Need No Lullaby

Sleep is quiet and calm on most nights,
and is a coin tossed in the well of forgetfulness.
It keeps lips sealed for a few hours and reminds the eyes to not betray realities too tainted with
My anxiety.
But this shadow, this cloth clinging to my chest in this summer heat, wraps itself around my ribcage,
even as I temporarily forget it exists.
It shows up in a back too stiff, too arched against the mattress,
Arms numb under the weight of a head.
You see my neck has learned to scoop in on itself, it is always chin to chest these days.
Clenched jaw and fingers curled into fists keep the rest of me company,
As I make a habit out of waking up tired,
Brush away questions about the shadows growing under my eyes,
Lie about last night’s smudged kohl.
It’s easier to explain the clumsiness of this skin,
Than these grapevine thoughts that loop over and underneath this freshly made bed.
So in this endless parade of overslept mornings, bedtimes creeping into the a.m. and
Afternoon naps like erasers of unease,
I keep sleep like emergency defense mechanism, it muffles the sound of alarms
Going off inside and out.
And when you call me up mid day and the answer on the line is a blurred yes,
Keep the phone down,
Understand that maybe this quiet and calm has not turned on itself yet,
That it is still escape,
And I’d like to keep it that way,
For another 5 minutes.


I haven’t paid much attention to this place in quite a while. Maybe I should change that.

Until We Meet Again


Hoarding Blankness

Dear You,
I keep starting this and writing a line but I end up deleting it after five minutes.
Maybe it’s because I’m a little rusty with this whole thing with words.
It’s been quite a while since I really wrote, so perhaps I’ll start again with a letter to you.

You know, I used to hate typing things out.
I was quite attached to that scritchy scratchy sound the pen made on the thick pages of the diary I bought  years ago. That diary is still in my cupboard, all bound with yellow-green thread with marigold petals embedded in it’s pages.It still smells like the mountains of my home state and holds so much naivety that it’s embarrassing.
But I don’t write in that diary anymore.

In fact I haven’t written on paper in ages and it’s almost as if I’ve made a hobby out of collecting beautiful diaries I’ll probably never use.
No, I’m not a hoarder and I don’t compulsively buy them. It’s just that they happen to fall into my lap whether I want them to or not.
Almost each one goes ungratefully empty, save perhaps a thank you note, my name or maybe a hasty poem scribbled on the first couple of pages.

I’ve gotten comfortable with typing things out now though.

Maybe I’ve stopped writing on paper because paper seems more permanent, more like evidence and is a more tangible memory of things I’d be better off not remembering.

Things I write on screens are easy to erase and easier to forget, and I don’t have to deal with the horror of confronting messy thoughts spilled somewhere when I’m sorting out my cupboard.

But I still save up these diaries. Keep them tucked away in a corner on the middle shelf of my cupboard and promise myself that I’ll come back to writing in them someday.
Always convince myself to not give the empty ones away because, come on, the orange one was a token, the white one was a prize and the pink one was a gift.

And well, maybe I do have a bit of a hoarding problem.
But I promise I’m trying to work on it.

Until We Meet Again.

Sunset Lessons

13 steps up the stairwell,
lead to my father’s terrace garden,
that I count under my breath,
like a hymn.
Every rooftop sunset is a pilgrimage,
every song played on loop in time to the swing,
is a prayer,
to Practicality.
Because you offered me your secrets
and your messy stories,
masquerading as some type of love.
Like crushed rose petals from the terrace
garden of my house,
creased into your palms,
blushing pink and dark red,
are words I have heard on sunny days,
tinged with the promise
of happy endings.
Perhaps I heard them,
from a different set of hands
and perhaps with words rearranged
but they are,
all the same.
matching the creaking of the swing.
Because love has become,
a routine stairwell,
a sun that always sets and
a song we play on repeat until we can’t anymore.
Until every high note becomes a
rough patch
and the bass becomes a low point,
which we wish is where,
this song ends.
So sunsets on my terrace have taught me,
how to press pause before
I get sick of a song.
Taught me how to breathe in the white noise,
of homeward bound souls on the road.
Taught me how to sing,
on my own.
And climb down those 13 steps,
before it gets dark.


I’m lucky enough to have terrace and a dad who adores making it pretty. I do a lot of thinking up there, and sometimes none at all which is a welcome change for someone like me.
This poem is brand new and I am unsure if it is even worth putting up.
But this is a feeble attempt at coming back to a platform I used to love writing for and I guess something is better than nothing.

Thank you for reading till the end.
Until We Meet Again.

Disagreeable Dislike

Dear You,

The day has been littered with torrential downpours that seem to start out of nowhere. One second I am sitting in a silent room and the other, the sound of angry droplets seems to be emanating from everywhere.
Rain has never been something I’ve been able to fall in love with, you know. And believe me, in my efforts to soothe the raised eyebrows and high pitched squeals of “What?” when people get to know of my dislike, I have tried to love it. Tried not to scowl as it started to rain just as I was supposed to go outside.
I have failed every time.

People have always seemed to find salvation in moving water.
Take a dip in a river, a river you labelled holy and then polluted, and you shall find all your sins gone without the inconvenience of atoning them.
Perhaps there is something about rain that mimics that feeling of salvation.I must agree that it is very gratifying when the weather shares your mood.

Bad and difficult decisions in movies seem to be always followed by some serious trudging on the road in soaking wet clothes or staring out windows as it storms outside.
Or better yet, did something horrible and need to apologize to someone? Extra points if you run to them when it’s pouring and forget the umbrella and sensible shoes.
Maybe it could be turned into an attractive offer, “Easy forgiveness this monsoon, tune in to our weather forecast to make things right.”

Tell me, have you ever stepped out while the clouds in the sky came to a boil? Did you leave the umbrella at home or have you always had that shield within easy reach during July? Did you ever allow rain drops to trace road maps on the back of your arms? Did the monsoon ever make a poet out of you? Could you teach me how not to cringe when I step into a puddle? Because I do that. A lot. Even when I was kid and the perfect description of a happy child was a photo of one jumping to make a splash of muddy water as it rained.

You probably feel that I talk about the weather a lot. Well, at least I haven’t talked about this season before.
I haven’t told you how I think rain brings either the lightest of joy or the heaviest of gloom.
I haven’t told you about how maybe this whole aversion to “magic water from the sky”, in the words of my friend, can be traced back to a hazy memory of me as a scared four year old who used to think that the mangled, bare tree in the park would fall right on top of the house if it rained too hard.
I haven’t told you all this and maybe I’ll never be able to.

My apathy for the oh so romantic monsoons will probably never cease. Perhaps my love for outrageously windy days will make up for this shortcoming.

Until We Meet Again

The Muse

You wrap me up in the warmth of your words,
uttered with a tilt of your head and a cold glint in your eye.
And I muffle up the voice inside me,
the voice that’s screaming at me to run and not look back.
It’s of no use to run.
I’m too far gone to not grant you permission to destroy me.
So I close my eyes.
And I try not to shiver against the warmth of your words.
It’s of no use.
Because I wake up with a frozen heart and realize
that the warmth had radiated from a fire in your lies
that has turned my body to dust.
You abandon me like the leftovers of a chain smoker
and walk out leaving a trail of ashes in your wake.
And as the hotel room door slams shut,
you light up another cigarette and breathe out its poison.
The smoke spells your new muse’s name.


I’m going through somewhat of an I-can’t-finish-what-I-begin-writing phase. It’s a horrible feeling.
To compensate I decided to post something I wrote around two years ago. 
I hope you like it.

Until We Meet Again

Sermons For Her

Silly girl.
Keep your voice down.
The syllables in your throat that are choking you are your own creation.
Drink a glass of whiskey from the cabinet and burn them.
Let your stomach be a graveyard of unsaid things.
The scars left by mocking words are covered with the stinging ointment of laughter
that bubbles from your lips and tastes like poison.
You wonder if it tastes like honey on the lips of others.
Keep your head down and your eyes closed and pray to whatever god may be.
It doesn’t matter if your veins carry flames instead of blood.
Because their souls are cracked ice and there will be no place for a forest fire like yours.
So put out the inferno inside you and take a step into hell.
Here you’ll find friends and murderers. Sometimes both.
Wrecking balls will turn your bones into dust and the pillars of your pride into rubble.
Don’t scream. It’ll ruin your pretty face.
Sit in silence with your hands folded gently in your lap and bite your tongue until it rusts.

Trust me darling,
its better this way.


This poem was the first time anger in its purest form seeped into my writing. I am hoping you liked it.

Also, remember the life determining exams I told you about?
Well I’m in the middle of them.
Wish me luck.

Thank you so much for reading.

Until We Meet Again

The Medicine

Don’t look at me like that.
I know the Fates have done their damage.
They apologized and said that there was nothing they could do.
Except slash and burn and cut and carve and make everything go up in smoke.
My parents have taught me that resentment is poison.
I don’t know when I became venomous.
And antidotes are expensive.

I know that everything I say sounds the same now.
Honestly, I don’t care much for differences today.

You and I.
We’re alike.
We burn old letters and smile when their words burn our souls.

Don’t look at me like that.
I know what the doctors said.
They apologized and said that here was nothing they could do.
And I don’t care because I don’t have space for new scars anyway.

After I burn your last letter,
I’ll watch us go up in smoke,
and hope the needle they just put in my arm is for making the poison disappear.

But antidotes are expensive. And time and money ran out last week.


This is an old poem.
It’s one of things I don’t know why I wrote.

I would like to thank anyone who read this post. I hope you liked it.

Until We Meet Again.