on routines - NaPoWriMo #2

my days love to count themselves
on hands of a clock -
not time, not hours and minutes, no -
but the passing by of days
and running by of nights.

my days love to shapeshift
as i wake up -
from being nebulous cotton-candy noise,
to words that can broken down in 
any given table or flowchart of your choice.

my days love starting with the very thought of beginnings.
what gives me strength is stacking up
on little, little tasks -
breathing too, becomes too big of an ask
if not jotted down before bright sunlight can attack me.

i love the idea of a routine,
to have a dedicated slate, 
every day, 
to wipe clean. 
i love the comfort of knowing,
the idea of carefully sowing seeds
of whatever my body needs to do,
and my mind must dwell on.

my days, you see,
love being the last lines of colour
inside a drawing's border.
skipping beats is only useful to a heart in love, 
the rest of my worlds demand law and order.

my languages are laced fingers, and i will not open my fist

written for social theory, sem6

every morning, my dresser is decked 
with four different tongues that will adorn my day - 
they make their homes in 
colours and 
        smells and 
              textures and 
                      sounds all
folded safely - different, but together.
a symphony of chaos - 
a riot of flavours on an empty street,
my tongues are joyous and complete.

my language dances in reckless abandon
across microphone buzzes, 
traipsing down stage wires,
all but rebellious -
made of chain mail links,
half-soaked in all colours of inks 

रण नो मिट्ठू
pink bandhni sunsets, 
awaiting silver shards of moonlit sands


पोळी चा ळ 
soft lullabies from within the heart of my home, 
a call to bed


हिंदी-उर्दू की बहर
fierce and passionate gulps of art, 
wooing all those who touch it

lives lived in verse
reminders that centuries can settle down 
and coexist, 
if only you ask gently

my language dances in reckless abandon 
taking to heart when told 
that the world is my stage, 
like paints flowing out of a cage 
she spills onto blank canvas 
to the rhythm of four tongues - 
uncertain, 
     defined,
            redefined, 
                 ever-changing.

slow it down - NaPoWriMo #1

Some love was made for the lights

Love is a four letter word

that has mastered the art of bringing 

every other word to its knees. 

Every other syllable begs and pleads,

every other thought is wounded and bleeds,

and love carries on, 

healing and hurting over and over.

This love is meant for stories 

that don't end once the curtain falls.

This love demands  all eyes, all hearts, 

and whatever few tears are left to give.

This love will dance on cemeteries of hurt,

finding sure footing in the dirt and dust

of whatever loneliness came before it. 

Some love asks that you greet it with pride,

with hope, and half a handwritten letter.

Love will ask that you do nothing more, but

act like you've been here before.

Some kiss your cheek and goodnight

Love draws back the curtains just enough,

so that the gentlest of light falls

on sleepy faces. 

This love shifts just a little so you and I 

can sit in leaf-hooded lanes and talk about 

absolutely nothing.

This love is the ghost of your hand in mine

when I cross the street. 

This love asks for sweet slow surrenders,

for arms and hearts - open and tender.

This love grows with you and me,

unfurling and curling around silences

that are your old friends and my peaceful dead-ends.

Some love wants nothing more than

dandelion days and no-plan nights.

Love will comfort you and your weary eyes, 

and ask you to

come back to bed.