Poems

by yours truly

On Writing

Here’s the thing:
I sit down at my desk in the mornings and noons,
In the hope that I’ll write my next verse very soon. 

After hours of blankly staring at the window
and a few cups of coffee, 
you’d think I would’ve thought of the perfect
metaphor for life or at least i’d find
a truth, a discovery
hidden in the depths of my mind

I sometimes tell myself, I need a more dramatic life 
The one that’s maybe rife 
with more pain and agony and drama 
But we forget that life no matter how uneventful or boring, 
is still so alive and roaring.

But true writing is like sleep.
Doesn’t take deadlines, work pressure very well.
It’s a shy monster that comes out of its own will.
You can’t lure him out, or get him to be brave,
He won’t move an inch, or budge even,
if your mind isn’t still.

Amidst this fiasco, there’s a battle to be fought.
Between what’s real and what’s not.
When the bills keep stacking up and the rent is due.
When life’s demanding too much and you haven’t got a clue.

Much like life, writing is going to put you to the test.
It’s an agonizing process, cumbersome at best.

There are plenty of teachers giving advice.
Sending writers into a frenzy, sharing words for the wise.

“Don’t just tap into the old familiar aches
Write something different, for fuck’s sake”

I could also partake in this exchange, share a piece of advice or two.
The first thing I will say is write what feels right to you.

Second: You might hate your boss or 
find that stupid people are difficult to annoy.
But I hope no matter where life finds you,
you never cease to find joy.

Try to be truthful, in one and every season.
Be happy like children, who are happy for no reason.

Don’t take the path of least resistance but one you most dread,
Dance where you’re meant to crawl and please, please, for the love of god,
say the thing that needs to be said.

Gentle Reminder

my whole life, i've been the present
a gift-wrapped box of confetti and party poppers 
in human form 

if the world was a play, my life would be 
described by a single act of giving all of me 
to people who were reckless 
careless and even terrible with me

i realise now that the currency of my 
worth isn't valued in every town or city 
but that doesn't mean i'm not glistening gold 
and crystal dynamite 

it only means that i can't love you 
while maintaining a shitty attachment style 
it means that i might not have the same hold 
on my heart as you do 
and that sort of fucks up my mind 

i probably won't ever have a closet that smells 
of dolce and gabbana or a secure bank account with stacks of dirty money

but i'll always have a gentle heart
one that abandons me and hurls itself towards tortured, desolate souls 
like a kid who suddenly leaves mumma's hand to run across the road 

having a decent heart comes with its own set of maladies, who knew?

This one time when you and I were in the middle of a serious discussion about cute boys and lost lovers, you spotted the place I’d recently gotten inked. A split second after you slyly asked me which candidate I had voted for like you were asking me the colour of my favourite nail polish. But I think you were trying to make sure I hadn’t chosen someone you wouldn’t choose.

At that moment, I wanted to lie to you. Instead, I came clean and confessed.

While I was telling you my half-baked thoughts on politics, I could see that something had shifted in you. After I had finished my idealistic rant/apology, you didn’t say anything and we sat there in silence. I guess in a way we were mourning just how the shades of communalism still run deep in our country.

I wanted to tell you so much but there wasn’t any time. I wanted to tell you that although we’re looking out for our own interests, we were still connected. That it didn’t matter if our divine incantations don’t have the same rhythms. That the carbon dates of our scriptures didn’t have to match for us to be together. That these fuckers can’t ruin marriages and friendships. I won’t let them get away with this too. We can’t be the two birds they kill with one stone.

But I don’t know how to talk about this. Even after crossing all boundaries of discretion, both of us are still imprisoned by our need to be politically correct. You never speak about the ill deeds of brahmins and I never bring up the strange fatwas by maulvis.

We have long talks about bachelor parties and babies. We open up about the very intricacies of intimacy. But we never speak a word about our beliefs. Our beliefs are so sacred to us that we fear talking about it might just destroy the fortress we’ve built together.The only safe place we know.

A faith so strong, that it crosses the boundaries of sanity and turns into hatred. We fear we’ll become like the people we know all too well. The ones who’ve turned friends into foes over a heated debate on WhatsApp. The ones who’ve turned their backs on the people they call home for a mere ego boost. We fear if this wall breaks, we’ll grow up to be the ones who taught us why we should be liberal in the first place.

There’s gotta be a safe place out there. A place where we don’t have to hold back. Where you can talk about the Hindu father who abandoned you and I can talk about my conditioned fear of muslim-dominated alleyways. Where you can tell me you love your religion but still secretly believe in resurrection. Where I tell you I like going to dargahs more than I like going to temples. Where we talk about the vagaries of manmade belief systems and the savagery of our ancestors. A place where the trolls and radicals can’t hurt us and where God doesn’t pick favourites.