When notifications drain you,
Maybe the pelter of raindrops could help;
Clamorous like an applause,
A fading thunder far away,
Or tiny droplets dripping from rooftops.

When alerts exhaust you,
Maybe the rustle of papers could help,
That respond crisply to pencils,
The tender smudge of the crayons,
Or mere generosity of fountain pens.

When pop-ups tire you,
Maybe the whistle of the pressure cooker could help,
The squeal, and the gradual, faint whisper;
The hiss of boiled water as it falls on your cup,
Or the gleeful dance of waterdrops on a tawa.

-

For every woman,
There is one day,
When the rose-tinted glasses-
Finally fall.

The bubble bursts-
And the world starts looking entirely different.

Honey-glazed remarks, subtle gestures,
Harmless requests, generous raves,
Gentle placement on the pedestals-
Everything looks different and crystal clear.

Then,there's no going back-
To looking at the world the old way again.

I wish every woman goes through that day.
And walks away-
If something no longer serves her anymore.

That day, to me, 
Is Women's day.

-

"Call you back in five".

Caught in loops of five minutes,

Calls drown, snoozed in time.

-

Call you back in five.

Caught in loops of five minutes,

Snoozed, this time for good.

-

New Year's Eve.

Will the night that arrives, embellished with sparkles and stars,
Swallow the year that just went by?
Or, will it leave traces of yesterday?
Having it roll over to the new year;
Like derailed thoughts from last night's dream floating like milkweed on a breezy morning?
I don't want the mirage of a clean slate.
Let me just hold the beautiful moments from this year,
Within the cup of my palms,
Carefully spill it over the new year,
And revel in the fullness of seeing them settling in like glistening dew drops,
Over random hours of uneventful days.
Let them stay there, 
Marked way ahead on calendars,
Like shimmering fireflies,
Waiting to add a twinkle,
To days of quiet contemplation.

-

Few days ago,
In a state of slumber,
I haphazardly weaved a basket,
Even as dried, uneven straws pricked my hands,
Leaving ruthless scratch marks behind.

I left it to dry in the scorching sun first,
Then curated the basket in disdain.

I placed in heaps,
All my retorts and responses,
That I had answered in my head, 
Hours after I lost the argument in silence.

I filled the empty spaces,
With criticism and indifference.

Once done, I stood on a bridge,
And threw the basket away.

I saw it shattering into a thousand pieces,
Losing its identity in water.

My hand still has the scars,
But the basket is gone!
For now.

-

Nowadays the only place I exist without inhibitions is my home,
Breathing, existing and surviving as myself,
Giving home to my thoughts,
Carrying home in my being.

-

The angst of anticipation;
The dire despair of stagnation,
And an incapacity to ignite,
Awaiting kinaesthesia,
Thoughts and vehicles
Flood around in traffic.

-

What's it like to dwell in empty, blank spaces?
Trying to retrieve forgotten versions of yourself,
Within the numb shroud of monotony?

Tracing the trails of lost words,
Faded voices and cloaks that you left behind?

Is it this commonplace -
Or does it get any better?

-

As I persistently scroll,
Drowned, yet determined in digital fatigue,
Characters converse in hushed tones,
Within the glass almirah.

Exchanging their plight at abandonment,
They complain and mock at the starry eyed girl
Who picked them up-
Offering false, unrealistic hopes.

Unable to invite attention,
Tired to metamorphose into their electronic counterpart,
They wait for my mercy,
The day of their release,
To shake hands with me,
To dwell in my head in new patterns.

I keep my pace at doomscrolling,
They keep reprimanding me,
Saying they were better off at the bookstore.

-