The brightest of stars is not compatible to my physique

The pilgrims and the wanderers, in me would find what they seek

But then you faltered, perhaps not knowing the monumentality of words

You didn’t know I idolise them the way the disenchanted sky is for caged birds.


I said


I can neither fathom nor comprehend

Is it an attempt to look deep into the aged wounds and mend?

But my walls aren’t tamed; they know when to hold themselves in contempt

They daren’t stir, for many a times they’ve paid the price of moving ascent.


You couldn’t say

For you knew all too well that this ‘phase’ shall too pass

Yet you faked it all, in the fear of sounding superficial and crass.


It ended up to nothing but a game of pretence

Laced with secrecy, shaded and shrouded with deception, dense.



The healing couldn’t have taken long, but the agony stretched it afar.

Made its residues prominent, evident, like sickening tar.


The scars were a mere reminder that the memory is here to stay,

The mind scoffed, all the traumatising flashbacks couldn’t have disappeared anyway.


How do you push back thoughts that become a part of your very existence?

For they don’t reason with your identity even if you manage a secure distance.


How are you expected to flip your hair and bear pain far-fetched?

What you wish to be elusive despairingly becomes etched.


The path of healing is coarse with crevices throughout

Every stone in the way compels you to take a different route


Yet you tread on, feeling heavier with every step

While the wicked brain takes you back to all that’s gone and all you’ve left.



Whilst day, I have the name of a coquette.

Aloof and indifferent are synonymous to my persona

A mimosa I am not, contrary to conviction handed to me laced with sheer hate

For my petals never bestirred, I presumptuously don the title of a prima donna.


Whilst night, I have the name of a Hecate

The designated inhumane, infidel dame who gulps down a mush of anguish and wine

I revolt at the very concept of happiness; I snigger at the illusion of a euphoric fate.

It is at three am when I burn down bridges to the juncture of my shrine.


Then imagine how appalled I would be at his question which made me swirl my head

“What are you called”, was his brazen interrogation, “when you’re simply being yourself?”

I pondered, deliberated, with hazy thoughts I tossed around in bed

It was then I had an epiphany, my naked identity, detached from me long ago, now resided in a rusty shelf.



A multitude of incessant voices, all in varying tones

Screeches of agony, shrieks of laughter, mockery in anger’s pretence

His eyes flickered yet remained fixated on the wane crumpled page alone.

Feet firmly on the ground of an exquisite opportunity but to the heart it made no sense


Bewildered, astonished, he simply couldn’t infer how the page found his briefcase

Midst documents that testified his intellect were these verses that didn’t belong

A piece of poetry, it was, for a long lost mistress, he winced and made a face.

Shook himself for overlooking his ambitions, an act both unacceptable and wrong.


Yet he’d be lying if he said this page didn’t compel him to lean towards transpontine

The wisps of her ombré red hair and the toxic euphoria of her enchanting eyes

Reminiscing about the nights spent next to the woman he dared call mine.

And almost erratically he craved fresh air, left her in the abyss to sob and whine.


Defeated by the merciless flashbacks it was all he could do to keep up with respiration.

Crushed under the insurmountable weight of memories, he reached for his phone

The sole picture he had of her deprived him of sanity, it was anything but a consolation

Enough of retrospection and denial, all that was now left was for him to face the tyranny alone.


The wailing heart.

It gave her ears a deepening ache, it upset her head

Unused to the trauma, drifted her thoughts elsewhere, for hours she read.

It got to the point where the pain became as visible as an undisguised wart

Hushed for so long, it was the sound of her wailing heart.


“Why the sudden lamenting?” She felt compelled to ask.

“All these suppressed feelings I am now unable to mask”

“Surely there are other ways to deal with the pain?”

So caught up in life, you forget you have feelings, the heart retorted in vain.


She pondered- was it those who showed her the world and suddenly left in miff?

Or was it those with unresolved conflicts and unspeakable tiffs?

It is neither, the heart answered with a malicious grin

For now is when you repent for your own sins.



His voice synchronised with the silent strumming of my soul

It ran the fickle and frivolous mind of a man on parole


My eyes clamed shut and in an instant made him ask whether it was something he said

Irony smirked and I urged him not to interrogate, go on please keep talking instead.

And thus he spoke, with a gleam in his bespectacled eyes, of what kept him up as a ghoul

The paradoxes which tickled him, the books that left an imprint in his melancholy soul


I tried to pay attention, believe me; I did, but that throated husky voice became my kryptonite

His unheard words must’ve been of significance but alas, my lapse of judgement deviated from right.



She was nineteen when she discovered that the world is a ghastly place

Henna replaced her university textbooks as she was compelled to contribute to the great Indian charade

She was asked to put her economics honours degree to practical use,

Utilize the concept of allocation of resources by saving the fruit for both salad and juice.


They stifled her voice and clipped her wings

The threshold to her doom was the glorified ceremony of the exchange of rings

But she’d always known that the fire that kindled within was what set her apart

Woke up to the canvas of the world all set to create her own genre of art


Thus began her excruciating journey with one too many ridges

Her inexhaustible ambition, combated martial problems and clinical depression as she went on building and destroying bridges,

Against all odds of trivial hegemony and patriarchy she refused to resign to her predetermined fate,

My mother, ladies and gentlemen, is at present on of the top five female entrepreneurs of her state.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *