Writing in the Dark

I kept writing with the well-rehearsed hand

Knowing how much space to leave.

But when I lifted my hand

To remove strands of hair from my face

I knew not where to put my pen

Like when you join a school

In the middle of the year.

I learnt to use my left hand to fix my hair

And escape the discomfort

Of feeling lost.

Emotions began flowing out,

I began pouring them carelessly.

Not realising that there was a width

That was stagnant

And I had reached the edge.

It took the darkness to open my eyes

To the limits of the page.

And then I wrote and I wrote

In the middle of the pages

Racing with my thoughts.

In the dark.

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I Wanted to be a Candle

I wanted to be a candle Bright with a flame Lighting up the face Of the movement. I wanted to be a candle Ablaze inbetween fingers Of a fiery envoy Of justice. I wanted to be a candle Alight all its life The harbinger of light In dark times. I wanted to be a candle I had felt the fire inside But when I looked into a mirror I saw a Matchbox instead. My small colourful self Carries not one but several flames Matchsticks for each occasion For every injustice in the way. My fire is contagious It is the spark before the flame I am meant to light the candles I was born to inspire the change.

What is leaving really like

Once you decide to leave a city You imagine all the final goodbyes And what they’ll feel like Much much before your last day arrives. You make a mental list or a tangible one Of all the places to revisit And the people to meet So many memories to celebrate And moments to regreet. You smile in the distance imagining What those people may say And what you may say in return Almost looking forward to The teary smiles and warm hugs And you wonder whether Those who have wronged you Will come clean and apologise You wipe away a tear when you realise How everyone will wish There was still some more time. But there isn’t. And you struggle to find space For every promised catchup And the new ones who casually said “We must meet before you leave” Some evenings you want to pause Skip dinner and get early to bed But the days are already too brief And you can’t afford any regrets. As the final week draws close You notice the other lasts The last time you cross The city’s bustling market Or find a s

Death

I always kissed him On the forehead Before going away To school, to college, to Mumbai. Always kissed him goodbye Except now When I was home And he lay in the vault downstairs With a cannula in his leg And a drip hanging above Death Is ugly. He wouldn’t let Any outsider touch him But today someone Shaved his leg To find a vein For the needle Someone who was assured That he wouldn’t bite He can hardly move I wished for a moment That he would fight Like he used to With dignity But death Strips it all apart. When I watched him Gasping for breath It wasn’t with the hope That he doesn’t give up But with the desire To see his breathing get normal Again. Normal Is what we call a situation That is regular yet so perfect That it can easily Be taken for granted Until it ceases To exist. We knew death was looming Although nobody spoke of it I knew we all wanted What was best for him With the hope

Utopia

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