to the one who hates sunsets.

some sunsets are involuntary;
you were having a bad day and decided to chill in the balcony for a while,
the setting sun looked like dying hope drowning in the ocean of concrete.
you didn’t ask for a bad omen when you stepped in the house but forgot how you decided what bad omens are and aren’t.
the days you walk up to your lost love and try to rekindle the memories she has of you,
you see the sun losing its light next to a street lamp;
she only ends up calling you names for holding on for too long.
but you can barely move because the sun is still alive,
even if it’s briskly falling the way your stupid heart does.
I think you’ve put too much faith in people and omens that you forget how coincidence is a term you’ve never acquainted yourself with.
but finding someone(thing) to blame, be it the setting sun even, is your only comfort.
so, go on, for as long as your body allows you.
there’s hope wherever you choose to find it.


Sleepy Rumblings.

Every night I lay in bed and swallow the sheets whole;
for months you’ve treated my heart like a trampoline
placed right outside your window,
a convenient escape that makes no sound and feels like wind in your hair.
You think I laugh at everything, I admit I find ways to compensate for your lack of humour in my surroundings without directly stating it, you might be heartbroken at the thought of it but my dear, that’s how you’ve left me, bruised and aching, it’s only fair I returned the favour.
There are days when I want to scream to the sky of its unfairness,
the stretch towards the horizon and the mirage of finally consuming each other seems too real,
and to then, come across the truth that the horizon only looks like the sky collapse into the land when the entire idea is, as a matter of fact, quite asymptotic.
Our rendezvous was like a boomerang,
you walked into the cafe longing to return to your cluelessly comfortable life and I
came out of the bar with rustled hair and perfect mascara,
screaming poems to the mirrors and grooving to the Jazz.
I, was still an adventure.
You, were still afraid of heights.


Ayaskala is a very dear initiative of mine and the focus is self-care, a topic really close to my heart because I, for one, have struggled to accept and look after myself the way I do today, for years. We’re trying to build a community that is strong from its roots and is concentrated on collective growth and development of all artists and people involved along with special focus on self-care as a priority.

Join us in our venture, follow our Instagram Acount and like our Facebook Page for more information about us.


Our Love In Six Stages


It’s a deliberate decision; the heart knows nothing

but the need to expand like a helium balloon and swallow love in its entirety.

He is the ocean, miles and miles of blue on the edges of land,

separation sways its hair to the whistles of his waves,

he calls my name and I bleed poems from my fingertips;

in the attic of adversities, he paints my portrait,

slipping love letters under my door, asking for a chance at love.


He stuffed love inside my chest

With every breath;

They say suffocation is a leading cause of death

In people; more precisely – lovers.

His teeth like cluttered claws,

Around my vertebrae;

Hushed screams of warmth,

Like a series of sad songs

On summer days lying beside

Setting sunsets, he watched me sleep.

I never understood us, or this,

Lost causes, dead-ends, incomplete verses

Don’t find their closures hanging on.


His words speak of castles and battleships,

some wars unheard of and some truces,

little buildings collapsing into gunpowder

and his palms leaving red marks on bricks.

His screams recognize postcards stamped

with love and tears, baggage of the past,

boats sinking in front of harbours under

the weight of the voice that called it ‘foreign’.

He is a renegade walking through the streets,

I’m the country soaked in betrayal;

he dares to return.


In another dimension of space

– your hands find my hair

during the heat of that Summer

and you braid them with soft movements

fixing lilies and sunflowers in the gaps;

you forget the world lying in my lap

in the garden of South Street

while the passerby smile at us;

I glide gently towards you

in the corners of Paris

perching on the adjacent chair

asking you to sing for me;

I breathe in the breeze of Winter

counting footsteps on my way home,

you stand at the door, whistling,

the lights fall delicately on your face

creating halos of warmth and I say

-“I’ve been sober for 821 days,

it’s thrilling.”


I walk a little more, breathe a little more,

paint sunsets on my wrists, like I did yesterday;

it’s only December and I feel the warmth

of Summer in my bones,

the Summer I will fall in love, again.

Tip-toed, I hush into the house,

mark the floor with blue as I glide around;

the phone rings, like it used to in August,

but this time, it’s my delivery guy calling

with art supplies and journals and feathers.

A little living, for each day of the year.


the moon likes to watch, me and you and her;

little soft spots of symphonies, this love of ours,

it goes beyond my infinities and your growls.

blank pages only rustle, you used to tell me,

so I filled them with apologies instead;

the wait comes to a halt today,

my hands don’t shiver anymore and I

don’t believe the words you say.

healing is better than hurting.

100-poems challenge.

I’ve been losing track of the prompts and the poems and almost everything. Not sure if I’ll be able to complete or even try to consistently work for this challenge anymore. I have too much up my plate honestly, so yes, I withdraw. I will be posting poems of course and I will also try to make it 100 this year but I can’t promise everything. Inconsistency and priorities, sigh. Always the issue with me.


Prompt 3: I Promise

“I promise, I’m okay.”

“I will take care of myself, I promise.”

“I promise, I’m not crying over that boy, ma.”

“I will be fine, I promise.”

“I promise.”

A pair of words I have learnt to unconsciously

slide into my conversations over the years.

I trace my memories

back to the first time I heard these words

from the mouth of my father when I was 12:

that evening, he promised my mother

he won’t ever leave and she smiled,

almost instantly.

I understood, then, how the words I say

would become more believable

with an “I promise”;

and I, have grown, ever since,

trying to hand over

the individuality of my ‘I’

to a promise.

I was 14 when the first heartbreak

came spinning my way and I

ducked underneath the umbrella

of a promise I made

to myself of how

I won’t ever cry myself to sleep.

So, I didn’t.

Instead, I wore a smile to school

the next day, dodging whispers

sympathetic eyes

between the classes.

I wish I had realised back then

how the sound of my voice changes

when I try to swallow my tears

for too long; I wish

I had realised

how it was okay to sometimes,

just not be strong.

I’m 17 now

and my mother has heard these words

far too many times to digest them


She says – baby,

your mouth must not teach itself

to transform its words into skeletons.

Promises are noisy, when they clink

inside the cupboard of memories;

make sure you leave enough space

for you to hear yourself on most days.

I tell her it means nothing

– to hold the ocean in your fists if

you cannot keep it from slipping away.

The two words form the valves

of my heart, making sure

my credibility doesn’t mix

with my self-deprecating words.

And she, leaves a note on my table

the same day, that reads:

you will learn to close your eyes

at nights, when sleep seems like

a distant thought;

you will learn to build poems

out of all the sadness;

you will learn how the people

who care about you,

know when you hide behind

the curtains of meaningless promises

when you’re hurt;

you will learn that there is no need

to say you’re fine

on days when you clearly aren’t;

you will learn the meaning of empathy

from flowers, sipping tea in the mountains;

you will learn, from the atlas, about

places you will grow fond of and

the ones that turn into a home

on days you need escapes;

you will learn the languages of humans

that look vaguely different

but bleed in sorrow the same;

you will learn that this world

is a small place and that

your promises also end up

occupying space and so,

you will offer that space

to love, to compassion,

to hope instead

because, little warrior,

the rebel in you will know

how to stir revolutions

with just the fierceness

in your eyes;

you won’t need promises

to spell out ‘faith’

as long as your heart holds on to it,

I (don’t need to) promise.

#2: Blindness

My grandfather used to speak of men in battle;
howls of the injured soldiers fusing with war cries
creating anthems of combat,
vultures scouring septic corpses of warriors
whose bodies lie on the borders they fight for:
They say war is blind towards anything but patriotism;
you can’t love your country in fear.

My uncle likes to hunt in the dark;
he comes from the royal bloodline of the tribes of Himachal,
his house rings with bullet shots
and animal trophies are as common as oil lamps.
They say tigers and elephants are worshipped in the forest,
and we humans are known to be blind enough
to kill in the name of faith.

My village has heard stories of three witches
that tread the valleys with their eyes closed;
they whisper the past, present and future
under their breaths;
they live to sing stories of blind rulers and
the kingdoms that come alive in the dark.
They say blindness is in the destiny of all who breathe,
it’s a matter of privilege if your intellectual sight is intact.

I wake up to the screams of cities that are burnt
in the name of patriotism, the men whose ears
are only fond of praises of their leather products
and parcelled leopard skins, the innocent who weep
– crushed under the corruption of crownless rulers;
and I realise the deceit so carefully covered
with phoney curtains of development for the people to see:
as soon as I begin to unsee.
I do not see the stoves of politicians,
but hear the flames of the country that provides the fuel.
Ironic, how outer darkness leads to the illuminance of inner light.

#1: “Your mirror writes a poem for you, what does it say?”

you speak in metaphors on days

when poetry sits on your rolled tongue for too long,

sometimes you walk in circles

around the living room humming your favourite songs

your lover breathes silently close to your neck

as you comb your hair;

the chirping of little birds and singing of the wind

likes to call out your name, when you are away.

when you open your mouth to say something

and then forget what it was,

when you scream in between thrillers and horror movies,

when you laugh in the arms of your man,

when you jump on the couch,

when you cry at the death of Sirius Black on TV,

when you wake up with flutters of inspiration,

when you sleep after completing a poem,

when you paint the walls out of boredom,

and you call in sick at work for a book;

you are a living, breathing miracle,

I hope you know.//

P.S. I tried my hand at a little digital drawing.

100-Poems Challenge 2018

Hi there fellow readers and writers,

I have decided to participate in the 100-poem challenge (2018), which is an initiative by Airplane Poetry Movement. All those who know me, know of my inconsistency with almost everything; this year, I plan on conquering that weakness and ingraining consistency in my life. I hope it works out for me. I will be posting each one of the 100 poems here (if I reach 100 tbh), any review and criticism will be appreciated. 🙂


Happy New Year, folks.


the moon falls into the arms of the sky,
I am sober tonight while the water shimmers drunk;
you shuffled through your clothes,
your drawers, your playlist, your things,
searching for the slightest sign of my presence
and I peeked standing on your porch
through the window.
my love danced on your window sill
as you waited for me to come home;
I sat in front of your door during the days,
I walked on the streets of your neighbourhood at nights,
I watched you watch me from afar, with my arms wide open;
you took 4 years to decide, darling,
now take an infinity to think of leaving.