Poetry

When I Inhaled Your Soul

Last night,

The gale steered my thoughts,

My soul,

Me.

 

It caught my hand

And walked me into your soul.

 

There, I could dwell through the night,

And the days to come.

 

There I saw

Calm,

Fear,

Love.

With shut eyes, I peeked into your heart

As I held onto the corner of your soul.

Your weary soul.

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Because it’s your turn now

Go away.
For I have,
And now, the turn is yours.

Stop doing that little dance in my head.
Quit playing havoc with my thoughts like you’re a carpenter and my head’s a plank of wood
That you’re whittling away at and slowly trying to destroy.

Go away.
Go away because I’m letting you.
Go away because I’ve brought you down from that pedestal I’d designed.
Also because I’ve pulled myself out of your ugly thoughts.

How would I know that?
Why wouldn’t I?
The little head of yours can barely comprehend my words.
Leave alone me.
I was never your cuppa tea.
I was mistaken when I dreamed I was.

Go away to never return.
Go away because you’re better off when you’re fucking miles away.
Go away because I’ve gone too.
It’s your turn anyway.
I’ve done it twice.
And this time, the third time,
You go.
Go as far as you can.
Because this time,
I couldn’t comprehend your words.
Those last few words.

Go.
Just go.
You’re better when gone.
Or maybe not.

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The Misleading Love for Delhi

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Delhi.

It’s funny.

The story of how I grew fond of a place I hadn’t even visited.

While newspapers and news channels kept screeching about how unsafe the city was turning into,

I was still coming to love our vulnerable capital.

 

I reflected.

Reflected hard on what was attracting me to Delhi.

 

The first time I stood on Delhi land,

It was at the New Delhi railway station.

My girlfriends and I were on our way to Manali

And when our train halted at the Capital,

We stepped out.

I looked around like I was taken to a park for the first time.

My eyes soaked with chaos.

My mind drowning in thoughts.

 

Within a month, I was back in Delhi.

This time, I stayed longer than the last 15 minutes.

I was there for two days.

I felt the winters.

Smiled at the peeping sun.

Got stuck in traffic. Quite like Bombay.

Sometimes it reminded me of Goa as well.

And then it reminded me of a person.

The person who spent some time in this city, and loved it too.

 

And on my way to the airport, I realized why I started liking Delhi.

I was actually in love with the storyteller and not the story.

Every lonely moment I had was filled in by thoughts of this secret love.

I began missing this almost-something-person.

Only then did it dawn upon me that I was in love with someone,

Even I didn’t know.

And since these stories were narrated,

I gradually started falling in love.

Falling in love with someone.

Falling in love with the city,

Because he was in love with it too.

 

A month later, an opportunity knocked at my door.

A new job, but it required me to relocate.

Relocate to Delhi.

I was still in love.

So I jumped and grabbed it.

I confessed my love.

No, it didn’t reciprocate.

 

Weeks later, I decided.

I decided to bid adieu to Bombay and go to Delhi.

I took up the job.

I was ready to set out on a new journey.

I was ready to write a new chapter.

And I started writing-off.

Writing-off people.

Writing-off stories.

Writing-off memories.

Writing-off the chapter where I risked falling in love.

Writing-off my orphan confession.

 

Maybe this time,

When I step on Delhi ground,

I will fall in love with the city.

And not with a person.

Not yet.

I will love the capital for its richness.

For the history.

For the heritage.

For something that can erase the last memory.

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Misplaced Reminiscence

The story I narrate,
Is of the faculty that betrays.
But betrayal rides with men,
Then why oh why, do you treat me like them?

This lady wants to reminiscence her childhood,
But you’re mulish, uncooperative.
She wants to recite her adolescence,
But you strike through her thoughts.

Then she wishes to recount her teenage.
She wants to laugh and cry at once,
Again, you strike off every memory.
And she rejoices over this loss, over this skip.
Nothing to embrace.
No stories to say.
They were inferior, anyway.

But some memories could be ingrained.
She wished she could.
She replays, She tries.
Till it loses its charm, its essence.
So she can recite it to someone,
Or just live them again some day.

So, dearth of memories,
Create a demand for new ones.
And you march in again to erase,
As if it’s a scribble on virgin paper.

Dear memory, you’re not fair.
You bring back bitterness in the quiet,
And hide your sweet side.
You retain what I think least
And misplace my lovely days.

 

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The Secret I’m Coming to Love

It’s not a song or a lyric,
Neither a conversation nor a snippet.
It’s nothing grave,
It’s nothing embarrassing.
It’s just a little secret I keep from you,
A secret I keep from me too.

It’s the story I cannot say,
Even though it’s something you want said.
It’s a tale, let’s state,
A secret that controls my imagination.
Still, it’s a secret I cannot give away,
Lest you wish I rue my day.

A tricky secret it is,
that keeps rattling in my mind.
I hold this secret;
But when I want, I can leave it behind.

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The Other Woman

Write me something, you say.
And I wish not to write about the colour of your shirt or your pale skin,
Or your chiselled face.
I wish to write about the other woman you know;
The woman you remember sporadically,
The woman who hitherto was your listener while you were her welly.

The other woman traps your lies in a web only she can entangle.
She looks at you with a blazing vision.
She lets your palm cup her cheek.
She cradles your thoughts until she falls asleep.

The other woman has trespassed a forbidden ground, so she believes.
Hand in hand we strolled,
Until ‘the woman’ took notice, and you unclutched her gripping hand.

Write me something, you say.
But the other woman can’t write you a nice poem.
She wished to, but you bottled up her wishes and flung it into the ocean.
You strangled hope with dishonesty.
You kissed with lips that narrated a different story.
You lied. You lied. And you lied.

But the other woman lied too.

She denied you passage into her heart.
She denied you the love.
But she couldn’t deny you all.
Such is she,
Such is the other woman.

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