With each click of the “Like”,
And each tap on the little heart,
Social media helped her
Take one little significant step
Away from her stubbornness,
From childhood insecurities,
And teenage grudges.
Contrary to what everyone said,
Facebook and Instagram
Are what helped her grow up.



The question. “Will you do this for me?”

The answer. “Yes.”

The first evening, the first book. The cracking steps of a dusty campus building, weighed down by the stifling Sun. One voice reciting, in smoothly flowing Tamil, and echoing in English, the story of a crooked sage who dreamt of writing of a war that ended everything. The other silent, listening raptly.

The next, on a rainy morning, the second book. The iron-wrought balcony, and two mugs of black coffee, steam spiralling into nothingness. Through the muting sound of rain on everything, the first voice speaking of a dejected princess, her longing for revenge, and the beginning of the end. The second, listening, enthralled.

Then, the third book, as they sat beneath the sprawling banyan, the mela existing in constant motion of color around them. In between bites of chaat and sips of buttermilk, the first voice, describing the tale of an unfortunate brethren, turned against each other by the deeds of their fathers. The second, listening.

The fourth book, on a summer afternoon. The sunlit grassy courtyard of a stark white colonial building, remnant of a chained and enslaved history, under the free open cloudless sky. A platter of mangoes between them. The first voice reading out some familiar age-old love story that was destined to end in sombre seperation. The other listening to the first, looking, but not seeing, the sky above, feeling a strange pleasant unease.

The saga does not end there, but the distance does.


Inspired by Venmurasu.


I have seen him;
In an old faded photograph,
his laughing face amidst a sea of laughs
looking back through sparkling eyes;
I have seen him.
I have heard his voice;
Through the crackling speakers
Of a decrepit black telephone,
Hidden in a dusty corner of my-our-his room,
Uttering flawless Urdu verses,
Mesmerising, like the sunlight
that caroms off each ripple of the endless river;
I have heard his voice.
I have known him;
In a sketchbook that ended without ending,
Through the eyes of every stranger
who is his friend,
Who speaks incessantly
Of his wild untameable life,
Of how he only knows happiness
In its truest form- as freedom;
I have known him.
I see him now,
In front of me,
As we stand among an overwhelmed rout,
And our eyes meet for the first time,
The Seeker and the Seeked,
But know this,
I have seen him,
I have heard his voice,
I have known him for eons.


She kisses me,

At the warm junction of my neck and shoulder.

There, she buries her face,

Hiding it from the world.

I feel her scalding tears,

Falling, tangling in her hair,

Burning a trail on my skin.

Hands come up frantically,

Grasping me,

Grasping at straws.

In that one embrace,

Lay every sunny afternoon,

Every coffee-laced kiss,

Every impromptu wandering,

Everything she was,

Everything she made me.


In your miserable days,
You would think
That one day,
Like the flip of a switch,
In a polarising moment,
You will be over it all,
Over that person.
And something like
That moment
Does come.
What you don’t know
Is that more moments,
Of equal potential
To bring you to your knees
With the hope they bring,
Will succeed.
Too late, you will realise
You are never truly over someone,
But hopeful moments
Build up in you
The courage to stand.

One Night Stand

When they wake,
They stay in their warm shells,
Watching the sun traverse the sky,
Sated and content,
To just be,
And let time crawl by.
He leaves her warm arms
Pulling on his crumpled jeans
And nothing more,
And she watches him move
With the same grace
As the night before.
Neither speak,
Neither make a sound,
Both lost in their heads.
A word given,
A word taken,
In the confines of a bed.



Barefoot, you move through
The corridors of that house
Where dust dances a duet with dusk.
You make no sound,
And your sober clothes
Shout at me a story
Of a lifetime of subdued emotions.
Wispy strands of grey hair
Fall over your spectacles,
Like the paradox that is you.
You smile,
Laughlines and all,
And speak to me about
Distant lands and clever people
And I hear, but don’t listen;
I am too busy searching in you
For the story of the person
Who painted you in black and white
When you were made to be in colour.

Cogitation of a Revolutionary

I am the upstart.
I thought rebellion first,
I questioned what others accepted.
I am ground zero,
From where the red blood started flowing.
I walk in red footprints left behind
By forgotten men and women.
My future is defined
In one of two ways.
If I live,
I shall live free.
If I die,
I shall die
And spark off
A hundred more rebels
Who will, perhaps,
Walk in my bloodied path.

The To-Do List

Call me with simple words.
I am your poet, be my poetry.
Dance with me as the city sleeps.
As absurd as I come,
Be more outrageous.
Be my voice of reason,
And let me be yours.
Be the warmth
That makes my hairs stand on end.
Write with my words,
Breathe my breaths.
Be silent, and make me wonder,
Feed my insecurities,
If only a little,
For we should be bittersweet.
Inspire me,
Let me find beauty in you.
Love me even as I hate myself.
And as I hate myself, I will love you.

Why do I write?



Writing lends a voice to bustling thoughts inside. It breaths life to a world that resides in the depths of my imagination. It is like a petulant child that yearns for attention .It gives a pat on the backs of people who are at their lowest points. It speaks volumes without being eloquent. It is a shout to the world , to give notice to the little important things. I write with the desire to immortalize my thoughts, to etch them on to the world’s soul . It is me on paper, it is my heart that beats for all to see. It is my desire , my object of passion from which I do not want to part.

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