Open Letters, Quill

Happy Birthday Eishta

Well, to be honest, I don’t know you much beyond your perfect brush strokes or your sublime sketches, but still, I guess, that’s not a reason good enough to not write this letter, is it?

So imagine videotaping rubbing an entire eraser into those residual spongy fringes it breaks into… And then, rewinding the entire video as a time lapse. Sounds foolish right?

Now imagine, each fringe is one of those little miniscule conversations we have – about art, about ambition, about religion, about suspensions – and everything in between. Then believe, the end of the video, the complete eraser, that represents a perfect alliance. And as for the time lapse – that’s life.

Yeah, so, fitting one chat at a time, fringe by fringe, into a seraphic mould aka eraser, I guess that’s the only and also the very essence of this co-artist/worker/acquaintance bond we share.

Looking forward to being lucky enough to the complete the eraser.

Happy Birthday Eishta

Keep creating wonders

Poetry, Quill

Bravehearts In A War

Bravehearts often fall asleep,
With wounds inside their minds,
Yet silently they wash away,
Crimson off their eyes,

War is noble, war is good,
Preach it to a child,
And soon enough all it knows,
Is war torments the kind,

And all you wanted was for men,
To be vicious and vile,
To slay your foe, to be an end,
To all that made one smile,

You wanted war and all was lost,
Beasts kept running wild,
You might’ve won, but at what cost,
Again, I see that child,

Guillotine upon your neck,
A fire in its eyes,
Alas a monster that you made,
Was causing your demise,

“Don’t be scared now, be a man”,
I hear it in my brain,
I’m still afraid and I’ll always be,
But I’ll be a man again,

“Cry like a man”, I’ll tell my child,
For I know those tears are pure,
He’ll be whatever he wants to be,
Of that I will make sure,
I hope he opens up to me,
So those wounds could still be cured,
Oh what a braveheart that must be,
Unafraid to be insecure.

Poetry, Quill

The Woman I Love

Dear Mother
She’s beautiful
A little dark complexion
With beautifully highlighted features
Her arms exposing the stories of her life,
And oh her words, the way they make me smile.
She’s everything you said my life partner should be
Mother, She’s everything I need.

Dear mother,
I am scared
I do not really know how you would feel
Or react perhaps, when the love of my life would you meet.

But didn’t you always tell me that she’s a safe place?
When at the age of 12 you
taught me the difference between a male and a female.
When a ‘girl’ friend meant ‘perfect’
And a ‘guy’ friend meant ‘slut’
Then why today when I am in love with a girl,
Am I looked down upon?
Why is it not okay?

When at the age of 20, it was suddenly okay to bring women inside my bedroom
But not men. . .
Then why when today I want to bring her home,
Is it not okay?

When in 7th standard I walked my way back from school to home,
Were you not the one who said ‘Baby, befriend
girls and do not let any guy travel the distance with you’
Then why when today I want to walk
the aisle of my life with her,
Is it not okay???? You are deemed ‘the perfect girl’ your entire life
for you did exactly what they said.
What’s that? You may ask
Well, for starters you had around You more of females
And less of these men they called ‘beast’
Main course had these dishes with extra flowing repellant behaviour towards male friends
And the delicious desert offered you the opportunity to finally be semi-naked inside your bedroom with your girl-friends,
Then why today when you want that one girl around for the rest of your life,
Is it not okay?

When sharing the same lady’s room is the rule,
When listening to ‘Hey I like your bra’ is the ultimate goal
Then why today when my body aches to touch her, to love her
Is it a sin?
Why is it not Okay?

Dear society,
Love is boundless
Love is the purest form of life
Then why my love is not loving?
Why I have limits, laws claiming me
Holding me in shackles
Why the same girl everyone loved,
The same girl termed pure
Is now a disgrace. . .

Open Letters, Quill

Happy Birthday Nitesh!

Dear fufu,

This letter- it could have been another birthday tribute to you for teaching me everything that you did. For making me familiar with the ups and downs of a website, for making me acquainted to the technical aspects of both laptops and life… But this letter- it wouldn’t be one of those.

Today, I don’t want to acknowledge everything that you did for me but I want you to take a moment and appreciate everything you did for yourself.

Maybe it’s because of you that I find it funny as to how people say support is necessary to accomplish any considerable thing in life. For you, you accomplished a good, (beyond good 😉 life itself with the support of no one but your own enormous will power.

I read it somewhere, “Fast success builds ego, slow success builds character.” And today, I want you to give yourself a pat on the back for the man you carved yourself into.

If a person ever is asked to create a perfect human, then for sure you wouldn’t be half as similar to what he’ll be creating.
But I am more than sure that whenever a person, someone who knows you, would be questioned to name the most ideal man he has met, he wouldn’t think of anyone other than you.

And that is the beauty of you. You’re a set distinguished flaws and distinctive strengths , a set far from ordinary yet relatable to all, a set you can always look up to yet a set that never would look down upon. A set too simple to be put into words, yet a set too complex to be cherished alone.

Happy Birthday Nitesh.

Quill

Unsaid Feelings //

// sometimes you can look like you’re laughing and having fun, but deep down your whole chest hurts trying to keep up the facade. each forced laugh tears you a little from the inside, and you forcefully bite your lip to stop the tears from flowing. the emptiness weighs you down and as you tumble into oblivion, you watch your whole life unbecoming right in front of you. you try to escape but your body seems to have lost all its functioning. you stare hard into the mirror, hoping for any explanation whatsoever. you look at moving buses and children laughing and couples fighting, but all you are is a spectator. all you feel is this numbing sensation that is continuously buzzing in your head. you can’t escape it. it is a part of you now. it is you. you are the disjointed and disintegrating pieces of what was once a functioning human. //

Poetry, Quill

Phoenix

I am shoved under,
My opinion is shushed,
My soul, sundered.
Day after day, scorching my existence
Day after day, disdaining my resistants
Worldly affairs might burn me down
Turn me into ash and extol my breakdown but,
I am the PHOENIX and I’ll rise from the ground.
I am the PHOENIX and I’ll rise from the ground.

Open Letters, Quill

What Do I Know

To What Do I Know,


Honestly, I don’t really believe in the concept of good songs, bad songs, or favorite songs at all. There are just relatable and not so relatable songs.


Maybe ‘Tu Koi Aur Hai’ struck a chord in the heart of that writer who was forced to pursue science- so it became his favorite song. Maybe ‘Phir Le Aaya Dil’ resonates the same pain, the same longing she has for her (not so) lost lover- so it’s her favorite song. And just like that when we all just couldn’t understand what ‘Gucci Gang’ was trying to imply- we tossed in the other can.


What synchronizes with your core, inadvertently, sticks to your core. Our desperation to be understood, to find something we can relate to, is probably what unites us as humans.


And for a man like me who just can’t comprehend ‘why are people so bad to each other, so often, why can’t people simply love’ What Do I know comes to my rescue. It isn’t exactly a love song and neither is it one of those freestyles that bombard bold political statements covered in beats.

It’s all about simplicity and maybe that is exactly how it fulfills its purpose. 

It’s listening to Ed Sheeran read Hafiz in Rumi’s field. It’s about realizing you don’t need mass movements to change the world- ‘we could change this whole world with a piano, add a bass, some guitar, grab a beat and away we go.’ A subtlety asking us to stop finding loopholes in our own moral fiber on the name of growth. It’s Ed telling us when another pandemic breaks or the stock market crashes, he’d still be sitting here with a song that he wrote, singing, love could change the world in a moment 

But what do I know?

Quill

Thoughts?

Now that the sight of my phone makes me want to puke and there is no movies or books that can engage me anymore.

I sit and think.

When did we grow up?

Wasn’t it just yesterday when the 4 year old me held my little sisters hand for the first time, measured her little hand with mine. Now she constantly measures her height with me and says I’ll get taller than you. When did my little one grow up?

Wasn’t it just yesterday when my best friend used to cry about everything and come to me for every little advice. A day before, she gave me the most apt/wise advice ever. When did she grow up?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that another of my friend used to get jealous and angry at little things, now he reads Rumi and Hafiz. When did he grow up?

Wasn’t it just yesterday, when in school we saw our senior bhaiya and didis,so tall so much wiser than us. When did we become those bhaiyas and didis?

When did we grow up?

Quill

Make A Wish

Make a wish to the universe hoping for it to come true. It’s a common belief that 11:11 means that your thoughts are manifesting quickly, so choose your thoughts (make a wish) when you see 11:11. I think that’s a bit simplistic. 11:11 is a wakeup call from those higher realms telling you that you must be at your purest to be your best. Whether you’re a spiritual person or not, believe that it brings positivity and luck to you and it will. Whether it’s 11:11 on the clock, the last digits of your phone number, bike number plate or your restaurant bill, if it makes you happy to close your eyes and whisper to the universe, do it!So yes, Call your cards.Make a wish.Do it if it makes you happy!


Poetry, Quill

The Weaver

Amidst the rain
Amidst the thunder
There was a tiny weaver
Seeking to build itself a nest
Typical yet stood out the rest.
The tree swirled a million times
The twigs kept falling off the climb
Still determined.
That bird endured the bitter clime
It tried and tried until the nest held shape
And not for once did the bird even attempted an escape
What startled me the most was not the nest
It was average looking yet better than the rest
What startled me the most was the bird.
Its persistence its trivial and its pluck
And if that tiny weaver could brook such a hefty trap
What has made us handicapped?