night to
Cool down the fire
That’s destroying my soul,
But you know what?
The moon’s fading away,
Another day is about to
Knock off, all the calm
A new war awaits,
And I as usual,
Stare at the battlefield
Feel the ashes of me
Ignite a new fire to kill
Breathe, have a sip of water
Stand on the verge of
Defeat as I continue to
Lust for the victory
That I know is not mine,
Yet, I choose to war,
You know why?
Because war-gazing
Is the religion of those
Sitting in cubicles
And discussing
Each other’s fate.

Bless the stars,
For I’m an atheist
Burning in the fire
That’s been left unattended
By those theists
For the lord they worship.

I burn in the fire,
Each dream kisses
One fume or another
Yet, the germination
Continues, for each
Seed that becomes a plant
Needs heat,
The fire that burns
Also chooses to protect
Rest, that surrounds
Is just pollution, commotion.

One day my poetry!

One day my poetry,
Will reek of the wars
That I chose to pass,
Not because they were
Scary or I feared to lose,
But because sometimes
Letting go and watching
Is a better idea.

One day my poetry,
Will reek of the soul,
That I wanted to preserve
But couldn’t amidst all the battles.

One day my poetry
Will reek of my strengths
And not my weaknesses
Because, one day I will
Set my fears free,
To see how fearlessly musical
It is, to smile, and sleep.

One day my poetry
Will do that for me
And I will be free
Of the shackles
That have built a fort
To preserve my anxieties
And not my soul.

One day, my poetry
Will be mine,
All mine,
That day, I will sleep
Like a baby.

Who fights a war?

Who fights a war?
You? Me? Us? Who?
Aren’t we just fighting
A day more, each day?

Every night, when you’re
Sleepless, restless,
Which war keeps you up?
The internal? Or the mighty external?

Don’t you see,
You’re warring between
Self and me,
The victory and the defeat
Are yours, you.

Why bleed more?
Hurt more?
Kiss the victory,
Embrace the defeat,
There’ll be peace,
Or so I just believe.

Not all days!

Not all days are beautiful,
some days are terrible,
some manage to be unbearable too.

On such days,
what do you do,
apart from drowning,
in your illegitimate sorrow?

Do you even think,
Is there any hope,
Or some leftover scope
To dream?

You just want the day
To end, for you’ve
Bend enough before time
And ways of the world.

You want it to end,
End for good,
For once and for all.

This morning!

This morning, I haven’t
Got up from my bed,
I have been up all night,
My feet were hurting,
Parts of me were aching.

Something has been trembling
Could be my inner self
Or my demons.

They have made me shiver
With a craving to be held
While I know there is no one
To hold or hold on to.

Some mornings are worse
Than dreadful nights,
The light kills
Unlike the dark
Which merely rattles.

This morning is more painful,
Than the awful last night,
But you see, all imposed expectations
Will be met
For that is all
That is left.

Out of love - 94!

What will not kill you,
Will suffocate & burn,
For those who deserve
To be in ashes
Aren’t blessed to be understood.
—————
Warriors war, fighters fight
Dreamers dream, as there
Dreams continue to die
Sigh...
——————
One day when my verses
Are not about you,
Just know that,
The pain has made peace.
—————
Love lost,
Faith broken,
Soul shattered.

Sun set,
Moon came shining,
Tell me my love,
What changed?
—————
A dog wagging his tail,
A squirrel nibbling a pea,
A girl flying a kite,
A boy combing his doll's hair,
A woman swirling her wine,
A man gazing the sky,

If this is not poetry, then what is?
——————
Do not ask me to come out,
Stop urging me to be what I am,
You have no idea about
My insides and demons,
Let them and me be,
please.
—————-
Let the sounds make love
To your restless soul,
Allow the light to
Seep through the
cracks of your heart
Watch the ashes fly
Ignite new fire
Within and around
Maybe that is how
You will find and spread
Warmth and compassion.
—————-
Do not bring my demons down,
I appreciate it, when they flirt with me,
At least they choose to love the parts
You and I, ignored.
————
They say world is blank canvas,
But to me it appears to be,
A tiny cubicle,
Where my thoughts are striking the walls
And hitting me like bullets on my chest,
Yet I breathe, with my eyes wide open.

I make love with the vibrations, despite
Kiss my own sorrow,
Flirt with my own wounds
Dare you talk to me about
Love, dreams and art,
I behold all in that
Cubicle/ gas chamber/ war room
Life.
—————
Verses, even for the worse
Are just plain simple sad,
Never painful, brutal.

Sadness!

There will come a time
When sadness will not
Rattle you, in fact it won’t
Even matter,
It’ll be a part of life
Just like breathing.

There’s no hiding,
Or coming out of it,
There is just sadness
It floats around you,
Has probably made a
Home in you.

Sadness will not
Be an emotion anymore
It will be a way of life
Something that you
Live with, normally,
Just like that.

Sadness.

Home!

They tell me,
That this place,
Where I live is my home.

This place,
Where the walls and windows
Are quite familiar to me
The ceilings don’t seem
To be unknown either,
Is my home, they say.

Till the longest time,
I believed them,
I called this place where I live,
My home.

Home,
Where initially each corner
Reeked of ease,
Now demands answers from me,
To each answer that I come up with,
Is now questioned,
No not because the answer is unreal
But because
The questions need to be answered
And answers need to be questioned.

I’m told when I was a toddler,
I used to colour the walls
With crayons and pencils.
They say the walls,
That I had doodled on
Were not painted for sometime,
So that I could call them mine
For a while,
Those walls were
A part of my home, after all.

When I grew up a bit,
The world map and periodic table
Took over the place
Which was once my canvas.
Those walls then smelled of
Pressure and responsibility
Each time I failed a test,
A new chart was put,
Sometimes of the chapters,
I needed to revise,
And sometimes of the timetable
I should follow,
You see life is not all
Fun and games,
There has to be fear
And maybe a bit of praise.
The home, felt burdening.

Today, the walls of
My residence,
Neither have those
Nasty charts and timetables
Nor are they blessed with my
Random doodles,
They are just a huge sheet
Of ivory colour,
They do not smell of me,
They do not seem to be a part of me,
On some days they seem to be
A dead end on other days
I am too exhausted to give them attention,
How do I call those my own?
Or home?

Amay!

My co-passenger this evening on the flight from Jodhpur to Delhi was a super energetic, 6-year-old boy, Amay. Originally, I had all plans of sleeping throughout the 3 hour long journey because I hadn’t slept for the last 2 days, but of course, his highness Amay, had different plans. He wanted to know everything from Mom & dad. He wanted to know how does an airplane fly to how is it different from the birds, why can’t he touch the sky if he’s in the sky & so many more questions that struck Sir Amay in less than 20 minutes. By now, I had given up on my plans to sleep & chose to introduce myself to Amay.

We shook hands, he asked me how old am I, in which school am I, do I watch cartoons or do I just read newspapers like his parents. After all the questions were asked & obviously answered. Amay thought he should also know my name. He asked me, “Umm....what’s your name?, My name is Amay, I’m six years old & I will be seven years old in January.” Our introduction was done, we were officially friends now. And thus began our gaming spree.

We played Stone-paper-scissors, discussed how adults who read newspapers are so boring, there’s nothing to colour in the newspaper, why does it even exist!! There’s hardly any space to draw either, it’s such a waste. Mutual grievances of being forced to eat green vegetables, drinking a glass of milk each day were also tabled for discussion.

Then came the best part, the window view game. We named clouds, wondered together why they are only white in colour and not in purple (his favourite color) or green (my favourite colour). We also had quite a few questions regarding the shapes and sizes of the clouds, which obviously none of us had answers to, so we just exchanged our questions. Probably, hoping that one day, some day one of us will find answers.

Some clouds looked like a huge roll of cotton, some were in shape of an elephant & to believe Amay one particular cloud resembled Chotta Bheem too! We spent more than an hour with clouds, giving them all our attention and surrendering our imagination to the clouds which we wish were in purple or green colour, nonetheless both of us agreed that the clouds should be left the way they are as they won’t listen to us.

Phew! Game change. Now we have a big chocolate and so we talk about how chocolates are the best thing in the world. How we can have chocolates all the time rather than our boring dal-roti etc. Why doesn’t Ma give me chocolates everyday, Amay asks me. To which I reply, my Ma doesn’t give me chocolates either. He expresses solidarity by saying let’s share this before it melts, we eat the chocolate. With each bite of chocolate we have a verse to share with each other. You see, we are eating a chocolate, something that both of us love.

We talk about how sweetness of the chocolate is amazing, how the wrapper of 5 star would be if we made it, (oh yes! We’ve made designs for a chocolate wrapper) how wonderful life would be if we could sleep-eat-drink chocolates all the time. During this discussion, Amay also finalises that he’s going to distribute Perk on his birthday. Voila! He screams and tells his parents “Papa Ma, I’m going to give Perk in school”, his parents nod & try to tell him to sit down & talk softly. The entire aircraft by now knows that Amay is going to distribute Perk in his school.

By now, we have also discussed how schools are a shit place & we hate it. He tells me about his favourite maam, I tell him about my favourite school memory.

It’s landing time, we fasten our seat belts, sit straight and count till we touch the ground. The plane touched the ground at 198. We counted. Together.

As we get ready to get down, a co passenger, a man who looks 40-50 years old, comes to us, gives us one perk each, we unitedly thank him. And walk towards the aero bridge.

Amay’s Dad & Mom thank me for keeping their tiny bomb busy during the flight, I thank Amay for his company. We shake hands, promise each other to write to the other person if we found answers to our cloud queries.

He waves, I wave, we go our ways.