My heart weeps

My heart weeps
but the cheeks smile.
Mind is in conflict.
Is it happiness
of weeping heart?
Or sadness
Of smiling cheeks?

The becoming

There's a steady defined growth on the tree in my backyard.
I'm seeing it since the days of my childhood
I play around with it, soak in it's shadow,
Decorate it, treat it, test it.
I find new leaves are fresh with juices.
I crumple the older ones beneath my feet.
Till they disappear. The ground has been strong.
The weather has been changing. The air deteriorating!
But the tree survives. All the changes.
The steady growth on it remains unchanged.  
It grows every day. Inch by inch. When I touch,
It's absorbed in my pores. I feel it now inside me.
Growing everyday. Inch by inch. It tastes sour.
Sometimes bitter. The polyploidy has entered my spine!
Latent in the lysogeny. It surfaces like flu.
Reddens  my skin with rashes.
Bubbles the dust in urticaria.
I become ostrich faced. Tiny little head
Trying to find a hiding. Then.
It disappears. In the ocean of million such particles.
I mirror him. My plasmodesmata carry him from my toe tips.
Towards the bud on my face. And when it falls off,
It starts a new life. Just besides the old tree.
The sun becomes comforting. I hold the soil and stand.
My arms lifted to receive the 680 and 700.
My thylakoids fill up. The xylem and phloem bring up to me
The sweet milk from the earth's bosom.
And I stand. Motionless. For years to come.

Repulsion

What do you see -
The dying wall
Or flying wings?
What do you take in -
Through your breath
Through your skin?
What's on your mind -
The twitchy veins
Or wrinkled leather?
Where have you been?

All alone.
Oiled in fear.
No stains.
But old scratches
Of repulsion.

Home

I dwell in those emotions

In your knowledge of my existence

In those tears not demanded

Within those suffocating fears

Beneath the pillow

Inside scattered vowels

Enclosed and sealed forever.

Being

There is a compulsion, an anxiety speeding up to throat, madness shooting out from mouth, urge to accept and proudly declare, the scars to the world, pieces of me.
There is a drug made from my bones; it's yellow, red, green and blue, pouring the absolute with absoluteness of resolution.
There is destruction of self and a birth of mental sickness.
I stand before me to watch myself, whirl like a cyclone on that melody being played on those lusty white-black bars. That grotesque is my beauty.
Those blunt knives are scales on my skin, finely grating every inappropriate touch.
How fabulously I execute every crime! How modestly I demand every allegation!
It's because I'm a snake that I can not disown my venom.
But time and again I shout, time and again I scream, time and again I validate, the dark side of me.
But since it is one of the greatest luxuries, I cannot deny myself the luxury of it!

Hate

A strong desire to hate.
Hate the sadness.
Hate the timidity.
Hate the lack of knowledge.
Hate the lazy mood.
Hate the speed.
Hate the rigidity.
Hate the air.
Hate the emptiness.
Hate the root.
Hate the hype.
Hate the mental-block.
Hate the inability.
Hate the inefficiency.
Hate the incompetency.
Hate the hypocrisy.
Hate the attitude.
Hate the indecisiveness. 
Hate. Just hate. Nothing else.

Rock

There is something wrong. I keep refusing. I say NO as easily as people breathe. I nurture intense hatred. I maintain silence. I shut myself. Inside.

Murderer

I saw you at 3.00 in the midnight,

in your casual dress and old floaters,

talking to that group.

Your hair looked dry, so did your hands.

Sans any concern. Sans any care.

You just stood there. Besides.

A polythene in hand, is that an explosive?

To rip hearts apart with red splash?

I do not know those who talk to you.

I do not know those who will die.

I just know about myself,

who died last year.

But I know why you murdered me.
It's the same reason I murder people.
Perhaps it isn't what I see.
Perhaps it is just an involuntary suicide. 
So I die everyday.
Everyday people die.

Halt

I was riding pillion with my friend on his bike in the area where he used to live few months back. I asked him why it is not possible for him and his girlfriend to come together again. He took a left turn from the dead-end, answered to me and the very next moment, he applied brakes, suddenly.

Earlier that evening, there was a casual short after-office meet up with friends to chat, laugh, talk and while away the after-hours. I do not remember exactly what my friend said but he was saying something about the day or time I guess, something like, sabka time kharab chal raha hai... and I seconded him on that because few minutes back we heard from another friend that his manager indirectly told him to focus on work more than dance. That another friend is an intern and an awesome dancer :D. I could clearly notice his emotions oozing out through his welled eyes, expressing themselves in slightly-guilty tone, dejected voice and underplayed body language. He wanted to be strong. He even pretended to be one, but since, both, my friend and me, knew that our dancer friend is distressed, we consoled and suggested him and gave him free advice (like every other Indian) about what he should do in such situations. I really felt bad for him and was thinking to myself how I would have felt had my manager spoken ill about me to someone in my team. I would definitely have had a hard time digesting that. I knew I could not have taken any such listening(s) lightly. Keeping myself in his place I tried to calm him down. That kid! He went running up the stairs saying, I better get back to work now...seems like I'll have to work in the after-office hours also...

Then this friend of mine, who played wise along with me in giving free advice, updated me with his story of convincing his manager for a mini-vacation. Poor fellow had booked all the tickets for to-and-fro journey and now his new manager was not agreeing to it. My friend explained how both of them were trying to convince each other, my friend to his manager on - why to -- and manager to my friend on - why not to -- go for vacation. I thought to myself, what kind of a set up is this?? A place where we have to beg our seniors to allow family meet-ups, where we have to deprioritise the blood-relations and give utmost importance to spending 9 frustrating hours, helping clients, solving their issues, a place where we lose our ease due to some issue, not concerning our health or family, but the one which is of great importance to some abstract concept called – business and industry, which we can not really see, feel, taste, touch or listen to. We are paid. Paid modern-day-servants. Servants, each wearing a customized blue tag in his neck for individual-identification, like those of the mute pets. We are a high-class servant community, doing a bleached-white collared job in the air-conditioned edifice called - the office. We work and get our monthly wages. Honestly, I did not think all this right at that moment. This is just an expansion of my initial thought. I'm just writing compulsively about things I hate. At least there is no manager here to unnecessarily restrict me with a max 500 word limit. Well, I've already reached 566.

So, was the time was really not good? For me? I was neutral with all my emotions and frenzied thoughts dripping dry in the towel of oblivious time. And anyways, who defines what good is? We left for home. My friend drops me everyday at my new home, where I still have to get settled nicely rather perfectly, and also picks me up everyday in the morning for office, because I stay very close to his house and because I am good friends with him. :)

I was riding pillion with him, from office to home, playing a financial advisor, talking about managing resources, irritating him with the same old story of how badly he rides on the Indian roads with uncouth architecture, a perfect texture for the villagers of the beautiful city, and wow-ing my expressions with every sudden could-have-been-accident. We decided to go to a temple situated in a place where he used to live earlier. Fortunately, it wasn't raining. The rain started very late, after my friend dropped me at my home. Generally, I like rains when I am at home. I like to watch it fall, heavily, making that unique noise which helps us recognize the rain without seeing it. How melodiously beautiful nature is, with distinct sound of the swishing winds, roaring waves, rustling leaves on the trees and the dried ones cracking on the ground! We do not need eyes to see them. Just sound is enough for us to recognize their existence. The moment I got to my room, I heard the rain-noise but this time I prayed for the rain to stop because my friend had just started his journey, not to his home but to the old place from where we had just then returned. He was little disturbed, little uneasy, little unsure of how he felt – sad or happy or surprised. He didn't know what to speak. He was just aware of a fact, whose knowledge was troubling his heart. He started his way back to his past.

He was in a perfect mood earlier when we left from office. We had casual talks on food, city and things to-do. He visited the temple while I waited for him outside observing the road-side vendors selling different stuffs each with some significant holy trait like the color red (the red and black threads to tie around wrist or wear in neck), the photo of the God (on rings, bracelets, small frames which can be kept on tables), books on that subject matter, small idols of the God, etc. I observed people, pondered on the religious/spiritual belief system, watched them join palms in namaste-form and walk in queue and murmur some short words repeatedly. I too used to indulge myself in such actions which gave me mental satisfaction of someone is watching me, protecting me, is there to help me and fulfill my wishes. That was all past. I have changed. For better? I do not know but at that moment, all I was concerned for was the prasad, because I was hungry but there was a huge queue for that also. :(

My friend completed his procedure of paying obeisance and even got the prasad. I waited for him to wear his shoes and then we walked back to his bike, eating the lovely prasad on our way, and deciding where to have food. He knew that area quite well. The place where he had parked his bike was just below his old house. He felt nostalgic. I could sense his emotions because I knew, that is exactly how I will feel if I were to go back to my room in IIIT-H, the place most precious to me. We had lovely dinner at a restaurant and he was still in his good state. The post-dinner tea at a very famous place added on to the relish-ments of good food and supplemented to my post-food sweet needs. He was pretty normal then also. Then we started for home. And I do not know why, out of no where, I asked him, very genuinely, yaar tu aur Neha fir se saath me nahi aa sakte kya? To which he expressed discontent by nodding his head with irregular movements saying, wo to ab possible nahi hai... and then he paused for two seconds took a left turn from dead-end and said, shayad wo abhi Canada jayegi.... and the very next moment he applied brakes. Suddenly!

For fraction of a second I did not realize why he did that and for the remaining fraction of that second I could not believe my eyes. I had never seen her in person but knew that she was herself by the way he applied brakes, got down from the bike, unknowingly pushed me aside, looking at her, totally taken aback by surprise. There she was, his x-girl-friend, standing before him, taken aback by surprise of seeing him in the middle of the road after so many months. She had returned to the city from her hometown just to resign from her job. And he was not aware of it. Watching her standing before him, on the narrow lane, just after he said shayad wo abhi Canada jayegi... my friend just did not know what to do. He lifted his arms slightly away from his body, in a gesture showing his helplessness, repeating just one word in a happy-sad-surprised voice - kab? kab? and walking towards her, diagonally forward, on the other side of the lane. She? She could not believe it was him who braked his bike before her, and was then walking towards her, wanting to hold her in his arms, once again, like the beautiful old days, wanting her to hug him back and answer to the question which he repeatedly asked, kab?

She welled immediately on his sight. She breathed heavily as she took small steps backward trying to contain herself, trying to believe her eyes. She was a little reluctant and a little willing to say something...anything. The sudden confrontation overwhelmed not just them but me also. I watched the union of two lovers separated, for months, due to pressure from the parents. I heard their silent screams which were muted for a long time. I felt their pounding hearts which craved for a each other to beat in unison, to beat as one, once again. There were no answers on her side but only questions on his. I felt bad for my friend, for his broken relationship, for his pining, for his unanswered questions. I felt really bad. But, at the same time I was happy for him that he bumped into her on the road right after saying, shayad wo abhi Canada jayegi.... I was happy that they met after such a long time. I was dearly happy for both of them, for I too know the pain of separation.
But my story is different.

The situation that was created there at that moment is hard to describe. There they were, two of them, overwhelmed by their own surprise, unaware of people around, fighting with their own self to find answers to questions being shot at them and stopping their own self from bursting into tears. And there I was, watching it all happening before my eyes, playing a side role in a real-life movie where the hero is my good friend and his love is a beautiful girl I never met. I felt I should just turn around and take right from the dead-end. So I started walking. I do not remember what I was thinking. I only remember being happy in my friend's happiness. But I do not know if he was really happy to see her. I asked him later how he felt. He said he knew she had to come back but did not know she was in city. He rode back with a great speed and dropped me at my home. He generally rides bike on an average speed, but after meeting her he was riding too fast. I only knew one thing that I wanted to tell him, bike slowly chala... After dropping me he went back to meet her.
And as I climbed the stairs of my house, I prayed, let it not rain for at least an hour... I was thinking about them. He was riding back to her. She was waiting for him. And it started raining. Heavily.

Here I, volunteer for the dirt staring at me.
Stumble over the mean mock-rock.
Give away my urbane for bear hug.
Let the craving carve the gray out of me.
Push brain down to leering limbo.
Refrain from taste but touch filthy flavour.
Address my conscious with oblivion.
Play mild, low, mellow to my hatred.
Hurl down Lego cubes, watch it fall.
Listen to time laughing, laughing, laughing.
Watch crow's-feet grow with used bed-sheet patterns.
Roam aimlessly carelessly homeless-ly.
Tussle my brown hair to Pink-Floyd drug.
Kick your brute lust in face, once, twice, thrice, and again.
Watch myself through the window, mirror, door.
Blade over to smell the red rivulet dripping.....

Thrill

The ride.
I take it everyday.
Up down fast slow
There is no end to it.
My heart thumps.
Gives me thrill!

If you see me,
Call.
I might give you some.
But it dies too quickly.
Your touch might kill
That thrill.

Just be there.
I need your shoulders
To rest
For respite
From my fight
Of endless thrill!

Empathy

What I saw and pitied today, later collapsed on me like some viral disease I caught through my sight. The story of anguish might be different but the pain can never be. I empathy-ied with her moist eyes reflecting the light-blue colours of her saree. Her choked throat was mine when she asked the driver to open the door in her buried voice indistinguishable in the hell of horns. Tears glistened as she stood facing the huge transparent glass and I kept wondering of my own miseries.

There she stood with her eyes numb
to the world who eyed her curiously.
Her choked throat and sobbing chest,
were brothers of a war, together,
clogging together, throbbing together,
facing the mob together.
Did she know, even my chest pained?
that I too had a heavy load?
Her sight was fixed on road before
and mine, with a yearning, on her.
She will never know that I too cried
behind the black mask on my face.
I remained conscious of her posture
as I stood with my numb eyes,
numb to the conductor, driver, passenger
numb to that stranger in blue saree.
I stood with miseries in my luggage
waiting for her to hug me.

Protocol

Independence and freedom to choose teach us life lessons which can never be forgotten. The room you live in becomes a wet-lab where experiments of mind and body are performed using tools which were once taken great care of by mom, when you were still under shelter you called my home. Now, they stare at you blankly, waiting to be held and put to use the way they are supposed to. Here starts our experiment of building and testing strong opinions on essential resources, extra resources, alive resources and dead resources.  We start trying on our own since there is no generic protocol.

Walk to that which demands your choice
Choose solitude over blood relations.
Care not for any comment,
You're not a scar on their face.
Bother not for any rumour
They rise and die everyday.
Teach yourself the shamelessness,
The attitude of liberty and control.
Ride alone, as ever, defining
Your own Protocol.

Anonymous

The screams of silence are deadly than those of noise.
I hear them constantly inside me through nothingness.
There is a void which pulls my voice, strong and exact.
There is a space where my personality, character hides.
There is that time when my pulse is the only sound I hear.
Sometimes it's just my dream, other times it is the pain.
Sometimes it slaps my cheeks, other times it simply smirks.
There is that incomprehensible which I am attracted to.
There is that inconceivable which kills my peace.
There is. Just that. Inside. Dark. Unknown. Anonymous.

Hell

Last evening's events were just too tiresome to be given a shape of an article with details. For the first time in my life I faced such situations, back to back, in a queue, like the ones on busy railway stations, in Mumbai, with closed ticket counters. Chaotic and exhausting! The moment I solved one problem next one was right there at my door steps smirking at my relentless efforts to put things in order, to make them run the way I want, like Dagny and Dominique trying to run their empire with limited resources at hand, headstrong and brave. I liked the fight but hated what I have bought for myself with all the exchange currency I had. So, I am in hell right now, the place where I will do things I have scorned at all my life. The devil in me wishes luck to my suffering soul who is indifferent to pity, sympathy or empathy of any creature. I am on my own.

Just two days and I saw hell -
the tiring flights of stairs
which never seem to end
just like a paradox;
the fuming arguments
with the irresponsible rustics;
the fight for justice,
for getting things done;
the cheap Indian attitude
of dirt and filth;
the cheap Bhojpuri songs
of D-grade movie, if there's any;
the notorious conductors
of infrequent buses;
the elbowing to my books
held in my hands, near my chest;
my descent from the state
of my idealistic yet practical ownership;
my agreement
to the ones I despise;
my willingness
for the ones I discarded;
my hide-and-seek with chances
when I am sure of providence;
my skill too tired
to make an entry.
Shivers run down my spine
I do not crash. I fly,
with screams in the sky,
desperate cries off agony
intense urge to release -
out, out, out of this hell!

"If you are going through hell, keep going."
— Winston Churchill

Run

Inspired from the experience at prestigious city event for the corporates - The Urban Stampede, Bangalore 2013.
 
It is the motion against the stationary,
the rock that supports you, pushes you,
bears your weight.
It is the freedom to be you.
A breath of passion, an endless desire
to be set in that.
There is a light at the end
which pumps the blood,
a baton in the hand
which thrusts your lungs,
a gun shot in the air
which jolts your nerves,
to fire the winds,
to burn the meter,
to  rise from the ashes.
There is a noise outside your head
and a voice within.
There. Run!

Blushes

After listening to the beautiful poetry - 'Do not go gentle into that good night' read by Dylan Thomas himself, I thought to myself, I should someday try to compose a villanelle. But somehow, I couldn't get powerful refrains to start with, until very recently I finished a novel - The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. The end of the book had a brief note on Ms. Plath's life and it contained a villanelle written by herself, 'Mad girl's love song'. The poem was so fresh in my mind that, when I was chanced upon by two refrains, I was pushed to write the following, my first villanelle:

In my pink, the blushes hide their history.
They cannot brave your steady eyes.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

As I walk in paragraphs of unknown story,
Romance topples from between the lines.
In my pink, the blushes hide their history.

Encounters are too close to be carelessly free,
to be walking in beauty before your designs.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

Do I play Juliet at nights too starry?
Or do I just hallucinate those throbbing smiles?
In my pink, the blushes hide their mystery.

The greens and purples look lovely in vinery,
from where you stole my charms and shines.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

It happens again, as your emotions carry,
a dream of red, from my earnest divine.
In  my pink, the blushes hide their history.
It's you who started to tickle the mystery.

Addendum: “I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

My Carnation

Today, for the first time, I bought a flower for myself. A carnation. It is not of peach colour. Not even aboli. I do not know the exact colour name. It is pinkish. Rather light red. I thought to myself, wondering about the colour, that, being a girl, who is so fond of flowers and all earthy elements, I should look up, rather learn the exact names of the colours. That strange but lovely shade was perhaps the only reason I got it. There were other flowers too, in that not-so-little shop. There were my favourite roses, lovely purple lillies, pink-white gladiolus (whose name I learnt today) and colourful and ever-ready jerbera. I entered the shop just like I enter any other shop, on whim. Yes. I blatantly walk into any shop I see on my way; even if I do not want to buy anything; and when the shop-helpers speak their "Yes Ma'am....??", I say with a pretty smile, "No, thanks. I'm just checking out." And I do check out. Stuffs. Stuffs which I hate. Stuffs which choke this planet. Stuffs which I stuff in my bag and closet. They are just so many. But these days I do not care about them. I just buy. Buy like an indifferent shopper. A careless freak who cares not for money or resources or anything like the decorated "higher quotient".

So as usual, in my constant pace, I entered this flower-shop and thought to myself why not buy myself a lovely flower today. I must say that more often than not when I am walking, I do such little things which make every walk of mine memorable. There was one time when I was returning from some mall totally distorted in my thoughts and ended up writing 'Distortions', the article which Young Lady admired for its flow. I will never forget that evening when I walked back to my temporary house just like I will never forget this evening when I walked back to my another temporary house. I started at 6:02 pm from the signal where my work-place bus, or shuttle as they choose to call it, drops us. I had a friend for my company for about 200-300 meters. Then we parted, as I, in my usual mood, decided to enter one clothes-shop. I found nothing. Just stupid clothes and socks which I thought I would buy but didn't and mirrors on every alternate walls. I just can not help looking into those mirrors and adjusting my hair-line, sometimes on left side of my head and sometimes on right side. I keep shifting. The hair looks bouncy that ways and I look more, if I may use the adjective for myself, sexy. In the same city-girl, independent attitude, I checked out that place in hurry and immediately came out, giving an impression of I do not shop from such cheap places. That - I am from Mumbai attitude exudes from me at such times. I like that.

With these carefree and live-in-the-moment feelings I asked the youth in the flower shop, the names of the flowers. I only knew roses for sure. But this time they did not attract me as much as carnations did. Perhaps it was the shape of the flower petals along with the colour which made me buy that flower. Those beautiful random petals with their criss-cross edges looked so lovely in the pale lights of the transparent shop. While on my way back home, I repeated the name in my mind - car-ney-shuns. Do not know why but my mind exclaimed - how suitable it sounds! I looked at that lovely stem which had five slender leaves curving their way downwards and thought, how unlucky they are! They never get displayed. When I got the flower, the second thing which came to my mind was I do not have a vase to keep it. A vase, I thought; it hides the slender, suave, stem with slender, suave leaves. It is only from the stem, formed from the xylem and phloem, that the flower receives it's nutrition, I thought. And yet it is not adored or appreciated for anything. Instead, they are cut to suit the length of the basket in which the flower is to be placed. How sad! The youth in the shop asked me how long the stem should be. As I didn't have any vase, I just pointed out to half-hand length, "Keep it till here" I said.

Ten bucks isn't too much for a lovely flower, I thought and planned to buy some other flower from some other shop the next time my fancy tickles for it. I may buy mogra from the gajra seller, the poor lady who daily sits with a small basket besides the busy street, and then from another shop which was smaller than the one from where I got my carnation. My carnation, my first flower, for myself. What a passionate pleasure it is!, to hold the flower in hand and walk down not the aisle but the uncouth roads with no foot-path but broken concrete slabs barely covering the gutters. I am so scared of walking over such broken gutter lids. One wrong step and you will be covered with the filth of the city. But I had a carnation in my hand. I had to be careful. And I was. Like I always am.

Holding it close to my body with my hand half-folded, I walked the remaining one third of my journey. It was already around 7 pm. I was near my house thinking aimlessly about the flower, about myself. I am like this flower, I thought, in a very poetic, or lets say - filmy manner and tried hard to find similarities between me and the flower. This flower is none but me. It grows tender, beautiful, blossoms in it's youth, attracts every one and be a flower. Just that. Pretty much like me and my pretty face, my tender youth, attracting every one I speak to, with my expressions, with my features. This flower has no aim. Pretty much like me. I feel lost, with no aim. I am just living in the moment like this flower. In the moment. And when the moment passes away, it will grow pale, so will I. Was I under the Dorian Gray spell then?? Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. Perhaps I had just chosen to ignore the "higher quotient" and just wanted the flower to touch my face. I wanted to feel its criss-cross petals on my sensitive lips and eyelids. I just wanted to walk. Walk with my carnation.

So I missed the first short-cut which I usually take when I return daily. I kept walking. My glucose levels started kicking my brains and I thought of CCD lounge first. But I did not have enough money. I shouldn't spend much. I have spent a lot, a hell lot in this month alone. I should be more careful with my spending. Where did the judicious and economical virgin hide herself?, this I asked myself and scrapped the idea of CCD and settled for some chocolate. Not Choco pie. I had it yesterday only. I must have something else. So I went to the same shop from where I got Choco Pie last evening, ummmmm..mmed... for few seconds and asked for KitKat. Arranging and adjusting with a cell, a handbag, my carnation and KitKat, I started walking, trying to open the cover to eat it immediately and enjoy live-in-the-moment feeling. No. The reason I ate it on the road was that I have room-mates who might think I am impolite to not have got anything for them. And I do not want to share my KitKat. So I slipped my cell into my bag, held my carnation in left hand, carefully opened the cover of KitKat, broke it into half in classic style and ate it while I was walking.

Towards my house there is little darkness of which I took advantage and bought the flower close to my face, felt its baby-soft petals kissing my skin which had been  breathing carbon-monoxide all this time. I almost felt that the touch of my carnation will revive my skin to its youthful radiance. The mild fragrance it had, of the roses from the shop, made me think of its uselessness. Pretty much like my life. But who cares? Does the flower know how useful or useless it is?! What does it strive to attain? Ultimate beauty? It just comes into existence, blossoms and dies. If this is aimlessness or uselessness, then we all are aimless and useless. We come from dust and mix in dust. And in between keep doing something stupid like fight for freedom or walk for almost 1 hour 15 minutes all the way from work-place to home. We do it consciously choosing our paths according to our likes. Then someday hug the cold brown dust.

My room-mates were not at home when I reached. I felt so contented that I immediately started writing this stupid article, thinking that the Young Lady will like its flow and will connect with it while reading it. Nothing encourages you more than appreciation. Who encourages the flower to be so beautiful? I kept my beauty in a small earthen pot I had got from a sweet shop, the shop where I went out with my new set of friends for the first time and had rasmalai in that earthen pot - matka. Now, my carnation stands still, with support of the wall, in one corner of my room. It looks at me. Calls my name. Asks to be held in hand once. Just once. And I can not resist. I am signing out now to hold my carnation in my hands. Once again. 

Never group by

My feet got a flavour of physical distance.
That separation on their head,
heavy and hurting, my lungs gasped.
The air was not my buddy;
it refused to cool temples,
who cried golden tears.
They are my genes not fears,
embedded without permission.
I am learning since two years, their
flower-soft shades, baby-tender texture.
Don't look at them when they run!
Cover them in pink basket.
Stones mar, gymnasiums over power.
I chose forest when crowds shout streets
I keep from the heat and glucose
Come off near and feel the skin.
The soles are sore off running.
They told me never to group by
They asked me never to display
They want solitude. They are shy.

Thirst

There. Your eyes fixed on mine. Mine on yours.
Fumes of anger, pain, psychosis, vengeance.
I catch hold of delicate glasses on the table.
One word. The glass breaks. Red thrill.
Dare to stop. I bite those little pieces. Munch.
Thousand rivulets around the rings of root,
worm through the tights of my skin.
You won't budge. You won't ask. No answer.
My soles crush points and edges. I feel wet.
Red boots put up to pressure, pleasure.
See me. I am now, what you always wanted.
Exuding my holy for your dark thirst.