We mourn ‘voluntarily’

I would like to issue a disclaimer before you start reading this. Reading this might get you attacked, pelted with stones, your face blackened or just plain kept under house arrest. And no, you won’t be given a warning. Your attackers could be invisible, sometimes shine orange but most times appear out of nowhere, attack you and then disappear. Or maybe stay there and gloat.

So I am warning you. Read at your own risk.

To the madness of the night

Photo Credit: Rishi Baldawa

On the edge of the sea they stayed.

the two careless souls.

conversing with the stars, dancing with the bright planet.

On that,

Sun filled night with a transparent rainbow,

The missing lock...

There came days when she couldn't stand them. They stared at her sadly, as if they had heard her midnight screams. And sometimes when the sun barged in and disrupted her dreams, she woke up to their rude grins.

What’s in a surname?

It’s at the third box where the person collecting the form stops, looks up at me as if I were an alien, and barks: “Surname madam! Write surname!”

It’s always the same—always. Every application form is the same. It has three boxes—one for my name, one for my father’s name and the other for my surname.

The favourite book....

“You are my favourite book,” she had declared to him that morning. The evening before, he'd travelled all the way to another state just to see her. On a bike, riding for nine hours. It felt like a story to her, no not the fairy tales which were just gruesome tales wrapped in glittery paper. 

Of bickering, beating and buttering

This post is inspired by an episode on the new favourite show (not mine) on T.V. - Satyameva Jayate. This episode entered the dark silent world of domestic violence. Wives narrated incidents of their husbands beating them and how they suffered through it in silence. 

Silent words

“This seems just like a movie set!” she exclaimed.

He laughed. Thinking how even little things excited her. It was one of the qualities he loved in her. 

But he wouldn’t tell her that. As always.

This world

This world,
Where nightmares are sold,
Dreams put on hold.
Stories of death told,
poems of birth unheard.
This world,
Where despair flutters frantic,
Hope fights still,
Smiles hide secrets,
Tears leave a trail,
In this world.
I live.

And it was called yellow...

Image source

“There is an excess of yellow in the world,” he said.

“Huh? What? "she asked

“I think that the colour yellow is in abundance in the world. It is dominant,” he said.

“And why do you say that?” she asked, while dusting the sand off her kurta.

“Look around and tell me in how many places do you see the colour yellow?” he asked while taking her hand.
                   

Behind the veil

Behind the veil lay darkness,
an abyss, a vacuum.
Behind the veil lay time,
infinite and eternal,
Behind the veil lay dreams,
broken and shattered.
Behind the veil lay a soul,
lifeless and time hating.

The Dreamer's city

In the city of seven islands,

that which never slept,

but still managed to dream.

That which worked like a man,

but was beautiful like a woman.

That which the sea protected,

But could also destroy.

The city that moulded into you,

But made you like her.

The city which she loved,

But he never met.

In this city of seven islands,

At the place where land and sea met,

She waited,

For him, who had left,

For the dreams that set.

She waited

P.S- This poem was written on a serene evening at Marine Drive,with nothing to do except let the words fill my mind.