An Active Exercise In Trying To Feel Better

An active exercise in trying to feel better is to identify the antagonizing thought that's sitting in your head, like a crown of thorns. Put a pin on that thought, highlight it and let it stand out from the rest of the many things you may be thinking about simultaneously. 

Now let's strip it of any adornments that add any glamour or weight to this little bitch. Let's not romanticise what's already painful and/or uncomfortable. What is this thought based on? Is it based on real problems? If yes, then let's identify the problems and create solutions to each of them, one by one. 

If it's based on imaginary issues then let's write them down too, one by one, and prove why they're imaginary and not real. 

Once that is done, and we are faced with nothing but an incident or a sentence or a thought or a fear that has managed to plague our mind for so long, it is easier to fight and defeat this monster. We have objectified it, and facing it now feels far less intimidating. The fear of loss is smaller and more meek. 

For someone who has been afraid of numbers and is infamously a sufferer of dyscalculia, such objectification and numerification of problematic factors is strangely and ironically soothing. Once I see the numbers on the left hand side of the page and I know I have a list to turn to in order to smoothen things out for myself, I feel instantly stronger.

Try it sometime, it works. 

Grateful To Be Alive

So what if the world is 

up in flames

I am quite grateful today

for a roof above my head that

shields me this morning

from this sudden cloudburst

that's drenched my town 

in working-class woes.

I am quite grateful today

for a hot coffee mug

as it warms my hands

that have gone cold off late

with anxious off-handed 

phone scrolling.

I am quite grateful for 

birdsong

despite my terrible ornithophobia

for it is sweeter than

the songs of loss.

I am quite grateful for this 

breath of fresh air from this 

clean, wet, promising morning

because at least it sustains me.

I am alive, much like these

mynah birds on the windowsill,

and I too will fly soon,

but until then, I am just

so, so grateful.

An Ode To My Son

Nobody taught me how to be 

a mother, except you,

my little cherubic child. 

I have learnt on the go,

like a painter flowing free

on a blank canvas-

guided only by impulse and art.

We pluck flowers and blow them

away

as the winds heat up with an 

impending Indian summer,

incubating within the belly of a monster

that I will fight tooth and nail

to keep you safe from,

but life isn't about being safe,

I don't want you to simply survive.

You are a king, my son;

born to rule hearts and lands

but mostly to rule your own destiny

and thrive.

As we sit cross-legged in the grass

today

like two friends with a secret,

I feel the sameness of our souls 

and the congruence of our hearts.

Again a wind blows

and I am filled with peace-

life feels lovely, like a song about

happiness.

A ladybird sits on my knee,

and you laugh;

we try to feed it weeds and twigs,

and I wonder if I have learnt 

exactly how 

to be a mother

because I feel a comfort now

that was missing before-

and I'm sure it comes only

from the love and applause you give me.

I feel like a mother-

my life's greatest victory.

Aspiration

There is something really special

about a couple that has grown old

together.

When you've been through

several summers, winters and storms 

together

and endured- sometimes also shined-

I am obliged to bow in front of them 

with respect and an envious form of 

admiration.

I want to grow old with my husband, too

and draw jealousy from youthful eyes 

when they see the warmth with which

we still hold hands,

and speak our own silent language

that no one else knows.

I want us to sparkle like a rare emerald

at a cocktail party 

that everyone looks at and gasps with awe,

but only the really lucky ones 

get to wear 

on luckier fingers 

that garland their lover's being.

Endurance

Everyone will tell you

that you aren't enough;

you are insignificant and irrelevant-

a fat burden on the shoulders 

of those far more important;

"You ought to be grateful", they say.

But what about those dark nights

when it was your unfaltering flame

that kept their fire burning?

What about those times

when your trembling hands

held this house of cards

and kept it from crashing?

And what about the day 

when you bled copiously

so they could sleep on a bed of roses?

People forget the worth

of those who don't often announce it.

This world and this age 

have no regard for humility.

The graceful must live 

in a dark cage of silence. 

Lonesome

There was once a day

When we sat in the October sun.

You played with my hair

Like it was a violin string;

And I stared at your face

Like it was my homeland-

Your lips announced my existence

And your eyes decided the shape

Of my body.

Our hands were entwined 

Into a serpentine belt of 

Oneness. 

You held my dreams,

And I held your reality.

But the sun doesn't shine forever,

And October eventually melts away;

And today, all I'm left yearning for 

Is not poetry, is not the temperance

Of your everyday kisses,

It is you, in your opaque entirety.

Because I do not yet know how 

To not be loved by you,

And if I have my way, 

I'd prefer never to learn.

Motherhood

As I held your hot palm 

in the dead of a long night,

and your body tasted fever 

for the first time in your 

innocent, blessed life

I realised that real love 

was this.

Powerful, maternal, and consuming;

my prayers are couplets 

that I chant for you

and for your life to be 

a bed of beautiful, red roses

even if no human has had 

that good fortune yet. 

Walk On, Honey

Sometimes in life, one must learn to walk with trepidation and nimbleness, like a jungle cat that must remain hidden from sight. Because one's usual gait carries far too much gusto and swagger to be accepted by the world around you. That very world which you wish to conquer and rule in the foreseeable future, and also that which has made patriarchal and archaic assumptions of how you must feel when pushed up against a brick wall. 

Walk quietly through this fire of judgement until you finish your lap and win what you set out to win. Grow a thorny hide if you must to ride through the storm. Sing songs of grace and inspire yourself to do better because you simply must do better and must grow stronger. Victory and power aren't easily achieved and only the worthy can scale these peaks. 

I must be my own champion because the bigger picture is worth this strange yet poetic journey.

Purpose

Life mostly feels short, doesn't it? With time always choosing to bend paths and break necks, flowing like an unruly river with nothing to lose. Peaceful years are never as luxuriously long as they ought to be, and fun evenings always seem to end quicker than one would like. 

And yet one thing I've come to learn over the years has been how despite my previous hyperbole, our life is, in fact, the longest thing we will ever own. This time that we've been given down on this planet will be the longest, most thorough experience we shall ever have. This is the biggest platform, the most prime opportunity to leave our mark. The legacy you leave behind will not be the money that your bank account housed, it won't be the size of the diamonds on your dead fingers, and it certainly won't be how pretty you looked and how many followers you had on social media. 

Kindness, courage, empathy and a dedication to leave this earth in a better shape than how you inherited it- that's the kind of legacy worth leaving your grandchildren.

It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's not how many summers you've seen and how many winters you've survived. How many people smile with warmth and comfort when they hear your name- that to me defines how purposeful your life has been.

Conversions

Sometimes,

when I've been writing too much

poetry

but a thought arrests my brain,

wrangling it like a boa constrictor,

and I just have to turn it into

an article

I witness a little disentanglement

of proverbial threads.

The words break free,

like rebellious pearls

from a gossamer string

and fall;

scattered shrapnel 

hiding sarcasm, truth and lyricism-

what you, the reader, shall find

depends on the glasses you wear,

and the wine you drink

because just like that,

in the blink of an eye,

I can transfigure 

Prose to Poetry

because perhaps that is

my language, after all.

Dark

Is there a name 

for this impenetrable darkness

that seems to have bathed my 

hands, toes, hair and heart?

Is it called sadness?

But sadness sounds like a consequence,

like a phase or a feeling.

This seems to be a continuum of unhappiness

that turns the ladle round and round

until the milk turns to butter

and my eyes become red rubies

and my cheeks become wet marble.

This seems to be a bed 

on which I must lay alone,

pillow-less,

head resting on the graves of happier days.

Maybe there is a name for this 

thing,

but would just knowing the name

be enough to pull me out of this hole?

Or should I choose the easier option 

of sinking,

drowning,

and being forgotten..?

Prayer

Throw me down a thunderbolt

from Your celestial abode

so that I may arouse

this sleeping earth into 

awaking. 

It has slept for too long,

stayed quiet for too long,

allowed injustice for too long.

Let me electrocute the silence

and turn it into an uproar, and

into fireworks

lit up by the screams of the sinners

and the fiery eyes of the victims.

Send help now for this purge,

and blessings to the brave,

and wine to the artists-

let the poetry never stop.

Even when the Gates of Hell

are opening (or closing)

and an Apocalypse looms over us

like the shadow of a merciless storm cloud-

bless me

so that I may still find 

a moment and a paper, and create,

and never hate.

Bless me, Father.

Girlfriends

Yesterday, the boss decided 

I wasn't efficient enough

to be paid during a pandemic.

The boyfriend felt

that the waterworks that followed

this terribly timed firing 

were hormone driven hysterics-

not to be encouraged,

not to be taken seriously.

The landlord threatened to evict

me unless I suddenly metamorphosed

into a married lady

(because what else would 

lable me settled enough

to be leasing myself a house?).

But the only real reason

I would call it a bad day

wasn't because I got fired,

or dumped,

or rendered homeless-

these are just adult problems

you can't really escape.

It was a bad day because

I finally hit rock bottom

but my girlfriends were too busy

quarantining

to come and laugh with me 

as the year billowed on by

and time's merciless attacks

left us confined 

to a two dimensional screen

while my life went up in

flames.

All Cities Have A Colour

Why is it that when I

close my eyes and imagine

cities

Delhi is a shade of melting gold

on a dry summer afternoon,

Humayun's tomb gleams in the distance

while a parrot yearns 

for its mate;

its calls of love nurturing the mango tree 

and my human ears.

And Bombay is grey.

Black clouds fight with thunder

as Colaba watches silently,

hiding its true self

in a bullet-hit cafe

or a black-and-yellow taxi

or the cobbled roads on which

drenched lovers walk together

before the sun comes out again.

But 

Calcutta is a shade

of orange melancholia;

layers of dust hide the truth here

and time slithers into 

an insecure puddle of old stories

with even older protagonists.

Durga watches over her children

who chase dreams in Kumartuli

that even their grandkids will see

in that very same shade of

orange 

that one can find

in the setting sun.

Indus

This river begins from the mouth

of a mountain

with a glottal roar of wonder

that is as honest and real

as Time.

It descends into the arms 

of a temporary lover;

a green plateau of stagnation-

but the river is too wild and wily

for such tepid simplicity.

Its next descent can be called

an ascension, actually,

to a throne of stability and fertility.

It flows like a mother's prayer

casting its nurturing glow

across the fields and settlements

that thrive from its lifeblood.

Everything it touches with

its feminine wetness

grows Life

until Death shows up.

The ocean waves fat arms

of an ancient invitation,

it is a cycle birthed from

air, water and wisps of something

we don't yet have a name for.

The river leaves, reluctantly and slowly,

joining forces with the sea,

bidding a tearful farewell

to the plains and to its children

leaving sediments of this pain

that will spark memories

and grow cities 

for so many centuries-

Civilizations shall sing its praises

until they begin to fade-

when this mother's death

shall be blamed for its own decline.

Such is the circle of life, isn't it?

Everything is water,

water is everything.

Oops

The sun had set,

and your riparian whispers

dripped mischief

all over the wooden floor.

I tiptoed across the room

to draw the curtains

and shut out the world's eyes

from being able to see our dance

with a feline sneakiness

but the wood creaked below my feet

and you awoke from the reverie,

and now

we would have to wait 

another seventy-six years

for this comet 

of burning passionate glory 

to light up our night sky

and show us the stars.

Beginning

Did you just kiss me

Or was that the wing 

Of a moth flying too close 

To an angry flame

That caressed my skin 

Before flying back

Into darkness

Like nothing ever happened.

Like we didn't just share mouths.

Like the world hadn't just ended and began

With a new symphony

Announcing a new life

Together.

Muse

I've seen her through the cracks

in the wall;

her smile is a bridge of ivory

and her hands are peacock feather fans-

gesticulating

and telling stories through 

movement and magic.

Casting spells and weaving dreams

for other eyes.

Her eyes are different.

Impermeable to influence,

unless we speak of falling rain

which draws wonder from them,

or a warm mug of tea

that softens their fire,

douses it with the promise

of more comfort and hugs.

I have seen how she smiles

and how she laughs-

Thunder and lightning-

twins borne from the same womb.

I have seen how her hair

cascades into a wavy brown waterfall

that crashes into the stony floor

that grounds her like an ancient tree.

Her silhouette is a shadow

that flirts with fate,

tempting it with curves and softness

that no one can touch.

I want to meet her,

but the wall stands between us.

I cannot hear her language

or sense her spirit's heat

or taste the salty lies she tells

her many suitors to shoo them away.

And I can only imagine

the fluidity of her heart

as she pours it, drop by drop,

into her lover's golden cup

as he drinks it, unassumingly,

and I stand watching in envy

those luckier lips 

and that elusive muse

only through the crack.

Gypsy

I can hold my feet tight,

Keep them from straying

Across borders and mountains.

But what about this mind

That flies like the wind,

Invisible like God,

Inscrutable like logic. 

What about that?

Insecurities

Would I be called names

For being jealous 

Of another successful poet?

Or is that a creative quirk

You're allowed to own?

To be your own version of Bukowski;

Be your own eccentric Hemingway;

Be your own unsteady Zelda

And sail through life 

On waves of despair 

That somehow, unbelievably,

Lead you to success, fame,

And immortality.