I curve my 'S' to form into an infinity
so that I can hold on to him for as long.
I stretch my 'K' until the end of the earth
and make it look like a single leg shoulder stand.
And as I take all my alphabets,
I turn them from staff position to the plough position.

-

They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Draupadi's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and weed,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.

-

I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.


I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.

I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.

I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.

I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.

-

You can look like Barbie and
Still, be the wonder woman you want to be.

-

He used to live,
The way she used to write.
One word, each day, without any pauses.

-

We search for better stories
while writing about how our's is the best.

-

The hardest questions to answer are the ones that end with a full stop.

-

And I looked inside that well today,
I saw a hologram of water.
Beneath which I heard the deafening silence.
The silence, which screamed too loudly to be heard.
I looked around and I saw,
Scarlet Gangas flowing from every body that was thrashed.
I saw a mother, holding her son,
Tight enough to suffocate him, 
Strong enough to let no bullet touch him.
I saw tiny hands shielding their father,
Hoping,
Maybe,
Just maybe,
They could save him.
I saw two hands entangled,
Even death applauded for love before wrapping it.
I saw them covering each other
Praying,
Maybe,
Just maybe,
Someone could save them.
But their Gods were sleeping,
And now they are.
I looked inside that well again,
And I saw nothing but opaque water,
Beneath which I heard nothing but the deafening silence.
I looked around and I saw,
Flower bed on the soil,
Paying tribute to the mourning place.

-

She waited for puberty to hit her.
But, as she could not stop hitting herself,
Puberty did, for it was kind enough.

-

Dreaming about realities and living in dreams.

-