To the one who makes me feel things,

๐˜ž๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ต ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ข๐˜ณ๐˜ต?

For the longest time, big brains and small hands have conducted experiments on human guinea pigs. And found out that art, is a way of survival.

And artists?
๐˜“๐˜ฐ๐˜ด๐˜ต ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ง๐˜ถ๐˜จ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ๐˜ด ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ด๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ณ๐˜ค๐˜ฉ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ง ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ ๐˜ฆ๐˜น๐˜ช๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ค๐˜ฐ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ๐˜บ.

Poems India is a place where the child inside me learnt to trust her ideas. You made me run away without leaving home. You, you ๐˜ฃ๐˜ฆ๐˜ค๐˜ข๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ home.

We are Shakespeare’s fools, the chorus in Greek drama, Oscar Wilde’s love letters to his man. And you, you are a memoir of broken semi colons, movie parallels, and unstitched dreams. Neither the sky nor the 2,200 Instagram characters are your limit.

Every time I peel oranges and break leftover bread, I will give you the bigger piece.

Every time I count my blessings, I will count you twice.

Sending soft bougainvilleas and warm hugs your way.


๐˜ˆ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ด๐˜ค๐˜ถ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ง๐˜ถ๐˜จ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ,