Old Photographs

Old photographs were supposed to evoke nostalgia And here I go Starting the poem with a rule  My therapist said be kind to yourself  I’m trying to find the right words which would be kind  But not too much- because what if it adds to my narcissistic tendencies? So it is a song on repeat 

For all my pounding heart

For my pounding heart There’s a day where we ride our scooters in the rain and after having heard renditions of vintage ghazals, the rain looks as if transported from a movie set- carried by a sepia butterfly. I hold on to your kurta as if my life depended on it and while that’s unhealthy,

Till 19

I loved him till i was 19 A fine man A dine man A family man  I loved him till I was 19  Without a thought  A pause… All I knew was  Songs  Backstreet boys  Metallica… Kenny G  In the Suzuki  I loved him till I was 19  Not a threat  Just inexpensive bread  But

Physical distancing In Times of a Global Crisis (A Journal)

23/03/20. Some games of Psych with friends, a light read, a small gesture and an irritable mood. “The Last Summer.” Inconsistent feelings of love.   24/03/20. Anxiety inducing whatsapp videos, a broken glass and gloomy moods. An HRM report and a stomach ache. The need to bathe but no willingness to. A spiritual music that

Beauty of Retrospect

You’re sitting there and you look at people who’ve grown older and if you look closer, you can see in them a young version of them- almost speaking to you. It’s intriguing because one day you’ll become old but you’ve been every one of your age. You’ve been 2 and you’ve been 12 and you’re

Him

I see you in Derek In his eyes and his unkempt hair I see you everywhere I see your tiny hands in my large heart That refuses to slow down when you hover over me I see you in Alex In his tussles And his carelessness I can’t stop seeing you every day and night

Running away, running towards

I’m running away from the letters that make up the word ” future”. I’m running into faces that make up the person ”fraud”. I’m walking on a thing called “road” which takes me to a place called “oblivion”. I’ve had enough of activity Still I feel handcuffed As if I have no agency No matter

Panorama

I never wrote poetry For the simple reason That I’d fall short of Words and a story You might think It’s you who I seek This time though, It’ll be nothing short of magic It won’t be a name, place or identity It’d be a huge mountain That I’ll seek Or maybe areas that are