We shared a leaf between us both
Of us it made a kin;
And no one knew -
They knew of you,
Of me they’ll find out too.

Unwilling birds together shared
To bring us both at once;
For us they died -
Who died hath tied,
So blood could claim we lied.

We crushed a seed with borrowed hands
We both found in it calm;
Over it spill -
And spill at will,
Of times awaiting still.

The ages of 18 through 20, my college years, were particularly precious. It was a difficult time for me because I had left my hometown of Dubai, and relocated to Goa, India, which is where I'm supposedly from. It's difficult for a teenager to leave his entire world behind, and move to a whole new country. And not just any country - India. I did not feel like I was moving forward, I felt like I was moving backward. On my prom night, I was saying goodbye to friends who were moving to the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand - or just staying in Dubai. I was the ONLY ONE moving to India - and I was gutted. My world was my colony where I grew up, my friends, my then girlfriend. It was everything I had ever known for 18 years of my life - and now it was being taken away. A day after prom I was on a plane to India with my family, that's how quickly the move happened. And on that plane, I thought about what was in store - which was nothing. As far as I was concerned, nothing was in store. I was not excited. This was not going to be a new adventure. I was not going to return to Dubai with tales from the land of the Kamasutra. As far as I knew, I was being punished, and I did not know why.

The first few months were torture. I missed everyone. I would scrounge for change to make ISD calls from phone booths. I would send 140 character SMS messages that cost a fortune. I even wrote letters. And received them. But at some point I realised that by doing that, I was just holding on to something that I didn't really have, and probably never would. Relationships that were bound to evolve, most probably without me - and there was nothing I could do about it, because life goes on. And so I started making new ones. If I was going to have to survive in this new place, whether I like it or not, I had to make new friends and new relationships. This poem is about one of those relationship. It was not a romantic relationship of any kind, but one that holds a very special place in my heart. The person I wrote this for was there for me in so many ways during those initial months. He was a mentor, a brother, and a friend with whom I had some rather strange, albeit interesting adventures. The kind I was convinced wold never happen to me in this strange land - and yet it did. In the almost 15 years since we first met, we've grown apart, fallen out, gotten back together, gotten married (to other people), added new relationships to the fold - grown the tribe, and through everything, made my life what it is today. Really what it is, is a testament to the fact that change really is inevitable in the world around you. You can choose to change with it, or you can choose to stay still. You can stop, or you can continue to move forward. But ask yourself, would you rather be the seed? Or the flower it becomes? The choice is yours.  

She gave her a locket
And told her “my girl,
This is precious, hold tight,
Keep it safe from the world – 
Till the day you meet someone,
Not tomorrow, but soon,
Who will promise the world,
With the sun and the moon.
But be wary, for words
Sell for less than a pound
And if your locket is lost
It will never be found”
So with caution she held it,
Her locket of gold
To never be opened
To never be sold

To be continued …

You have to be living under a rock to not know about the incessant rape culture that has enveloped this country. What was once something that was carried out and later discussed in the shadows, has now made its way into the light - broad daylight. Everyday there are instances of rape across India, and the most unfortunate part is that it doesn't show signs of slowing down. At this point, let me just say that when I speak of rape, I am referring to sex that is not consensual, be it a woman, man, animal, or child. If either one party has not agreed to the act, then for all intents and purposes, it is rape.

When I sat down to write this poem, my head was buzzing. I started mulling over this concept a few weeks ago, and it kept evolving. Till finally when I sat down to write it, I decided, I wasn't going to write out the entire poem. In fact, I was just going to start it, and when my mind clears, complete it - give it an ending. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll continue the story, while I decide whether or not this story has a happy ending. Because isn't that what rape is? Doesn't it start one way and end another? And does the rapist know going in how this is going to end? Maybe he or she will get his or her way, leave the other person there, and flee the scene. Or maybe the other person will not take it lying down, and the rapist will have to make the decision to kill that person so that there is no evidence. Or maybe, the victim will fight back; overpower his or her attacker and bring his or her own justice because the system that was put in place to do just that has failed. You don't know unless it's you in that situation - and I pray it never is. This will also be continued ... 

Now I lay me down to sleep,
But in my head, I howl and weep.
Tears, like the rain they fall;
Tears, bitter as the gall.
I try to hide the pain, but still
I am hurt against my will.
If I should die before I wake,
What good is there for me to take?
My heart is blacker than the night,
My heart is shattered by the light.
Only God can save my soul,
Only God can fill this hole.

Sometimes, you just feel empty inside ...

two buttons, on a face plastered white
hair down to the shoulders – dishevelled – nylon
moulded nose
molded chin
one ear missing
quietly seated on unused furniture.
like grandma's antique phonograph,
there is no music
save for the rain drops that make her dance.

I hate dolls, and clowns. I'm not particularly afraid of them, but I don't like them. Movies like IT and Annabelle haven't really helped either, however this dislike goes back to when I was really little. To be honest, I don't recall any untoward incident that got me on the turn, but I think I have zeroed in on one major source of discomfort - the fake smile.
If there's one thing that dolls and clowns have in common, it's the fake smile that has been plastered on - and it does not change. And if you think about it, that is scary on so many levels. Everyday we meet people who have fake smiles plastered on, and everybody wants those 'dolls' in their life because there's something so comforting about having them around. You can be open with them because their smile invites it. You take them with you wherever you go because they make you feel safe. But behind that smile, lies a nature that you may not see in the immediate future; because like paint, that smile will take time to fade. You won't realise it at first, but in time, the buttons will fall off, and the stitching will come undone; till finally you're able to see inside the ugly stuffing that nobody wants to reveal - yet there it is. Maybe you'll stuff it back inside, try to make it pretty again. Or maybe you'll move on to another doll, a prettier one, with an even bigger smile ...

This poem had started out being a look at the Janus-faced nature of dolls, however in the end, I figured - why kill the fun? I'll leave that to the clowns.