Protest Poem

i wore my protest on my sleeve,

and stepped out of the bathroom.

'ek chai bana de, jaan,' the husband said,

although he was saffron, he let me be red.

so i got him a cup of tea.

my toddler, by then, had made airplanes

of my poster, i hugged her,

(tho i could put her into a toaster!)

second day, bhai said, 'chhoti!

dhop tez hai, na jaa, lekin,

mere dost aane wale hain,

samose bana kar jaa!'

bhabi thi maayke, bhai yaad mein hua tha aadha

hum bhi bhool gaye protest ka vaada.

the third night seemed easy,

i made it to the front door,

then a feeble voice stopped me,

'betaaaaa, garam paani!'

i swallowed my feelings,

i swallowed my pride,

i served my family, tho it felt

like my citizenship died.

at dinner then i found my way,

i laid the table but put out no food.

a printed sheet on every plate,

'read it out and read it good,'i say,

'no vadani kaval gheta* before you eat,

we the people, is what we will now read.'

*vadani kaval gheta is the marathi grace before a meal.

this was written because so few of us know our rights, everyone needs to know the preamble to our Constitution

book

i could be a book

in a rare books section

quietly breathing in shop dust

waiting patiently for you.

hoping you might pick me up.

i’ve seen you like old fashioned 

binding, and gilt edged pages. 

i’m much too ordinary perhaps.

i imagine you do find me some day

and sigh a quiet, ‘Hmm’

as you turn the pages

and discover me, I shiver

he now knows my name.

hope dislodges 

a sudden dust swirl 

that disappears into the light

shining above your head.

it’s enough to distract you

check the time on your phone.

you leave me

on the table with self help books

and silly space romances.

bhindi

'made bhindi bhaji,' i say.
'what?!' they say.
'you asked what i was doing,' 
'oh...have you heard?' they say.
'yes, sorry to hear...'
'are you okay?'
'should i not be?'
'no...no..i mean...you're alone...'
'...'
'you're okay, na?'
'...'

a dozen awkward phone calls later,
i activate the silent mode.

i truly dread them, these
calls from my contact list,
(clever of you to notice i did not say 'friends'),
when some celebrity dies by suicide.

i want to tell them,
i tried it and failed,
but that would mean
people showing up
unannounced,
full of concern.
don't. want. that.

i want to tell them
bhindi is my safe word
food that comforts
and they only have to worry
if i tell them it's a good time
to buy fab india whites.

they're horrified of course,
'you're so funny, m'

it's never funny, remember that
and it's not easy,
living with the monster 
that eats you from the inside,

but i laugh with them,
promise to meet them for coffee.
when their conscience is lighter,
and they're about to say, 'byeee'
i say, 'but damn, he stole my thunder'

what is poetry?

if you thought poetry is about
stepping into an ocean of stars,
then you probably think
poets are shiny, shimmering women
with long hair, tinkling in silver
and an air of a startled doe.
yes? then fuck you charlie.

poetry is written by fat ladies 

who secretly work for the c.i. a.

poetry is the hankering,
a denying yourself of cheesecake
it's bad for your heart.

poetry is about losing 
your temper, your hair,
your youth, your innocence,
your heart, your children.

poetry is love and pain
and loneliness, mixed
with hatred. it's vile and viscous.

and yes, it's about hesitation
you feel when standing
on the ledge made of quinoa
waiting to jump into an abyss
filled with fireflies. 

why i don't hug

you're nice and all,
but don't hug me.

some of you have nice
chests, and your hugs
could be a polite feel.

some of you have nice
muscles, like emoji
offering protective hugs.

some of you froth over
with very nice happiness,
laughter ending in hugs.

but please, don't hug me,
i've sealed in bubbles, 
memories of people who left me.

i use a glue called ache,
to keep it all inside,
so i worry, constantly.

should you in enthusiasm,
hug me, envelop me
in warmth, those bubbles 
might just pop, burst,
and let loose upon the world,
years of collected misery.

Being Helen

Come! Let's try this thing called love. 

We sort of heard 'Bas Ek Sanam Chaahiye',
And fell into marriage.
Everyone thought it was 'Aashiqui Ke Liye', 
Just that we didn't. Not really.

Kids happened like seasonal colds.
We took care of coughs, measles and PTA.

Your lust took you to conferences
(With the secretary)
And mine to tennis courts and the gardener.

We promised each other Laila-Majnu
But ended up shimmy shaking
In other people's arms.
You became Prem Chopra, I Helen.

Now the kids are gone,
And we don't have to pretend any more.
You still drink the godawful coffee,
And I take refuge in tea. 

You are shriveled in odd places,
I'm wrinkled in weird ones, 
Your knee tells you when the rains will come,
My asthma has turned weather forecaster too.

The only thing we both still love are sunsets.
So let us start from there, we'll watch sunsets.
With you on the upright sofa
Me on the planter's chair.

You'll drink the black brew, lots of sugar,
I will sip the amber, perhaps with a spot of milk
And maybe then we could put a new spin
On this thing called love.    

G for Ghost Hurts

some scars you wear with pride,
you know the ones with happy memories,
tava marked my first round roti here, 
fell off the tree kissing there,
tumbled into chicken wire here,
fell from horse and chipped tooth,
scar on neck from falcon bite,
knee is scarred and butt is too
back from scrapes as a teen,
all scars accounted and dried.

but the hardest scar is a from a slap
that was rendered via text:
don't text me. 

trouble is, do i text back an 'okay',
or keep hurting?