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  • Poor Heart

    Poor Heart

    Poor heart didnt know

    when it became

    a symbol of love

    a home

    for feelings

    and emotions

    all it ever knew

    was to pump blood

    carry oxygen

    and remove waste

    it never saw tears

    passing through it

    so it couldnt understand

    how heartbreak

    could live inside it

    yet

    some days

    the beat became slow

    some days

    it raced

    all because

    of someone

    the heart got confused

    does love

    change the rhythm

    or does the rhythm

    become love

    then one day

    someone whispered

    my heart belongs to you

    if it could think

    it might have wondered

    how can i belong

    to someone else

    this body

    still needs me

    and when people say

    two hearts

    become one

    it quietly asked

    how

    there is only one of me

    inside each of us

    i only know

    how to keep you alive

    the rest

    i never learnt

    still

    every goodbye

    made me heavier

    every embrace

    made me lighter

    every hand

    resting upon the chest

    waited for me

    to answer

    love was never

    my job

    it travelled

    with the blood

    and i carried it

    without knowing

  • What Was Real in Me

    What Was Real in Me

    everything becomes a memory

    doesnt it darling

    a flower in a vase

    cannot remain fresh forever

    its petals soften

    its colour begins to leave

    and one day

    it has to be replaced

    unless it is plastic

    then you only wipe away the dust

    and place it back beneath the light

    it shines again

    almost real

    but without fragrance

    sometimes i feel

    like a flower in a vase

    unsure what is real in me

    what is still fresh

    what has already begun to fade

    still

    i try to spread my fragrance

    towards those who come close

    towards someone

    who can recognise beauty

    before touching it

    and memory darling

    sometimes is a chapter

    from a forgotten book

    sometimes it is bait

    at the end of a fishing hook

    waiting quietly

    until the heart comes near

    then pulling it back

    towards moments

    we thought had disappeared

    towards what was beautiful

    what was painful

    what we could have said

    what we could have made special

    sometimes memory sits

    at the centre of a table

    surrounded by voices

    laughter

    glasses touching

    unable to smell its own scent

    jasmine perhaps

    or something close to rain

    so stop here

    forget that i can still fade

    treat me like the plastic flower

    dust me gently

    keep me in the room

    after the fragrance is gone

    and when i no longer remember

    what was real in me

    will you still know

    which parts of me to revive

    Photo Credits: Saroj Pandey

  • The Weight of Yes

    The Weight of Yes

    Yes sir

    No sir

    Understood sir

    Noted sir

    Of course sir

    Subordination feels different

    when your seniors

    try to sync you with them

    Like a dance

    perfectly choreographed

    Like a room

    where everyone has memorised

    the same script

    No matter what the leader does

    just follow the tail

    Let doubt sail away

    Let your feelings go pale

    The mind is caged

    yet you expect ideas

    to walk out on bail

    No

    I am breaking this rule

    I am not saying

    Yes sir

    Yes maam

    Understood

    Noted

    No matter where you are

    No matter the situation

    No matter the urgency

    Why follow the rank

    Who created this ladder

    Why doesnt everyone

    deserve equal respect

    Why must one

    toil like a donkey

    while another glides

    like a paper aeroplane

    I told my friend

    Lets do the maths

    Lets build something

    of our own

    Lets make it happen

    The booze wore off

    another day

    And

    Yes sir

    Understood sir

    Noted maam

    The words echoed again

    inside the confined space

    of a building

    too tall

    to hear the people below

    walking through the city

    rushing to catch a train

    rushing to catch time

    His hair slowly turning grey

    living

    from paycheck

    to paycheck

    still dreaming

    of everything

    he could possibly become

    if every sentence

    didnt have to begin with

    Yes sir

  • Do Birds Count?

    Do Birds Count?

    Sometimes I think

    what should I write about?

    Should I write about a bird

    lying on the pavement

    early morning,

    with the same expression

    it might have worn

    while flying freely

    in the sky,

    now dropped dead

    in the middle of the pavement

    while I leave for work?

    Or should I write about

    a dropped penny

    under the seat of a bus,

    which nobody wants to pick up,

    like the bird,

    which no longer seems

    worth anything

    to anyone.

    The bird had worth

    when it looked beautiful

    in the sky.

    Maybe it has worth

    for the cat

    looking for prey.

    Maybe it has worth

    for reasons

    we don’t understand.

    We are too busy

    to think about birds.

    It won’t come on the news.

    A bird died on the street.

    Police are investigating the cause.

    No.

    That never happens.

    Even humans

    have become digits.

    Do birds count?

    And what about

    the pence under the seat?

    What if it were

    a pound?

    Does the scenario change,

    or are we too busy

    keeping ourselves occupied

    to notice

    that these two things

    are asking us

    the very same question

    about worth?

  • Trying to Build Her Again

    Trying to Build Her Again

    Don’t ask

    how sure I am about you

    I wouldn’t be happy
    to answer

    she looked at me
    one last time
    and smiled

    she thought I was joking

    but my sombre face
    didn’t change

    my voice was serious

    a cigarette
    between my fingers

    smoke rising
    between us

    she almost cried

    I didn’t know
    you would go this low
    just to get rid of me

    when did you start smoking?

    you never used to smoke

    before I could finish
    the cigarette

    she had already left
    crying

    I couldn’t say anything

    it all ended
    once and for all

    then came
    packs of cigarettes
    in the following days

    more bottles of beer
    wine
    local ales

    all kinds of intoxication
    to get rid of the memory

    but the memory
    grew heavier

    so heavy
    that I began meeting
    random people on dates

    trying to pretend
    I was different

    but I saw her
    in every person I met

    her hand
    caressing my hair
    when the headache
    became too much

    her smile
    at my silly jokes

    I missed
    that expression

    still
    I kept trying
    to build her again
    from random people

    taking one thing
    from one person
    another thing
    from someone else

    but the pieces
    never fitted

    and none of them
    ever made me feel whole

  • Holy Faces

    Holy Faces

    Devils may come

    wearing the face of God

    promising us

    a better life

    free from the noise

    free from the chaos

    free from the crowds

    circling above the modern world

    They may lead us

    towards silent mountains

    where no one

    knows our name

    where the neighbour next door

    has never heard our knock

    where conversation

    never happened

    and awkwardness

    hangs between

    two closed doors

    A devil disguised as God

    may not always arrive with fire

    sometimes

    he arrives with comfort

    he tells us

    we are safe with him

    that the world

    cannot be trusted

    that questions

    are dangerous

    that doubt

    is a disease

    that everyone outside

    is against us

    Slowly

    he changes

    the shape of our minds

    until we believe

    there is no one left

    to trust

    except him

    He says

    we are all equal

    but the plates

    are not equal

    the portions

    are not equal

    the sacrifices

    are not equal

    and somehow

    we are always the ones

    asked to give more

    God does not bargain

    God does not stand

    in the market

    selling fear

    as salvation

    Even the stone deity

    waits for nothing

    Jesus does not pull

    our palms together

    the mosque

    does not bend our backs

    The heart moves

    when it is ready

    faith happens quietly

    like water

    finding its own direction

    A false god

    may leave breadcrumbs

    only to lead us

    deeper into his forest

    I don’t know

    what a true God is

    The market

    still feels empty

  • The Smile Remained

    The Smile Remained

    seeds of love

    I planted

    and flowers bloomed

    beautiful flowers

    with a lovely fragrance

    seeds of hatred

    I sowed

    and weeds grew

    taller and taller

    until I had to pull them out

    deep from the roots

    Buddha was always smiling

    when compassion grew

    from the love I had planted

    he smiled

    even when the weeds came back

    covered in thorns

    he did not judge

    he kept meditating

    in front of the pond

    still smiling

    until he became

    part of the stillness

    no stone

    no matter how heavy

    could trouble him

    the splash

    the ripples

    came and went

    but his smile remained

    watching him

    I started to wonder

    what might grow in me

    because I know

    there are weeds in me too

    some days

    they grow quietly

    before I even notice

    some days

    I pull them out

    with shaking hands

    soil under my fingernails

    and a little pain

    still left in me

    I would like to see

    beautiful flowers

    full of fragrance

    growing from my head

    my neurons becoming roots

    love and knowledge

    becoming minerals

    compassion becoming sunlight

    kindness becoming water

    so every morning

    before the weeds wake

    I will put my hands

    into the soil of myself

    and plant

    one good thought

  • Mr Rush

    Mr Rush

    I always wanted to write

    even when the time was up

    I still wanted to write

    but the teacher used to snatch the paper

    because only at the last moment

    ideas would come to me

    I thought I could at least

    collect a few marks

    maybe they would be enough

    to help me pass

    but a rule was a rule

    you could not ask for kindness

    from teachers

    who were only doing their job

    well

    it taught me

    how important time is

    but why do all the good ideas

    come at the last moment

    why do all the realisations

    all the decisive moments

    come at the last moment

    in my life

    if only I had told her

    I still loved her

    before she caught the last bus

    if only I had told someone

    that my love for them

    was still growing

    before I blocked them

    if only I had kept my patience

    instead of rushing

    when you miss beautiful moments

    earlier in life

    your heart begins to panic later

    it tells you to rush

    because it does not want

    to miss anything again

    and then

    I became Mr Rush

    rushing here and there

    many lovely souls I met

    complained

    that I rushed too much

    that I spoiled the relationship

    one coffee

    a few chats

    a few conversations

    here and there

    are not enough

    to awaken love

    or deepen a connection

    life is not a three hour movie

    I cannot expect every love

    to become cinematic

    but it all happened

    and even now

    I rushed

    to write all this

    before the feeling disappeared

    but my newly bought lamp

    with its warm yellow light

    is keeping my heart still

    maybe not everything

    has to be said

    before the time is up

  • Dear Ant

    Dear Ant

    Dear Ant

    I am sorry

    if I have stomped on you

    most accidentally

    with my feet

    while rolling on the grass

    or falling badly

    on a wet floor

    I am sorry

    I killed many of your friends

    when I was a child

    it felt like fun back then

    now

    it feels like regret

    I am sorry

    if the ball I kicked

    bounced into your home

    and turned

    a whole neighbourhood

    into dust

    You had to begin again

    from a single grain

    sorry

    for all those casualties

    if they happened

    because of me

    sorry

    I circled some of your friends

    with chalk

    pen

    charcoal

    and stones

    watching them

    walk in circles

    while I laughed

    I did not know

    I had become

    someone else’s maze

    some of your friends

    climbed onto my skin

    I could not bear the feeling

    so I threw them away

    some of your friends

    never came back

    from puddles

    that looked

    like oceans

    to them

    I am sure

    I deserve

    a very strict punishment

    because now

    I know

    what it feels like

    to be stepped on

    by someone

    bigger

    someone

    whose shadow

    covers your whole sky

    We had monsters

    we have monsters

    and we will have monsters

    they keep walking

    without looking down

    Dear Ant

    maybe

    that is how

    every monster begins

    not with hate

    but with forgetting

    that someone smaller

    is trying

    to make it home

    forgive

    my big feet

    and my big body

    Maybe

    to you

    I look

    like a giant gorilla

    taller than skyscrapers

    every footstep

    a thunderstorm

    every careless movement

    the end

    of another world

    But dear Ant

    this big body

    is trapped

    inside a big mental cage

    it is not easy

    to be human

    We build

    our own anthills

    of glass

    steel

    and concrete

    and still

    many of us

    feel lost

    I have watched

    your people

    carry food together

    rebuild together

    find each other

    without saying

    a single word

    There is something

    about that

    I wish

    we had never forgotten

    Sorry again

    for every trouble

    I may have caused

    Tomorrow

    if I see

    your people

    crossing the pavement

    I will wait

    a few seconds

    You are small

    but

    you are going somewhere

    just like me

  • The Knock I Never Heard

    The Knock I Never Heard

    I met him outside a shop

    we talked about sports

    and spirituality

    for almost an hour

    that evening

    our vibe matched

    we had known each other

    for years

    from working together

    somewhere

    I invited him

    to come over

    for a drink

    someday

    one day arrived

    I was soaked

    in smoke

    and alcohol

    lying in a hot bath

    at midnight

    completely intoxicated

    I messaged him

    come over

    a little while later

    someone arrived

    I shouted

    come through the back

    I lost the key

    somewhere

    I opened the window

    and said

    get in

    he smiled

    but didn’t move

    that’s when

    I looked properly

    it wasn’t him

    a young man

    wearing a green uniform

    he said

    I’m from the welfare team

    I came

    to check

    if you’re okay

    he asked

    what I’d been drinking

    I answered

    in a very sober tone

    just one full bottle

    of vodka

    and a few other bottles

    whose names

    I don’t even know

    he smiled

    and said

    your friend

    came here earlier

    he was worried

    about you

    take care of yourself

    then he left

    only later

    I opened WhatsApp

    bro

    I came earlier

    knocked on your door

    rang you

    again and again

    you never answered

    so I called

    for a welfare check

    I stared

    at the screen

    for a long time

    all that time

    I thought

    he was playing

    a prank on me

    but he was only

    trying to make sure

    I was still okay

    the truth was

    I wasn’t

    I needed someone

    to talk to

    instead

    I slept deeply

    in a bathtub

    while the booze

    carried me away

    from the only conversation

    I probably needed the most

    later

    I thanked him

    again

    and again

    I apologised

    for everything

    my messages

    were seen

    but never answered

    sometimes

    I still picture him

    standing outside

    my door

    on a cold night

    knocking

    trying not

    to wake

    the neighbours

    while I lay

    only a few steps away

    unable

    to hear

    the kindness

    waiting outside

    my door