A.V

 I often see a couple, a couple, parents to two boys, whom they raised living far apart. They fought, they cried, made up. They learned to love, to be what the other needs, not what the other wants. I see them. For what they are, because only stories reached me from their past, those they chose to tell, not their mistakes, not their conflicts, only the lessons from them. I remember stories where mother would cry over something father said. She would hide beneath beds, and father would apologize in tears. I know they saw things together— death, old age, sickness, business. They dealt with things together. Like the times mother would rage over something others said to father, while father remained silent and only smiled, hearing mother reply to the inconsiderate comments. Even if they lived most of the time apart, rearing children in different cities, not being able to be with each other all the time, they still grew together, witnessing the wei...

“Kya soch rahe ho?” Her voice rang softly into my ears. “Kuch nahi, soch raha hoon if it's better to leave or stay.” “Let’s leave,” she replied to a question I asked myself. I nodded with a soft smile. Leaving this crowded place late at night, we walked home. Cold winds blew strong as spring was taking over winter slowly. The leaves rustled, some fell and skittered along the road, some crunched under our shoes and sandals. It was a full moon, yet the sky was overcast, almost clement for people like us. Lightning flashed lucent from behind the clouds. Clouds that threatened to fall any second. Wind whispering, “A new season is about to arrive,” as it breezed past us, teasing our hair. We walked, as her metal bangles rang in one hand, sandals tapping the road like a metronome. She was in a white kurti, hair resting down from her small shoulders. Lightning reflected from her silver earrings peeking through her black hair that framed her face. Eyes jaded from all that ...

It's hard,  being kind to oneself. When every cell in you screams  you don't deserve the softness, the warmth of comfort.  When your demons rage  to engulf the small soft corner  you were nurturing. Everything comes tumbling down, like dominos, one after another. Your feet freeze. A weight settles on your chest. Breath shortens. Vision blurs. Then they fight. It was just a mistake, you're allowed to be human. Fuck you. A mistake is something you’re not allowed to make. You ruin things. You cause damage. Don’t listen to that voice, child. It’s wrong. Then why are you frozen? Why can’t you speak? You know exactly what you did. It was you.  It was fucking you. You don't deserve the kindness. But..... You don't deserve to be alive. Better die. Right. What have those softer voices ever given you? Permission to be imperfect? Permission to be kind? Let me remind you When you don’t want to be a burden, you are not allowed mistakes. You are not allowed t...

Mother has been sent for operation. Minor, they say, but still an operation. Not a trace of fear shows on her face. Perhaps it hides somewhere in a quiet corner of her heart, like it does in all of us. Now, we wait. Along with many others. A long hallway, lined with cold metal seats. Light pours in from one end. The air hums with people. Stretchers roll past, seeking space, seeking hands. Some stare into the distance. Some fiddle with their phones. A few yawn, tapping their feet until sleep finds them. I sit and watch. The whole world seems to pass through here, people of every age, moving to the rhythm of doctors and interns. White and blue own the place. Bags and quilts rest on the benches. Names are called, one by one. We wait for ours. Hours pass. Half-asleep. A little tired. Still waiting. A.V

 Tired, I am, of knowing there is never a perfect time, yet still trying to force a perfect version of myself to meet it. I am never ready. Never complete. Never enough to begin. And still, I wait. What are you afraid of? Showing people an imperfect you? Failing to deliver what you imagine as quality? Or being seen… and judged? You know the answers. That’s what unsettles you. You watch the heights you envy, and stay where you are, unable to step forward, unable to even be proud of yourself. O child, how will you grow if you wait to be whole first? How will you learn if you refuse to begin? A.V

It’s raining again. The slow, thoughtful kind, the one that comes to stay. The kind that reminds you of what you had forgotten. I’ve always seen rain as a mirror of the heart. A somber heart makes it heavy. A guileless one finds it full of glee. The sanguine see it as something almost beautiful. Today, The wind carries something back to me it reminds me of who I was and who I have become. Kinder than before. More carefree. More childish, perhaps. We move through the city, lights dissolving into the falling sky. Beads gather on the window as I look through them. What was once pure settles into the earth, turning to mud. We laugh, lost in small conversations, as the car crawls forward among its own. The small ponds shimering with trafic lights and break lights. I pause. Close my eyes. And take in a long breath of petrichor.

I don't like it. Alone I lie in this bed. Dimly lit by the full moon,  that peeks in through windows. Body aching slow, Warm, Mind numb, Eyes heavy, Strength blown away. I wish, as I curl up. To lay in her embrace, Head over her lap,  Petting me into a sweet dream.  I lie, remembering how her embrace felt I lie, remembering how her closeness felt. How her warmth felt. I lie, remembering her eyes.  I lie remembering her laugh. Remembering her presence Where I find solace still. I lie in this bed, a little under the weather, remembering you and for a moment, the ache softens. A.V

I don’t call people friends easily. I don’t attach quickly. I don’t let myself care too much. Somewhere along the way I grew into a ghost. I observe quietly. I avoid eyes that linger too long. I keep my guard up while others gossip, tearing apart names that aren’t present. I walk away knowing this isn’t for me. I would rather sit in a calm, empty classroom, sunlight spilling into the darker corners, books open, songs moving softly through the air. Maybe a quiet presence beside me. Not talking much. Just being. I read somewhere once, “While finding the right person, don’t forget to have fun with the wrong ones.” But I don’t know how to do that. In the end, I am left with people I can talk to, but not experience life with. A.V

My Father died a few months back. Stage 4 cancer, kaafi time se pata tha, wo zyada lamba nahi jee paayenge. Ab yahan aaya hoon apne dil ka gubaar bayan karne. Abhi main, bas shant hoon, waise wali shanti jab samundar ke upar kaale, ghane baadal bas… ghumad rahe hon. Toofan se pehle wali shanti. Pita ji chale gaye, uska itna dukh nahi, he wasn't present for more than half my life, toh kabhi unse sahej hi nahi ho paaya. Dard toh uske liye lagta hai jinhone hume janam diya. Aap jaante hain, jab tak wo shareer jalna nahi lagta, tab tak mann mein ek hi khayal rehta hai ki arre yeh toh bas so rahe hain, abhi uthenge, hasenge, hasaayenge, aur abhi muskuraayenge. Apno ki rundhai hui cheekhein abhi bhi kaanon mein goonjti hain. Pita ji ka mrit chehra aankhon mein abhi tak jala hua hai. Staring into the pyre, as the flames rage to engulf, going back there the next day to collect half-burnt bones. Mann tab tak shant ho chuka hota hai, saari bhavnaayein  agni ke dhue ke saath ud chuki hoti hai...

The soft, cold hands of yours that warm when they meet mine. The moments I lose myself in your dark eyes. Your head resting on my shoulder. Your long hair, tied in a braid or gathered into a bun. You telling tales. The times you mischievously pop balloons, or wear the gentlest smile. This little heart aches, wanting to be held in your embrace, wanting to experience you like a butterfly in motion. Wanting the sun to shine over you, warming your cold hands and feet. For I know you are not afraid of storms. You bear them quietly, speaking the name of Radhe Krishna. But, it will take time to learn how to bear missing you. A.V (Sorry for hitting you on the head with the pillow so hard, Was just messing around...)

 She, a child filled with guilt. One who blames herself for taking too much of others time, care, effort, love, attention. One who apologises  before being accused. “I’m sorry for being a nuisance.” “It would have been better if I weren’t here.” “I’m sorry you had to see me like this” “I’m sorry you have to bear with me.” “I’m sorry for being born.” One who sees herself as a bother, as someone who asks for too much by simply existing. A fragile girl, eyes avoiding others, glistening when she thinks no one sees. Steps quiet, as if rehearsing disappearance. Hands guarding an aching chest. Long black hair falling forward, hiding her face. Small shoulders folding inward, learning the shape of shrinking. Waiting not for love, but for permission. For someone to say: You are allowed to bother me. You are allowed to lean on me. You are allowed to take up space. It’s okay, child. It’s okay. A.V

It’s 00:05. Fairy lights dissolving a faint yellow. My phone hums with the names of my gods. The mind is tired. Yet sleep doesn’t come. I’ve been lying in this soft, warm bed for more than half an hour. And I’ve been thinking. Am I anxious? About meeting again the people I cut off, the doors I shut? I don’t think so. I’ve come to terms with my situation. Then why does sleep refuse to take me? I’ve been kind to myself tonight. Instead of watching anime to drift off, I lie here listening to slow chants and melodies. So why? Sleep, have I done something wrong? Then why won’t you let me rest? Memories of warm moments flood in. Oh, how I miss you. How silence in your presence felt safe, felt normal. But alone, I can’t even hold it. What is this? I took a warm bath a few hours ago. The body relaxed. Yet rest still doesn’t come. A.V

There’s a girl I know, one who embodies dance in my eyes, one who taught me something I never quite understood. Now I recall how that time was. She held the starting position, hands rise to form a lotus above her head, weight settles on one leg, anklets resting against stillness, the other foot crossed lightly behind. Back facing us. Her hair lies long and open, black against her spine. The melody of flute rises. Her hands loosen, fall into motion, and the body takes over. Then in a beat, it all starts to enchant. Her hands guide my gaze, hair following behind, brushing her face, that land every expression to the beat. The long skirt dances too, with her light feet, ringing softly against the floor. Her feet remember before her mind does. Each step lands where it has landed a thousand times before. Anklets answer the floor. The body does not hesitate. I can only smile and watch in awe, of the dance she performs, knowing full well what goes behind it. The times her feet ache...

I. Displacement I had heard this before, but anubhav ab kar raha hoon. Sheher se sheher uchhalte hue, ghar kahan hai yeh bhool gaya hoon. Koi chaar, deewari bachi nahi jisko main yeh naam de paoon. Bache the bas kuch log, unki chhaaya aur kuch palon ki yaadein. Kuch woh bhi hain jo humein zindagi ke raste mein chod kar chale gaye. Ab, inhi kuch logon ki maujoodgi aur yaadon mein hi, ghar dhoondhta hoon. Inhi kuch logon ke hone mein, main apne aap ko dhoondhta hoon. Koi poochta hai, Ghar kahan hai tumhara? Main pata nahi, sankoch mein pad jaata hoon. Haldwani chhoot gaya. Sitarganj kabhi apna ban nahi paaya. Maiya–Pita ji Pauri mein hain. Bhai Delhi mein. Aur main...? Dehradun ke ek kamre mein apne aap ko dhoondh raha hoon. Toh... jawab kya doon? II. Containment Low Rumbling of tyres rubbing against The asphalt travels up my spine.  The sun had fallen long ago,  Only lights of cars shimmered past us. Father was driving the winding path of mountains, Mother in front ...