November dips jalebis in kheerAnd debates the origin of rosgollasWith friends wearing saffron sweaters,Rolls of flour are kneadedTo crown the biryani handiCheetahs draw frecklesWith henna and hibiscus oilShiuli droops towards an orangeTo dye her petals tangerineA tired frog uses dew dropsas homegrown tonerGandhraj brews a potionSo lemonyBees chug down goblets of it, moaning‘ts nectar, ‘ts …
I can probably write you a poem quicker than the
shift in your eyes when a new light source
presents itself. Only you get to decide if the
glint is too blinding or my glow-in-dark words
look cool on your skin.
There are caterpillars in my mother’s gajra crawling towards her ears while all she feels are my dad’s iron deficient nails burying in her ill-fitted blouse. *Hanahaki will flower both our coffins, we’re too soiled with the notion of love to ever perceive it. I flashed god in Ikea, he built a modular queen size …
I once travelled on a public transport with my physically challenged brother and not a soul gave up their privilege of possessing legs to accommodate God’s biases. That night I locked myself in a room and cried until I promised myself that no matter how far my feet take me, I’ll step on it with spiky shoes if it dares to outrun kindness.