Poetry, Write Ups

Satire

The old factory is still standing
Though the doors are cracked
And paint is chipped

And there is this old tower
in the backyard
With a spiral staircase
That we used to climb on
To watch over the wintertown

Sun shining upon us
Laughs echoing through winds
Arm in arm , we walked down the lane

Eyes of sapphire and lips of wildfire
Though your presence was greatly required
But our fate , oh what a satire

Quill, Write Ups

Foster home

And now when I look back ,
It feels like you were in love
with just the idea of being
someone’s home.

Poetry, Quill, Write Ups

June

It was that June
when it was so hot
it put May to shame

It was that June
when sky was so blue
It almost looked as a painting

It was that June
when out of nowhere
I got that friend request

It was that June
when those neverending messages
transformed into neverending calls

It was that June
when we held hands for the first time
and I had a poem for you already

It was that June
when you left me on platform 1
with all those words left unsaid

It was that June
When your love
become end of my world

Poetry, Quill, Write Ups

01:02

He had this habit of
thinking a way too much ,
Holding an unlit cigarette
in one hand ,
Putting another one over
my shoulder ,
Making weird star formations ,
As we used to stare at
night sky ,
He’d play his favorites of
70’s on his phone ,
Twirling and dancing with me
everytime
Fooled around and fell in love
would play ,
And then staring at me
with his goofy smile

He’d come to my door
at 2 am ,
When I didn’t show up
that night ,
Held my hand and pulled
me with him ,
Took me to our spot ,
Saying
I was really fooled around and fell in love
And I ,
I’d be thinking of all
the ways to tell him ,
I couldn’t love him the way
he wants me to .

Quill, Write Ups

SHE

She tosses her hair and arches her eyebrow. With one leg over the other, and a tiffin in her lap, she munches on her food, keen eyes roaming here and there, glancing at disheveled boys, drug addicts, according to her. With a smile that breaks off into giggles and chortles at an instant, she beams with joy. In a corner, sometimes caressing the pages of her diary and doodling on the corners of her notebook, a head swiveling with bundles of ideas, flowing with imagination.

She walks without grace and often complains of her aching back, a result of rigorous exercise. She is frank and can be mean if it means standing up for her friends. She speaks and chats and laughs and sings. Her eyes, walnut brown with a tinge of mocha, twinkle with mischief and depth, a depth of observance, of search, a search of philosophical ideas maybe, still on their journey to the end. She is hurt when she becomes the butt of all jokes, she brushes them off aside but sometimes she wishes that all those around her would let her be herself, quiet and composed.

She makes those around her happy, those nervous wrecks calm and dances to her own tune, a mix of ‘we will rock you’ and ‘aankh marey’. She has dreams, this girl, of being with some people, rather the one embedded in her heart, at the moment, (and the writer feels that she would pass this temporary phase quickly). Carefree and careless, a small phone in hand, used for sending messages to her mother during english period and becoming a source of embarrassment the other times. A round cherub face which blushes in awkward situations and a spirit which is no one’s slave. She shines through her difficulties and emerges brighter than ever, she is a born fighter. With bruises from not so elegant falls of her scooter and a determined mind ready to work, this girl sits in the corner of that seat in that class. She looks outside the small window and smiles, because for her, each day is new, brimming with excitement and gossip and food, full of life.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KRITI, I LOVE YOU! I ADORE YOU! I ADMIRE YOU! AND YOU ARE THIS PERSON WHOM I CAN NEVER FORGET EVEN IF I HAVE AMNESIA. LOADS OF HAPPINESS TO YOU.

Quill, Write Ups

It’s Okay To Not Be Okay

It’s okay if you have cried a lot last night.

It’s okay to scream.

Its okay if today you do not feel the way you felt yesterday.

It’s completely understood why you need space.

It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk or share. You  want some me time and that’s perfectly perfect.

Let the feelings flow. If you want to cry, cry out loud, but once you are done it should be over. There is no point lamenting your whole life on one thing. Live a life full of emotions. Tell people you are not okay. You need to cry.

Now a days only a few face readers are left. You need to express to be understood. IT’S OKAY TO NOT BE OKAY.

Quill, Write Ups

Fool

“Hey Olivia, can you please call her.”

“Call who? there’s no one standing here but the two of us.”

“You are but in looking the wrong direction. Check yet again, and this time beneath these thick layers of necessities. See her now?”

“Are you mad. There is no one else here.”

“She is right here, look straight from my eyes, there she stands- Olivia. Please call her.”

“You idiot, you’re asking me call myself. What is wrong with you.”

“Oh Olivia dear, I’m asking you to call Olivia.”

“What are you. You thick skull. Olivia and Olivia are the same person.”

“How can you two be the same person. You are but a slave to your own thoughts, a slave to your own self constantly living in fear of falling, in fear of failing. constantly trying and trying and trying but not knowing as to what are you trying to claim. While on the other hand the one of whom I speak of, she is a free soul rather she is a feeling, a feeling to live, a feeling to express herself and she is not bound by fears of earning $100,000, or fear to make herself a living and acquiring the so-called prestige of our society. Rather her primary objective is to maintain that precious smile on her face. To ensure that the little girl in her, she continues to survive and not just survive but continues to smile as well.”

“And you befool me saying you are but the same people. Moron you are.
For you even need another soul, to differentiate between yours and your body.”

Quill, Write Ups

To Books

Here is to my first love.

I remember when i was 7 being handed over “the three lazy lions”. ‘Who gives a book for b’day, mum dad!! ‘ was my first reaction. Little did I know my journey to the world of books started. After few days after completely forgetting about the gift, I stumbled upon it again. And to my surprise, I gave it a reading,

Now that I look back, am amazed how that b’day gift, opened to me a completly new world-The World Of Books.

Yes there are days when I do not want to even touch a book and on others I read for 24hours straight. Some days I read for the heck of it, and on others the words start flowing in the veins. Somedays I find a book thats so amazing that I am startled by its expression, and on others I just have to go in a trauma for completing it. Somedays you’ll see a really famous book in my hand and on other a book you haven’t even heard of.

And as Roald Dahl in Matilda said, “All the reading she had done had given her a view of the life they had never seen”

-A girl with a longgg reading list

Quill, Write Ups

Dear Kashmir,


“What is kept in name?” Well in my case it is connection to the paradise on earth, to you. “A millennial that has never seen her homeland” has been my identity for long.
We have a deep relation although we have just met each other twice. And although we live apart I cherish you as an obscure dream.
I hear my parents tell tales about your magnificent past and how they had to leave you behind to start a new life in a new world. What intrigues me is the spark in their eyes when they speak of you. Alas, the cold winds of hatred bruise the beautiful soul you used to be.  The wounds that lie on your heart could never possibly be healed when a mother is left without her son who thought he was fighting for heaven. I might never understand your pain when you are just reduced to deaths, resentment and apathy. Every day you die a thousand painful deaths when you are a mere spectacle of bloodshed that fills the air with a stench of loathsome freedom that you never wanted.

Violated, hurt and yet oblivion you stand there still.

Then there are those who think they are protecting you from clutches but instead tear you down. You are talked of but never really heard. You voice has become the screeching of guns and the wailing of mothers. My love, you are not a land of stone pelters or the rhetoric of manipulative politicians but that of estranged lovers like us.

You are phenomenal and you will overcome the grief and conflicts.

The Dal, Shalimar and Jhelum will sing tales of glory.

Hard times shall pass, clouds of despair will vanish.

We will meet when Sun shines upon us.

Till then this heart wrenching wait will be the testimony of our uncanny love.  

Your estranged lover,

A girl far from home…

Quill, Write Ups

2019! With a bang

Ola! Wishing you a very Happy New Year!!

Oh these 365 days passed real quick, but the moments, the moments they brought with them, blended slowly yet surely into our lives, from the little harsh fights to sweet sensetive memories, we got all of it.

But now as the year departs, lets actually brace ourselves up and rather merely celebrating the fact the earth revloved around the sun once, let’s actually make up a resolution to break the limits like never before, to give the best of ourselves and to make this year the biggest of our entire lifetime…

Wishing you the very best once again and hoping you surely give in every morsel of yours into the process of making your dream come true.