On Being Free

But I don’t like to be tied down in one place. I want to be free- to go wherever I want, when I want and be able to think about whatever I want …. People whoose freedom is taken away always end up having somebody. Right? I know I don’t want to live like that.”

Haruki Murakami (Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage)

These lines made me smile. Everytime I feel bounded to something or someone, I begin to itch, desperate to wriggle out of those metaphorical chains. Just like birds in forests reared with freedom, I would never be able to sustain in a cage: shut off, and isolated. I wish I never have to live like that: with chains arresting my feet when I’m just about to fly. I don’t want to live grounded, or governed, living in a place that is meant to contain me. I wish to never be contained.



street lights fly past the car
as you drive me home
the air is light with words
and the smell of your colongne.
I can’t take my eyes off
the way your hands
wrap around the steering wheel,
in strength, committment-
ways i wish you’d hold onto me.
I see the bright yellow
shine on your cheekbones
and how your laughter,
filled everything that was hollow-
within me, with a need of wanting you,
so desperate;
you said
I’d began to get used to you;
only I know how your name lives on my tongue
and my mind has become a temple-
every thought kneels down,
and prays at your altar.
everyday, you are a habit.
my half conjured up sanity does not know
how to hide what I feel anymore.
so I blush at myself in the rear view mirror
and in a parallel universe
as the street lights fly by, my hand reaches across,
and touches yours.


Not all stories have the luxury of finding the end.

Some, prolong and stretch until their elasticity thins into thread like fragility, weak enough to snap with the wind. These stories wait a long time, but are nevertheless lucky enough to arrive to a resolution.

Some find themselves disrupted, broken like a mirror shatters itself into pieces, never to be whole again. There is no hope for these stories.

Then there are others, still, which are abrupted, like an intermission, but continue to exist. They prolong themselves in the hope that they would resume, find their ends in time. The characters of this story continue to live independently, consumed by their own little universes, somewhere believing in the illusion that what started would end, that they would someday cross each other and pick right from where they left off. But this never happens; the intermission goes on eternally. These kind of stories find themselves deprived of the luxury of finding an end; of obtaining a formal closure.
They leave their characters dangling at the edge of a cliff, barely hanging on, somewhere hoping to find a conclusion that would never arrive.

We are this story.

Beautiful Days

on some beautiful days,

I feel flowers bloom out of my chest:
fragrant and beautiful,
keen on insinuating peace and love.
when it’s happy, my heart wants to watch the world bloom too.

on some beautiful days,

I have to forfeit my flowers and happiness
to make others feel what I feel:
they heartlessly pluck out my roses and lilies by the roots,
and watch as the surface of my heart empties out in holes;
punctured, in the most violent way.

on some beautiful days,

I am yet to learn-
that this is the way of the world,
and it will go any length whatsoever
to make you feel as rotten as it is.

Things I Want to Say

there are many things I want to say to you
but my mouth utters conversation starters
like the blinker on the screen of a writer who’s been suffering from a block;
silent, blinking blankly.

there are many things I want to say to you
but you pass me by like the wind ruffling leaves-
so subtle, I never see you,
but you almost always leave me shaken, rattled to the foundations.

there are many things I want to say to you
but I’d rather engage myself here
conjuring up metaphors for my inability to speak :
to you, about me, about us.

there are many things I want to say to you but do you ever notice how small talk is the vast sky overarching our barren world?

The Perils of Movement

If you will have them,
I could give you my words.
You see, we’re poets
and we’re a little too adroit
at splurging ink over the ones
who surprise us-
shake us awake,
light fireworks in our hearts
or move something within us;
like relocating furniture
to places suited better.

It felt like you were the one for me.
You pulled the curtains aside,
dragged my bureau next to the mirror
and hanged all my favorite photo frames on the wall;
you sorted my files by priority,
and organised my books according to color.
It felt great.
Things around me were different.
New, almost to the extent that I forgot having lived there before.

You’d moved things inside me.
Like tectonic plates shifting right beneath my skin.
But movement can only be so good.
I was here, but lost.
Every part was there, but invisible to me.
It felt like I no longer knew who I was.
Like wearing a blindfold in bright sunlight.
Like having been through a tornado and being unable to distinguish myself from the wreckage it left behind.

So if you will have them,
I could give you my words.
For you shifted something inside me so hard,
That it broke.
If you will have them
I could give you my words.
They don’t define me anymore.

11:44 PM

On nights when
the demons come sit by my bed,
I find myself slowly
undoing the threads of my knitted thoughts
and discover things I was
never meant to remember.
I poke my needle through
the fabric of memories
and punch a hole into every inch
that smells like you.
on nights when
the demons come sit by my bed,
it feels a lot like being with you.