Brevity, Quill


It started with a whisper, a crackling whisper of resistance. It spread across regions, infecting the oppressed. It became the sound of the voiceless to fight for their rights. It moved people to stand up, it compelled them to raise their arms in solidarity, it burned in their hearts, it fired up their minds. It had slept soundly for centuries, showing up now and then. But this time, this day, it gained strength. It gave hope, embers of persistence. It made us speak, something we chose to ignore. But now, it resides in our resolve. It made us realize the world of inequality and injustice that we live in. It made us aware of the crumbling pillars of democracy. It opened our eyes to face the emaciated poverty-stricken strata, labouring on barren fields. It made us hear the wails of malnourished children, the victim of diseases. It made us feel the agony of traders and small businessmen. It made us smell the burning stubble.

It made us alive, ready to fight back. We, the people of India, stand tall, one for all and all for one.

This change started with a whisper, the crackling whisper of dissent.

Brevity, Quill



As I sleep today, the images of a happier and younger you flash in my dream and involuntarily, I smile in my sleep.
I wake up to your face staring me right in the eyes, the look I have always dreaded; firmly set on your luring face.
I look away and your burning gaze remains unchanged.
I walk upto where you have been sitting, your gaze still unmoved, I try to shake you alive, but the deadness in your flesh says exactly what my ears don’t want to hear.
I still have to figure out what gave up first, your body or your heart?
I still see your body as it was when you first climbed that chair to when you sat there at your end.
I still hear your weak voice telling me that one day you’ll achieve eternal sleep.

Brevity, Quill



When you tell me enthusiastically that sleep consumed you into it’s restful embrace, I believe you.
When you tell me of the giant clown that ran after you in your dream, I laugh with you.
When you tell me you woke up gasping for water, I assure you it was just a dream.
And when your smile starts to fade away like the memories of a baby as he grows older, I start to worry again.
What if your dreams are getting influenced by the exact same reality you want to run away from?
What’s if sleep is not longer your safe place?
How am I supposed to protect you from yourself then?
To elude myself of my failure yet again, I tell you to sleep. .

Brevity, Quill



When the growing pains of your melancholic heart ring as loud as the holy bells, I tell you to sleep.
When your psychologist contacts me about how you relapsed again, I tell you to sleep.
When your beautiful mind does nothing but disintegrate, I tell you to sleep.
When your bloodshot eyes are blinded by red, I tell you to lay down and close those eyes that once saw the world not as what it was but what it could be.
I tell you to rest your tired mouth that no longer sings of brave women.
I tell you to sleep because it’s the only way you’d drown your sorrows, it’s the only way you’d dream of unimaginable happiness again.



Sometimes you can’t tell a person , how you feel. Even if their are endless ways of describing what you feel, sometimes the only answer is silence , sometimes you just have to feel. It’s so beautiful , how words become short to express your feelings, and still the other person hears what is said in the unsaid.

Brevity, Write Ups


Every now and then, I brush off the dust that tenderly settles on the keys of the piano. Impressions of your fingers tips are still printed on them. It seems as if the dust particles have been caressing them much longer than I have.  I am standing in front of our piano right now, its weak legs are almost on the verge of giving up but not just yet. Its teak frame reminds me of your collarbones that were deliciously highlighted every time you wore your red satin dress. The creaking sounds of the chair you sat on for hours reminds me of the first time you decided against what was wise and held my hand firmly, like you were never not gonna hold it in the warmth of your hands. I lay down on the floor, feeling the surface of the hard marble floor underneath the table. I press my face flat on the floor where your feet continuously tapped on as you played rhythms of your heart. My hands roam in circles around the shiny floor just like they wandered around your chubby body discovering the  insecurities that stained your smile everyday. I sit upright and rest my face on the foamy cushion of your piano chair. The way I’m sitting hurts me to the limit where numb becomes a trait that is used to describe my body.I believe that a little more would help me succeed in silencing my aching heart. I do selfishly hope though, that the tunes of ‘Claire de Lune’, that you played the last summer night we were together hits my ears, one last time.



Something controls my mind,
It knows my soul well,
It never lets me be truly alone,
It’s the breathing down my neck,
The devil on my shoulder,
And it’s taking me too close,
To my last breath.

Brevity, Quill


While the Instagram stories are filled with boomerangs of rain descending down from he heaven above, and the rain lovers are oohing ahhaing about how much they love rain. I find it cringeworthy to love rain. like ew, no. It’s humid. It’s always raining, you can’t go out. It’s always wet. And the cars on the road never fail to splash mud on me, Thanks to the famous Indian puddles. My skin wages another war with acne, which the acne always win with the breakout, and my hair, let’s not get into this. And I don’t know why but rains are always synonymous to lovers, heartbreaks and this definitely turns the knife in the wound (my imaginary lover are you listening? ). I detest rains and the emotions involved with it. FOR ME IT WILL ALWAYS BE A SEASON OF GLOOM, UNCONTRALLABLE SWEAT AND HUMID. AND ALSO CHAI PAKORA ( the only reason they become a little tolerable)

Brevity, Poetry, Quill


Why do I still believe in you,

Even though you let me down,

I lift you up, off the ground ,

maybe because I have been alone,

an loneliness is not a dream,

instead a harsh reality,

that shows you heavens up above,

and pulls the ground below your feet