Stars and The Clouds

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I can go on and on about my love for stars.

Stars, that are rarely visible in Delhi. The night sky here is more like a kid trying to learn to tie knots and every time he tries to strengthen the last one he tied, he ends up tying another one in some distant corner on the thread.

It’s not strong, it’s not unified or a pretty pattern. Some even barely existent.

Some even barely existent.

But it forms something, something to cheer that little child up. One big accomplishment added to his face with a smile. I wonder if God gets all joyous and giddy when he creates another star in the night sky. But when he looks down if we are just as happy as he is, we are clueless. Because we don’t see anything. It’s all black and dim.

Can we not cover god’s art with a nasty polluted blanket?

We’ve all heard the “how people who die become stars” story. To some, it’s another one of grandma’s story which is too good to be believed. But then grandma knows the best, doesn’t she? I like to believe that version, it’s nice to put your faith into something rather than into nothing. And it’s calming and comforting that you haven’t really lost the ones you loved, they are wandering up above with some new found friends and are happy.


Filling Up

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The mind has piled up an endless array,

Of thoughts, beliefs, contemplations.

The heart refuses the notions,

Reversing the role, often in motion.


The mind, as wild.

Wanders in lands of fears and fights.

Opens the gates of grounds forgotten.

Jumps through the darkness, throttles.


The heart admonishes, screams perpetually,

Dreads the forthcoming penalties.

The battle grows beyond sunset,

Killing heartbeats and peace with every concept.

Hands now riddled with a red maze,

Solved only with battle’s decline.


But who’s giving up?

Ask the heart and the brain,

Realization daunted,

Filling up the carcass,

Mistaken for the living.

Cracks, Thorns, and Roses

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I asked the cracks on my forehead, graciously accompanying marks and bruises,

“Who did this to you?”

There’s no reply, it just spreads, cracks further down to the side of my eyes. My eyes begin to water but my will still holds strong for a reply.

The scar, as stubborn as the parent, stays tenacious and splits further down, then in an odd fashion, sideways, marking its territory.

I still stand strong, adamant on getting a reply.

The battle continues and eventually, I break.

Upon my surrender, the scar turns to me and whispers I deadly undertone,

“You did this to me, you. You gave me away to someone else. You thought it was okay to be scared in love, it was okay to be left writing and screeching with a torn heart and muscles, with a few pulled hair. Because you’re never too broken, there’s always a better morning, with lies and promises you’ll readily believe. But, look where your love brought us. A silent, standstill. Where you’re just a rose, hoping someone will overlook your thorns and accept you with the love you lost.

Well, nobody will do that, because as poetic as it sounds, it not what happens. You, YOU, pick out your thorns, you don’t let yourself crack. And before you fall in love with someone who spreads cracks in the floor, choose the underground and fall for yourself. Because darling, did everyone ever buy a rose with thorns?”

Yes, Again.

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Yes, he lied again.

And you know it’s not the first time.

Yes, console your heart, he truly is late coz he is caught up with work.

Even when his secretory confirmed he left office at 6.

And now, its 2

Yes, keep the food laid on the table.

Because, he will come home hungry.

And with savor the dishes you cooked.

Yes, keep the lights off,

Surprise him when he comes home to you.

Even when, he isn’t really coming home to you.

Yes, wait eagerly for him to kiss you.

Even when, he’ll pass out on the couch before he even has the chance to blink.

Yes, he will hold you against his chest.

Even when he smells of another woman.

Yes, he’ll make love to you.

Even when it’s just a customary 11 minute ritual, where he will say inaudible, incomprehensible sentences, only ending In her name.

Her name. not yours.

Yes, moan and pretend. even when it hurts like seven hells just descended down on you.

Yes, believe he’s still your man.

Even when he’s long, long gone.




It will never be easy enough to let go of your memories. One shard, one tiny piece will always remain. In my heart, in my diaries, in poems, in my conscience. It will always, always feel like it was just yesterday when it all went wrong, I will always remember that one night where you just threw us away, because of just one simple misunderstanding. When has love, friendship, hatred ever been easy? If it were, all the prose and poetry would burn in the ashes and would probably be all about how Apocalypse will take us all away one day. But you never gave me a chance to make you see what you had assumed. You never let me jostle you and make you see the light, make you see that, no, I never wanted to burn you, I always wanted to keep you warm. Always.

It’s just as hard as that night, still. After, all the places I went with a different set of people, who never mentioned you. But I always missed you. Between jokes, between gossip, between everything. You see, you were my connect to the world I once loved. You were the reason I wanted to live in a world where selfishness overtook breathing for a priority.

I always try though, to not to talk about you, to not meet your eye, to not be in the same room as you. But how long do I resist my wanton need for you? Your skin, your touch, your smile, your cries, how can I not want them? How can I not wrap your sweater around my body in the hot May summer and cry relentlessly?

Come back, and stay. Even if it’s a goodbye 5 minutes later, but, stay. Please.




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If you had a palette,

Of colors dark and bright.

And I were to be

A painting of your dreams

And fears, all alike,

How would you paint me?


Would the strokes be gentle,

Like wind ruffling through the leaves,

Or bold and cold,

As a tide clinching a wavy sea.


Would it be bright,

Like the sun’s first ray.

Or pale and murky,

Like the moon making its way.


Would you draw me,

Like every other canvas, you framed,

Or would I be absolute,

Your heart taking over your mind, day by day.


Would I be just a painting,

Ready to be sold,

Or a whole, a masterpiece,

For your eyes to behold.


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While spattering some colors,

I ran into a memory.

She waved hello from underneath the sheet.

Where it was a nimble shade of purple.

Admonishing the remembrance, I dribbled a duskier shade.

A mix of black and lilac.

The lilac was almost dominated by the black.

But at some places, white brought it out.

And all over again, I teleported to a memory.

This time, I couldn’t resist dwelling in the lanes for longer seconds.

I walk down this narrow road.

Pitch black, when I hear knocking at the door.

The door to my left is pounding.

The door to my right is pounding too,

But nobody is seen.

A short while later, all 12 houses on the right and on the left are smashing.

The clutter is deafening.

I am writhing, striving to eliminate the clatter.

But there’s only so far the ears would allow the fingers in.

Should I turn back?

But then, another shade, another memory.

I stay still, the deafening banging and smashing come to halt all by itself.

Slowly, opening my eyes.

Tears start flowing which I hadn’t realized had arisen in my lids.

Maybe because it was all so agonizing.


As I regain my stature,

A lady opens the third door in the right lane.

So does a lady of the third house in the left lane

They both look alike and wear a purple apron,

Difference is, the lady on the right has the lighter purple, which I tried to cover.

And the lady on the left is a mixture of lilac and black, an evenly blended mixture.

No, hints of the light lilac peek from beneath.

They both invite me over.

But why should I go, I should keep walking.

But, it’s my memory lane.

Moments I had lived.

Reliving them couldn’t be dangerous, at best, it could be hard.

Before I prepare my mind,

The lady on the right,

Beckons; “Forget what you lived, move on. Darkness prevails if you let it.

Wipe it off. Embrace the lights. It’s no longer a battle you fight.”

As if a counter, the lady from the left speaks in the same breath as the right lady stops.

“You always have to live with your fears. Fears are never pleasant,

Come in nip a little and drown in a murky lake. After all, it’s all you.

Drown in yourself, honey.”

After being resorted to the agony and discontentment.,

It’s not hard to give in to the temptation of being under the dark.


None of the ladies speak now, they both await my pronouncement.


I am dragged back to my desk,

The purple color, in both the shades all over the canvas.

I think that’s the best.

Not choosing, just living a little of both lives.

Misery and joy.

Smiles and frowns.

Lilac and dark blacks.

Painted Red

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I painted my lips

In the colour of your love.

Dark, everlasting,

On the show, for everyone.

So deep, it burned.

The desire scorched deep into my bones.

Passion was a feeling,

I showed everyone what it looked like.

With you.

Every night, you took my breath away.

Every morning, made me glow with grace.

In your company, I knew what happiness is.

Your kisses so ferocious,

They made me dance on thin air.

Your touch so gracious,

It made me tumble into a pool of heated mess.

Oh, what are you doing to me, love?

It’s driven me senseless,

I’ll try to contain my longing.

Till the next time, I paint my lips red.

The Petal Count

What will your existential prop be?

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Everyone on this planet

Has a regular ritual.

A belief that reminds them of being in this world.

They do not dwell in their homes or rooms.

They reside amicably.

The reassurance of having something to them,

The sacred secrecy.

Is placating to the heart on the days it grows desolate.


Mine is petal count.


I pick out a flower from my backyard.

Lie down on the freshly watered grass and close my eyes.

I can always feel the grass growing a little dewier,

Than it already was against my back.

It urges me to begin the everyday affair

And the sky looks down yearning for today’s findings.

The grass and the sky,

My only audience and accomplices.


I hold the flower high up,

Eyes still closed.

And pluck out a petal.

No, it’s not “Love me, love me not”,

It’s not for the crush who has no idea of my existence.

Neither for the ex-boyfriend who goes back the corridor,

God forbid, our eyes meet.


It’s for my subsistence.


Every day I pluck a petal,

If it’s a crushed, pallid one.

I clench my fists,

Prop myself for a day at the battlefield.

If not, and I’ve plucked one out in fine fettle,

It’s a lucky day.

I put the flower in a vase,

Vowing to come back

The next day.

To pluck out a petal again,

To be in this world,

To be animate.


A Shattered First Love

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Hi, it’s me.

Your sidekick, your best friend, your partner in crime.


I committed a crime.

Which you know nothing of.

I fell in love with you.


11 September 2014.

We talked about how silly our teachers were to think we would actually submit a project just two days after she gave it to us.

We laughed and walked together to the canteen and had a coffee.

Hot September day and we sipped coffee when everyone bought their ice creams.

We talked till the last class ended.

All the atrocities of this stupid world.

How everyone was oblivious of the simplest pleasures of living.

The project day turned into a meaningful conversation between two distinct ice cream eaters.

Me and you, we came to be called friends.

We sat together, laughed together, created and resolved drama together.

An inseparable team of notorious 11th graders, me and you.

Soon, I realized I was in trouble.


18th September 2014.

Maybe the shortest time in all of human history to fall in love.

Fall in love with all of the person. His fears, his dreams, his nightmares, his habits, his weaknesses.

I fell hard.

I wanted to tell you that you were the person I wanted my every project to be with.

You were the one loved so damn hard.


19th September 2014.

My heart was in smithereens.

It was cut through in a zig zag fashion, which would look like art to some, but it was battered to pieces.

You told me about how much you miss the girl you once loved.

It was her birthday. You wanted to remind her of your love.

Your love, which you’d scream to the world at 3:47 am.

And at 6:15 pm, there I was.

Putting up a heart together in your bedroom,

Nursing mine

Writing your outpour onto a perfect replica of my heart before this day.


21st September 2014

“She loved it, oh she loved it, she blushed so hard, she gave me a hug….”

How could I have ever told you that I sobbed silently over the phone when you danced on your bed, practically on the top of the world.

How could I ruin your beautiful day, just so I could laugh.

I broke further. I wanted to rush into your arms and tell you how much I wanted you to hold me against you.

The sobs choked my voice but I listened to every word you said. All you had to say.

We both didn’t sleep that night.

You got a piece back. Me? I lost another.


11th October 2014

After a collective festival vacation, we all returned to school.

I sat amongst the large group we had, but I wasn’t there.

I was still stuck at the night.

You sat right in front of me, giving me the eye whenever something came up with a minute reference to our personal jokes.

Could you look through me then?

How could you though, you saw through someone else.


21st November 2014.

The air couldn’t have been colder and it turned colder further.

She rejected your proposal three days back.

You hadn’t talked to me since then.

I wanted to just hold you let you sob and give all the love my broken heart still had.

But, you shut me off.

There isn’t a day to this moment that I don’t wish I’d just come over and hugged you and kissed you no matter how weird it would’ve gotten.

You’d have known, at least, that I had loved you throughout.



We grew apart, our banter at 3 am slowly started to end at 12, with some excuse or the other.

Slowly descending to twice a week talk or sometimes, not even that.

We just landed where we once began to grow.

Two distant project buddies.

Still sipping coffee, but alone, away, apart.