A Farewell Note

A Farewell Note

No, I don’t think of you anymore.
My memories have turned into pulp,
In a clogged sink of broken smiles and practical solutions
That I clean out everyday so that
My whimsical fancies can still flow

My kitchen counter is a diary
Of songs I stopped singing midway
And tears I couldn’t hold back –
I still cry on some days, in this city that feels like
The arms of a new paramour
With some vestiges of the cologne you wore on the last day
We made love.

Each time I rewind my memories,
They become a little rusted
A little faded
A little tattered on the edges;
I remember how you scorned at sentimentality.
I still listen to your songs on some days
And try to sing my own
But I can hardly identify my voice anymore.

I left a part of me with you on the last day we met
And maybe, it still haunts my favourite bookstores and cafés.
I’m not returning to you, not now
Not ever…
And even if I do
I’ll be your déja vu
You wouldn’t know where to place…

24 December 2017


Three P.M.

Three P.M.


Smoke –
Against your throat –
Creases, and an obscure
Curvature, juxtaposed –
A punch of
Citrus and cherries;
I buried my nose –
Your lips, promising no eternities
With your mouth, sucking my rationale
Right out of my throat;
My lust, dripping lazily
Between my thighs
Right up to my toes.

Your wall, a billboard
Of lives you want to lead
Of lies you want to believe;
A few more puffs and swings
A little more
Inebriated and crazed,
Leaving, a bitter taste in my mouth that
Made your tongue taste
A little less
Of cigarettes and regrets.


If my half-stringed sentences made sense,
You, my love, would see right through
My blunt ends, impersonating a double-edged sword –
I have played Russian Roulette this one time and it has
Stuck on to me, like an addiction,
Like I have been addicted to my memories,
Fast-forwarding them to the point that they have
Corroded beyond recognition.

When we exchange words, is it more like
A monetary transaction? –
Your utterances, carefully rehearsed,
Convey stilted facts in the garb of honest musings
While I so naïvely, rambled, along this unequal barter –
I bartered away my –

I have lost count, really.


Our bodies heaved, and fell
Never, in sync
But, in rhythm
When I suppressed my moans, it was only to let my body
Dwell in its ecstasies –
(As if perfumes have stayed loyal to the glass bottles
That had them encased.)

With a cigarette dangling from the
Cistern of an unused mouth, I
Crave for your stories from when you were a boy
With a heartbreak you tried so hard to make sense of,
You sewed it on your sleeves –
The carcass of a failed experiment.

I have trust issues from the day I saw my mirror lie to me.



1 November 2017


Picture Courtesy – tina-modotti-black-white-photography



I cannot tell the feeble sound of conch shells,
From the monotonous patter of the raindrops
On obscure puddles.
Like the never-ending gossip
Of idle people,
The murmuring is punctuated with uncertain beats of the dhak
Eventually melting,
With the sensual wisps of camphor –
A potpourri of nostalgia and yearning.

My body aches and shivers;
I am no Believer,
And yet, I would make love to you
In the backdrop of incantations.
I would transgress with you
In the haze of incense and spice.
I would climax
And over…
And over…
Your whisper, louder than the loudest
Dhak, louder than the
Conch shells, louder than the sonorous drawls
Of devotees;
Their voices, only half as loud as the desires,
That swarm in the pit of their souls,
Easily forgetting, that the Gods
Are no wish-granting machines.

Fireworks echo into the night,
As I wake up to
A stifled sky
With soot collected under earthen lamps,
Imitating the soot
Dripping from the corner of my eyes.
I did not offer a hibiscus at Her feet,
And chose instead to plant one
At the edge of your neck.

I watch it wither
Along with the dying fragrance
Of camphor, blended in rain.


20 October 2017


Image Courtesy: deviantart.net



I was sixteen when my mouth
Was forced open
With an unfamiliar tongue, dripping of lust;
Chapped lips,
Violently brushing against mine…


I belched enough saliva,
As I watched my guilt trickle down the drain
To accumulate
In a cesspool
Of blood, tears and similar tales.

Buses, trams, metros…
Invisible hands.
Ghost hands.
Under my skirt.
On my breasts.
Around my hips.
Everyone. Wants. It.
A bit of it.
A lot of it.
ALL of it, if they could.
With eyes and leers and
Unsolicited hands up my thighs…

What do you even do with scars
That no make-up can hide?
I poured them
In cologne bottles
To put it away in a cool, dry place
At the back of my mind.

And we are urban fireflies
In a concrete jungle
With several, greedy hands,
Lusting to taste our light.

17 October 2017



The calm, unperturbed body
Is the first layer.
Perfect eyes, lips, skin.
Perfect clockwork smile.


I peel off my skin with the kitchen knife sometimes
To make sure if I still reside
In me.
I make sure if my walls are soundproof,
My windows, bulletproof,
And my attic, decluttered and ready
To hide my chaos…

I have locked in my chaos
In the wardrobe of I am fine
In the iron trunk of I am exaggerating
In the bureau drawer of It’s just a phase.

It is not a phase.

By the time you have reached
The second layer,
You will try to second-guess the restlessness in my blank orbs,
You will try to figure out why I am a problem,
You will try to calculate the equation of my violent sobs.
But you will give up
At the third layer…

And I won’t blame you
For not even trying to venture
Into the fourth, fifth, sixth…
Because your eyes will speak what I have always known –
My mind is a barren land
Of plastic bag relationships and open sewers of insecurity.

But don’t you worry –
You will never go beyond the first layer

10 October 2017



Autumn was crammed carelessly
On the shelf of Transition
Where she sat, uncomfortably,
Between hurts and healing.


There is barely enough leg space
On the days I want climb up the shelf
And look down at the world below;
Humans appear less condescending,
Less selfish,
Less ignorant.
They usually do not.

Between Summers and Winters,
I was Autumn –
A phase.
My transient words sound like lies,
Once mixed with spirits.
So I pour it back and fasten the cork –
I am inebriation,
Wrapped in innocent banter.

Autumn was a paramour
Dangling from wires of
Maybes and probablys…

…Hoping its crimson
Would mean something

8 October 2017



Your fingers in
Had more frost
Than mine could in December.

Even when you clipped
The wings off the
Dying butterfly,
I echoed
Your callous laughter,
Not realising, that when your fingers
Graze down my spine
They are searching for
Other fragile wings
To tear apart.

I have felt
Your fingers inside me
Curl into a question mark,
Searching for answers
Between my thighs…

Did they pause in astonishment…?
Did they not know
Of wings that find a way
To bleed from
The tiniest cracks…?

Your fingers…

Played me.
Berated me.
Unmade me.

In my humiliation,
I chopped off mine.


6 October 2017


(image courtesy: @petitesluxures)