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?

F for Freak

yes, i am a freak
a needle stuck
on the vinyl 
of love songs.
someone will soon notice
and seeing the surface scratched
curse me, yank me out
and throw me away. 



#NaPoWriMo

E for Elegant

my love is elegant,
for when he arrives,
swoops upon the chosen one,
everyone stands and stares,
despite themselves.

he's denying me,
a visit. i don;t know why,
and i've been ready for him,
for a couple of months now.

people have other desires,
that keep them entangled,
now i have but one,
i need him to visit me, 
and take me away forever.

there will be no mourners
calling my name,
holding me back,
i know that now for sure.
why have i been kept waiting?




#NaPoWriMo

D for Deathwish

dahi chawal,
with a ghee tadka, 
jeera,mirchi, kadi patta,
salt to taste.

a taste of heaven.
not allowed. any more.
because, medium risk
tongue numbing
wind-pipe blocking 
allergy.

is this what i am to you, Lou?



#NaPoWriMo

C for Callous

many songs are written 
about first cuts to the heart.
no one prepares you, 
for the callous lover,
who claims to be doing 
his duty, the right thing,
before he abandons you,
labeling you 'wrong' 
for ever and ever. 


#NaPoWriMo
  

B for bereavement

you are supposed to be gentle, they said,
you will be able to forgive, they said,
so i put away all memories in the locker.

something inside me is sharpening its claws 
every day, and it keeps me alert, awake, 
to any sound or smell of death.
no more surprises in the middle of the night.
this time it will be his turn.


#NaPoWriMo

A For Amber: Heart In Amber

amber

'it's not precious at all', the man warns me, 'but women bring their amber to me, hoping to find some value.'

i am anxious as i hand him the molten gold for kintsukuroi, let him cut open my chest.'

'don't get your hopes up,' he examines my 11 ounces of amber, tapping it feeling it.

the chinese calandula draught has numbed the pain.

'it is as i suspected,' the joallier's eyepiece mists up, i notice everything. i hear everything. 

'three cracks' his voice seems to be firm, 'three betrayals.'

the molten gold is applied with a fine brush. i can hear the swish swish. 

he should be applying the irises by now. but he's watching me, 'you have capacity for pain, and that's unusual. the two breaks are obvious for a married woman. one from husband and another from children. but tell me who gave you the third?'

'no one,' i can barely speak, 'just put me back.'

the van gogh mug with irises has been pound to dust. if he would just put the paste on my open chest, the blue flowers would grow on me. that's how it was supposed to be. why was he still looking at the amber heart? i could feel the glow dimming.

'you paid me to fill the first two breaks, i've done that...'

'that's enough, thank you.' i feel tears escaping my eyes and making my ears wet...

'but your father paid me to fill the third one,' he shows me a smaller vial with more gold.

'you can't do that! i need to feel something...' 

'you carry the memories in the blue irises growing out of you, you don't need to carry it in your heart. you'll just die sooner if i don't fill it.'

'last time i looked, what i was doing wasn't called being alive...'




#NaPoWriMo

Advice To Anita, Newly Married

Get used to sindoor.

It’ll itch at first. Put lots.

So when your head is bowed,

It will stop his brothers

From embracing you.

Get used to oil in hair.

And tie a neat plait.

Open hair is easy to pull

It will bring you down.

That hurts, that hurts.

Get used to glass bangles.

They break if anyone drags you

It will hurt you, but it will hurt them more.

Be careful with your husband though,

He will slap you if it hurts him.

Get used to wearing payals.

The bells will alert your husband.

If he’s with servant girl, wait till he’s finished.

Don’t throw the milk at his face.

You’ll have to pick up the pieces.

I’m telling this for your own good.

I’m telling this again and again.

You dress up so he can undress you.

And pray hard he gets bored soon

Then you go to the kitchen, and breathe.

Alcohol Myopia

He says,’You’re good enough

For a quick fuck,

There’s no forever more,’

I say, ‘You shouldn’t say this

To anyone, let alone

To someone who grew up

Counting to ten.’

He says,’Let’s do it

One last time, come on babes’

I say,’You had two beers,

I had six glasses of wine,

You’d better look up alcohol myopia

When you’re done texting

That new Malayali chick you’ve found.’

I must’ve found strength

I must’ve found courage

Before I crashed out on the sofa.

The cops broke the front door found me there

Said, 'Madam aap idhar pade ho

Saab balcony se girke off ho gaya.'    

I look at the pigeon net on the balcony.

It’s broken. Dammit.

Will need to call pest control.

degchi

my degchi feels empty right now,

i have used the last of the bread slices

to wipe the leftover masala clean.

there’s nothing, nothing left to give,

years have tarnished the once shiny outside,

it’s time i scrubbed it clean, outside and in,

the stains are so tough, cracks will show.

they say good cooks don’t use chemicals to scour

their degchis, it takes away years of skill,

and love poured into the dishes cooked,

each dish a living, breathing experience,

built on what went before,

when do they know it’s time to hang it up?

i look at own old, greying crock pot,

holding it under cold running water,

feeling the cracks made by heated

arguments and unsavory relationships,

how long will it last? how long will i?

2 women

1. 

someone asked me, 'do you have aadhar card?'
how to say no? modiji bura maan jaayein toh?
so i say, 'i have a boyfriend, na,'
'should i buy this dress?'
'yes'
'this bracelet'
'yes'
'i want to go to colaba'
'chalo, drop kar deta hoon.'
'don't feel like going to office today.'
'dus minute ka kaam hai, aata hoon.'
dekha kitna support karta hai mujhe?
kitna aadhaar hai mujhe uska!
mujhe card ki kya zaroorat hai!

2.

sochtee hoon, main bhi ek app banwaa loon.
wohi, tinder type app.
for finding substitute kids.
dekho na, i have daughter, i have son
how many calls i made last week.
majaal hai ki callback kare!
that's why substitute kids wali app.
requirement yeh hai, they call once a week
do pairi pauna over the phone only,
ask, how your knee is, mumma?
teach me to put you tube on computer.
and when they start asking for money,
like real life wale kids
then simply swipe left.

April Poem # 19 weird

you're so weird,
you make me mad,
you're odd, try to fit in.
you're so strange, 
your friends are too,
flaky is good on paper,
in real life you're just stupid,
you're so off center,
kabhi toh be normal,
quirky is nice, but not all the time
how can you be so...you?

April Poems: #18 english rose and lavender

my granny smelled of nivea,
that came out of the blue tin.
and if you were good, she'd take
a bit from the inside of the cover,
and put it on your wrist to smell.

other granny smells were English
Yardley talc which she never shared,
and patchouli on her sheets,
camomile in her tea,
and the funny pillows inside her shoes,
made with camphor and salt,
to keep bad smells and evil spirits,
from stepping into her satin shoes.

everyone spoke about how she lived,
in a cloud of fragrances, some good
others really revoltingly strong,
it kept people away from her bony hugs.

i never minded her skeletal cuddles,
so she let me use the phus-phus perfume bottle,
i never minded her bodily odors,
i never minded her cackling laughter,
i pretended she was going to live forever.

her room now smells of pinesol,
and promises to turn into 
the family dump room - for stuff,
that will probably lie unloved, 
too unimportant to be used,
and too important to be thrown away,
just like its previous occupant.

april poem #17: Touch

touch,
don't talk,
there's nothing more to say,
the past is far away,
and the future but a calming bottle
with silver glitter floating gently
in lazy, never-ending circles.

touch,
don't talk,
some places need fingertips,
others react to squeezing,
and the frissons are copyright material,
it's up to your fingers to choose
parallel lines contouring
or lazy, never-ending circles.

touch,
don't talk,
sometimes scratches on the walls
tell a better story than pretty words
inflicted on a page in cursive,
feel those wounds, flakes of blood dried
and the raw softer skin exposed
how deep are they?
the scabs are still attached, 
explore, pull them apart, 
in lazy, never ending circles.