Ghosts

Lurking now and then to its oldest haunts,
there’s a ghost inside of me,
sending shivers like lightning and thunder
to the sanctuary of my mind where
I store my stories in.
There’s a moorland residing inside,
with shadows of the past spinning my demons
into the wildest desire of an infinite dance,
playing plaintive notes never meant to be memorised,
in which I can weep for a lifetime,
and a familiar wind whispers through my hair so gently,
like an old lover whose
intentions I may not recognise.
I call my body a battleground where
I have been defeated by myself several times,
and I rise every time, from the ashes, like a baby phoenix
my tail twitching at the sights of the demons
still spiralling around the moor sights.
My dresses are sewn by strong women,
so I don’t need an armour anymore
but the war continues at the cost of my body
as the old wounds whisper curses,
like an echo in the empty mansions still
inside of your horizons, ready to crumble yet
standing patiently, knowing well
that one can only get past the darkness
by entering the fire.shadow

Passing by

Was I even alive?
What if I was just passing by
this phase of humanity,
almost galloping my way towards another galaxy. What if
we all were nothing but droplets of a time that is passing
but never passes by,
Not completely
Would that be a legend, if I were to question
this inhibition for once? If I were to question the inexplicable?
Not to ignore what tingles between the toes, itches the mind?
Would that be a story worth knowing?
For once, we all were just stories,
And we begin and never end.
maybe the greatest prophesy of all was a lie
that the end is actually nigh.

Date a girl who paints

Date a girl who paints.
Date the artist that does not even know that she is an artist, date the girl who paints. Date the girl who holds her brushes like an amulet and draws in all the colours she could pour out of her heart. Date the girl who mixes extremes of shades to figure what her soul must look like. Date that girl.

Date a girl whose heart tends to flutter at the sights of a rainbow, or a rainy window, rusty at places, she would know exactly what to do to make the cracks look right. Date the girl who makes broken look beautiful, who dwell on morning milkshakes and devour the dusks and dawns at her cheekbones for some reason you could not fathom. Find the girl who paints and fall in love with her, because that’s what you always do, you always fall in love with a painting, and you will always fall in love when the painting is alive. Find the girl who paints, she will be there, smelling like ball-point pens, broken showers, stale coffee beans and acrylic paint. That’s how you will know she‘s the one.

Date the girl at the back of the bus, too engrossed with the world outside the window, too busy figuring out the afternoon chaos, too busy doodling on the back of her notebook. Try to find her heart behind her flannel, she knows how wrecked she looks, and yet how beautiful that is to be.
Find her before she flounces out. And trust me, honey, she will tell you how she does not need your love, because she really doesn’t, see if you could make some place in her heart anyway.

Fall for the artist, and make the artist fall for you like one would fall for the streets bathed in moonshine, or a dungeon of a dragon who looks just like her. She will make you her muse, and form stories around you, mould stories about you. She will be patient, she knows how beauty always unravel when it takes a little time. She will be stubborn, she has seen how evanescent this world could be so she would paint it all on a canvas to hold for the night. She will be there because her art is there, she will be there forever.

When you find the girl who paints, do not tell her nice things, or call her pretty, for art is neither nice nor pretty, art is an experience to behold, a memory to cherish, something reminiscent of a forgotten era, or an un-penned story or a heart, that does not beat for merely nice and pretty.
Keep her close, and she will show you a whole new world to witness. Give her love and she will create storms and thunder of fondness just for you. Make a home with her and she will let kingdoms emerge from the abyss of her mind, with french windows and vintage lamps.

Do not date a painter if you could not let her catch all the stardust in her sheets; if you could not let her swim in the endless moors to become a droplet of her own when she wishes to; if you’re going to leave her without love anyway, date a painter and fall for her, completely,
quietly,
truly,
eternally.

Life would be a never-ending roller coaster of adventure, an inspiration worth living for. All you need to do is date a girl who paints.

(Ps- This write-up is written after the idea of Rosemarie Urquico: “You should date a girl who reads.”)

paint

Artwork by a beautiful painter who is my muse for this write-up

If I should

If I should have a dream
Instead of wings, I’d give it storms,
and see if it survives, wait for a rainbow to emerge from the wreckage,
a little rain to wash away the open battle ground.

If I should have a book
I would make it purple, for I believe that purple
flows out of my heart, and it only becomes red when it is exposed to the world,
because my purple is shy, just like me.

If I should have a poem
I would name it ‘dragon’, since it is what my soul must be like,
with glowing embers among the debris, colossal fireworks dripping from the tongue,
wrecking fists and a twitching tail.

If I should have a daughter
I would give all my words to her, spin them together
to form stories that I’ve grown inside my heart for her to feed upon,
I would give her my coins of wisdom and equality; and a heart, full of love, big enough for her to grow, stretch to fill all the space that she might need.

If I should have a home
I would fill it with stars and dreams, so that no matter
what storm tries to churn my dreams into ash, there would be a starry night anyway.
I would tape photographs on every wall of it, and it will smell like memories.

If I should have a son
I would give him a part of my flame, for him to burn down
any injustice he would see. I would gift him my stories for him
to latch his hopes, ambitions or even fear upon, and a home where love would be the only thing that’s supposed to be done loudly.

If I should have a farewell
I would give my shadow to the world to see,
my salty feet to the ocean to drink,
my bony fingers to Pappa to hold, my hands to the boy who held them,
An ear to my brother, another to my best friend- tell them I would still be listening. I would give the womb to broken sisters, tongue to silent dreamers,  eyes to walking paradoxes, and the face to my mother, it has always been hers,
they tell me.blog

Poetry

She stands there
and speaks her share of words.
I do not understand what’s going on but her tongue drips out my heartaches,
I do not understand but it’s my life rolling out of her lips and I do not understand.
Her words create ripples down my spine and puncture through the skin,
her words make their way through me and a deep echo of resemblance grows out like the unwashed weed from my chest, they resonate with me like they were my lullaby since forever.
An inexplicable feeling gushes out of my pumping heart and she?
She just stands there and speaks her share of words.
Sometimes there are rhythmic reactions,
tingling my veins like they have all the answers that were being sought
and at times, there are free verses, exhilarating my soul, like burning volcanoes
churning my demons, swallowing my doubts, enlightening my soul,
I do not understand, but she just stands there
and speaks her share of words.

Isn’t this what poetry is? poetry-image

Anxiety is like..

Anxiety. xanax120326_1_560
Anxiety is like a person, quite attractive, seductive at times. Enticing like the lady you always watched from afar but never exchanged handshakes with.
Mine has traits and quirks too, eyes as blue as the Atlantic, skin as brown as the sunbaked earth. White shirt, see through at times, and the resting bitch face.

Anxiety is like a bully kid at the school, calls you names and laughs at the way you walk. Would never really talk to you, but pop out of nowhere when you tumble down the stairs, just to laugh at your clumsiness.

Or maybe, anxiety is like the feeling you get while tumbling down the stairs in the first place, only it lasts longer, creating pangs of churning tornadoes in the stomach and comes on a regular basis like the annoying visitor who never makes you laugh, but cracks indecent jokes anyway.

Anxiety is like a friend, who helps you decide on what and what not to wear. Snorts out morning milkshakes laughing like a maniac when you think of trying something new, anxiety is judgemental and makes you hate yourself on every Friday.

Anxiety is like insomnia, stays awake with you for months. Takes late night strolls with you as you sleep walk through the oceans of imaginary lovers’ tears and spit lewd remarks on the bright colours on the phone screens, you tell her that you don’t have anyone to stay awake for, anxiety gives you the look and sucker punch you in the stomach.

Anxiety is like a knife, stabs you every time you’re on the brink of having a panic attack. Carves questions on your arms and keeps whispering lies in the ears; keeps telling you that it’s not real, that you’re not here, that you will not be here again.

Anxiety is like a bad lover, tosses you on the bed at nights so violently that you shatter.
Bites you on the neck, pulls your hair, hits you in the rib cage, kisses you on the wrong bones, gets jealous, keeps everyone else away, builds a wall around and bangs on them like a demon possessed until the entire world crumbles, tells you all the time that no one will ever love you like she does. Anxiety leaves you gasping, writhing in pain- she calls it making love.

Anxiety is like me, stares back from the mirror, fakes smiles and leaves me so broken, the kind of broken which will never be beautiful. Anxiety is not cute, it only celebrates a never-ending funeral in your head and does not allow anyone to love me for a lifetime.
Anxiety is the sister of depression who has been asking me to kill myself since the age of seven. Anxiety makes me create storms and poetry and stories and reasons, but it asks me to remain silent when someone asks me about it, so all I do is dance when she is not around.

Anxiety is like…

Fractured Individuality

A North Eastern from India

It’s high time to start treating our own countrymen right.

I have always loved the sky, it is different everywhere, and it is still the same,
and it speaks differently to each of us, but accepts us all the same.
Coming from a land where the sky is always blue, even when it feels grey,
I always managed to find the silver linings in the clouds,
but the clouds are different in this new city, and so are the people.
So here are 6 things to remind yourself being a North-Eastern person from India

1. When they call you Chinese, correct them.
in your native dialect, tell them your full name and what it means to you. Show them your birth marks and tell them about the childhood stories your mother tucked you with, in the nights. Remind them of your ancestors who fought for this country, remind yourself of your ancestors, who danced among the stars with swords in their hands, and freedom was the theme of the evening.

2. They will always say that you are what you eat,
so when they call you with names of steamed and fried, foreign food items, tell them you prefer your meals boiled. Tell them about the aroma of your mother’s Eromba and how it brings you on your knees, tell them about Sana Thongba and smile with all the chillies in your veins when they get uncomfortable in calling you with the correct metaphors.

3. When you smile, do not cover those eyes,
you have got nothing to hide. They will find ways to ridicule them for being smaller or slanted than usual. Remind them about the dreams they hold, and how huge they are. Tell them about the landscapes that these eyes have beheld, and the rainbows they have witnessed after surviving a storm. Laugh at the silly ignorance, for you already know, that there is no such thing as a perfect nose, you’re already winning by breathing alright.

4. When they make fun of your accent,
Remind yourself of the sky, and the way it speaks to you every day. Ask the sky to make it rain, because we all sound the same when we hush under the music of water, let the pain wash away.
Show them the compass that you created with your accent, as it points towards your home. Tell them your full name, over and over again, until they pronounce it correctly.

5. When they harass your shy friend from college or spit on the gorgeous face of your sister,
make a fist and punch the punchlines out of their mouths, stand up for your dignity, stand up for your pride, stand up for your heritage, and roar like the sky. Grab all your courage, don’t let them break you.
They will call you small, they will call you soft, they will laugh at the anger that boils inside your rib-cage. Make your heart grow in knowledge and books, and know that your voice too can get heard when you make it loud enough. Always remember, that you are so soft, that you can’t ever be broken.

6. If they treat you like an outsider,
ask them politely not to. Tell them about the Indian blood that your heart pumps out, and how much it hurts when you build a home at a place which does not love you back. Ask them the meaning of the derogatory terms that they use like chink and gook, and fight back the racism that runs in this country, by telling them about honour and dignity and your parent’s prayer behind the name that they gave you. Tell them how every time they confuse you with any other nationality, strips away from your individuality, you are not alien. You are not alien!

So rise above the stereotypes, make your way ahead.
And speak back to the sky, for it is different everywhere, and it is still the same,
and it speaks differently to each of us but accepts us all the same.ne

My days without you

Rainbows have always been my personal favourite. They are the most beautiful reminder that you survived a storm.
The last time I gasped at a rainbow was when a mockingbird fell on the ground, without any heartbeat left in its pretty neck. I scooped it, and looked at the poor metaphor, which died of a heart failure, and I kept wondering  about the cruel timing, and if it was me, who fell straight from the sky.

Thing about mockingbirds are that they always mock, even in death, and thus I looked straight up to find the most astonishing rainbow, and I noticed that there was no gravity left on the ground.
It had been just a few days since you fell out of love with me, and I was still collecting little artefacts of you from the walls to keep me from crying.
I left the mockingbird on the park bench, weightless, as it had become, and walked back home, I was alive, I wasn’t the one who died.
And my days without you began, this time-for real!
This is how I filled my time after the break up.

– I cried till my eyes became plums.
I felt no shame in clearing my eyes from all the 3 am thoughts that I used to sleep with. I felt no shame in staining my palms with tear drops instead of tracing the creases on the bed sheet you used to leave me with. I felt no shame in reminding my face of the ice cold splashes of water. I became a droplet on my own, and I felt no shame in crying, not anymore.

– I got a haircut.
As I stopped collecting your memories from the wallpaper and the bedpost, I realised how less your fingers  actually brushed against those things. A friend texted me the only advice I would never have taken, had it been for some other reason. I got a haircut, got rid of the locks that were touching the end of my spine, and I walked back home from the salon, a lot less morose.

– I kissed a hundred kisses.
I kissed someone on my rooftop, I kissed someone at the café in the neighbourhood, I kissed a blind date, I kissed that one guy from work, I kissed my best friend. I kissed for hours, I kissed my own fingers when I couldn’t sleep. In an attempt to wipe away your name from my lips, I kissed almost a hundred kisses, and it somehow works in a bittersweet way. I once drunk kissed a pub door and it made me laugh after a really long time.

– I wrote kind words, I wrote unkind words.
This is what you get after breaking a poet’s heart. You get mentioned in small scribbled stories, you appear in every verse, or a rant. You dance unknowingly on the pages of their diary, you make appearance on all the un posted letters. You somehow manage to slither in every angry poem, or love poem, or a poem about heartache.
And so I got drunk on the moonlight and alcoholic chocolates, and wrote all the stories. I bled on the paper, with blue ink, and you became my poetic device.

– I got drunk, for real.
Alcoholic chocolates didn’t really work, so out there I go to get drunk on all the cocktails that I could think of mixing. I chose curvy glasses, and begged the gods to grant me a good time. I poured sweet wine, even sweeter than your broken promises. I gulped down five shots of vodka and it didn’t burn my throat as much as it burnt when we fought in September. I mixed my gin with vermouth and champagne and diet soda, because it makes me forget our first dance.

– I worked my ass off.
To get something positive out of the negativity that you had been devouring, all you need is to read motivational articles, listen to your boss, or sometimes, get your grandmother to knock some sense into you. The days of hiding inside my cupboard were over, and there I was, working as if nothing else lights up my life more than work. I became a dragonfly, I started emitting light, as if I was luminescent. I was exhausted, but I loved every second of it.

– I got a tattoo, and it wasn’t about you.
I stopped curling inside the blanket for hours and binge watched the whole series of Supernatural that had been aired till date. I found beautiful quotes to follow my life upon, and got an anti-possession tattoo, which helped me heal from the demonic depression, well almost! I also bought a dragon heartstring core wand, to find the magic again, somehow.

– I started living, again.
Things happen unexpectedly, hurt stays for a long time. But every cloud has a silver lining. The mockingbird  fell on the ground when its life ended, but it flew its whole life, no storm could have stopped it.
The rainbows became my personal favourite, for they were the most beautiful reminder that I survived a storm.

It was raining, and all the wounds got washed away, slowly, sweetly, eventually636031622397041720171484649_get-over-a-breakup-775x390