A Walk on Cake (Performative Poetry)

You curse my education.
"Gender Studies? It won't involve much.
You would have all the time in the world, right?
It's just a cake walk".

I listen.
Innumerable accounts of loss and pain and death and dearth
"Cake walk"

Sir, Ma'am, if years of my tears, my midnight sobs,
My teeth-jittering evenings,
My futile complaints
My marginalisation, my annihilation
Is walking on the cake,
Well then I might be.

If my sister's labour in a claustrophobic kitchen
Her sacrifice on harrowing nights
Her tendency to drink tears
To convince a family they married
A laughing clown
Is walking on the cake,
Then I might be.

But I hate to admit this
It has been a cake walk.
To undo the atrocities on my कौम
To fight, to write, to sigh through sleepless nights,
To hope to once give back
To the struggle that brought you and me here.
I love to walk this cake, if cake it is.

Fading with the time

Fading with the Time.

Walking onwards to where the road bent,
Closer and closer with each passing day,
Leaving a little bit of my life's scent:
That would moulder away.

Days have come and years elapsed,
Gazing at the blurry memories,
Discarded dreams and twisted maps,
That has led me into such a plesant reverie.

Time oh Time; won't you slow down,
I've just learned to love,
Won't you wait to see me in my wedding gown?
And my elegant fingers in the white gloves.

For every second the clock ticks away,
All the precious things that i own,
The smile, the tears and today,
Into an old grey tombstone.

Sweet home and mama,
I won't wave a goodbye,
For life is just a drama,
To be told in the next life. Aye!!

Bombay 1947 or Dream Poem

(A response to Neutral Milk Hotel's song 'Communist Daughter.')

Sometimes in my dreams

I see her growing out of seaweed

and mossy rocks

on that port in Bombay

and I grip the bulwark of the ship

and wave to her like the tricolour

on the flagpole of the upper deck

as ambassadors twist like rubber

and burnt flesh turns so soft

that my fingers sink through bodies

like knife through butter.

Sometimes in my dreams

I feed baba’s memory and pieces of my

tongue, to catfishes that bump

against the hull of the ship. And an emaciated boy

looks at me and asks:

am I dreaming

or does the moon look like a half-eaten biscuit?

He waits for an answer and I

open my mouth and show him

the cavern in which my shredded tongue

flaps like an obscene gesture.

Sometimes in my dreams

I pack the memory of my fingers

on her spine and the way our tongues moved

in each other’s mouths and the colour of her hair

into my briefcase when Baba says:

pack only the things you need.

And I dream that I sing her

a sweet serenade

full of guitars and bagpipes and nice voices

as the ship moves away

and Baba looks for Ma among the stars.

Sometimes in my dreams

she and I

sit on that port with our feet in water

and eyes towards the future and it looks

like ice lollies and evening walks and

phantom comics. And her feet grow roots

and her body turns into a branch and her

words sprout leaves and I plant the

seeds of our rendezvous

on the hard ground of the ship

and water those bygone days

with my sleep.

November goes NoAmber

November goes NoAmber on a lot of fireproof things

but tell him ‘H E     I S      O N    F I R E     B O Y’,

and buoyyy...

he will not even need a lifebuoy to wash the ire out of fire.

He will run to the corner of the road 

and try to brush off the ashes when he has not even burnt yet.

November goes NoAmber on the curly wavy streets of Delhi and still there is no cutdown on the emissions. There is no fire extinguisher for this kind of warming up.

November goes NoAmber and a swarm of traffic lights flirt with him trying to get him to fit in spheres of their waiting.

If this waiting does not make me throw up,

November will definitely. Because he reacts back. He damn well reacts back

and that too with a lot of Amber.

November goes NoAmber on the delhi streets without batting an eyelid at the traffic signals,

calling out to all whooping traffic lights

and saying "give me December and I will give you winter".

I drag him past the traffic lights.

It is then that November goes NoAmber on me, says "there is no waiting for a month that already rests on the axis of a geography I had no hand in preceding".

November will never yellowy well manage alone.

November still got the cheek to tell me how left out he feels when the search party only comes for the warmth in winter. What about the chill. What if the blankets want to send a search party for the chill.

And in that moment, I figured, November makes sense only when it is not speaking NoAmber.

Obviously, I go NoAmber on November

and tell him he still got pretty chill for a color that does not let go sun’s hands.

And in that moment, I swear I saw November raysing ears,
laughing without letting go y from the year.

I don’t know why.

Don’t ask me where did the why go.

This whole year has been about going and not coming back. And if I had had a heart I would have definitely let it come back with a beat for the NoAmber in this November’s search party.

November still says that he aint looking for sunshine,

that he is looking for caution in traffic lights.

No November, you better not go NoAmber now.

Moving on

I have disliked geography so much that I was very happy to know that in hindi, geography was called bhugol. Since there was already gol in bhugol, I could easily circle the 0s in my answer sheets and call it 'literal manifestations of me being able to understand bhugol'.
After all I am still getting gol from bhugol.

I take words very literally sometimes.

It was only a year back I got to know that literally is also an adverb,

That adds emphasis while not really being true. For eg when you say ‘dude, I literally died laughing’, Clearly means, you, did not die laughing.

My problems with ‘geography’

-          started when I could not hold the globe in my hand

So I let it stay on the teacher’s table.

The world is too heavy for me anyway

so let me just wait

and not get grades below c-level.

It started with maps and word plays. 

One of the first games I ever played was atlas.

I was the only one who could notice alas in atlas.

atlas gave me my first anagram- saalt- with a double a.

It started with mastering the art of dropping things.

In 5^th std my team lost the cricket match

because I dropped a crucial catch.

In 2^nd std I dropped a dot on comma

And I called it global comma for days

Until someone in class punctuated me

and said "that is a semicolon, shreyasi."

See I might have had a height of a badminton racket

But my self-confidence was the size of a basketball

....court

I still believe puncture is a word derived from punctuation marks.

My problems started with learning GMT

My time of birth is according to IST.

Which meant that I had to wait

for 5 and a half hours before their time zone could match my time of arrival.

I am early at most events.

I do have a problem waiting.

What I don’t have a problem is finding answers

I have given the most intelligent and stupidest answers to questions like

"Which is the pink city?"

:

:

"Jaipur"

"What were the first living beings like?"

:

:

"Lonely"

"What is the opposite of fresh and use it in a sentence?"

:

:

 “when I had dinner in lunch time, I did not feel hungry.”

And just like now

Nobody understood the meaning of that line even then.

And just because I have been a master at dropping things,

Don’t expect me drop hints, every time somebody doesn’t pick up, why dinner in lunch time is opposite of fresh.

See, Stale was a word I did not know then

Or that salt is used as a preservative to preserve fresh food.

Or that our body was less salt and more saalt – with a doule a – which is to say

Our body is 40 teaspoons of salt

Which is to say that we are designed to preserve.

And now I am trying

to convert that gmt into a happy memory

so that my dementors do not preserve alas in this atlas.

So that I stop being salty to geography teachers, to all the people who made my decisions and then left me dealing with climatic fluctuations,

forgive them for all incorrect forecasts

All the directionless ways they told me - how my highway could not be built; how my compass was not magnetic enough to align itself; how my maps were not drawn to the scale; how my atlas was not flat enough-----

The world was never really flat anyway.

And may be that is why I have been carrying globes stuck to my earrings

If you ever notice, you will notice

Most earrings have globes hanging on to earlobes.

Why?

.

.

Because

People literally want us to carry the weight of the world.

And like my hands---------- even my ears can’t carry the weight of the world.

They reject everything that is not gold.

I am still the only one who will find gol in gold.

And I am still the only one who is on the last bench

concentrating hard on the globe

that world has set so out of my reach.

My teacher says we all are meant to move the world. I stand when my name is called for attendance. I go up to her and say "Done waiting------- Need a demo". 

And with that I pushed the globe off the table.

I look up at her

and say 

"see, I moved the world"

Political performance

There's been another rape
of a child. Hindu this time.
Sad or angry react? Sad. Read comments share
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There's been another riot
Less than 50 died though. Angry openreport
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There's another stupid minister stirring hate
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Scroll down my feed what's next?
There's been another rape
of a young woman: sad react definitely
Read comments: thumbs up, heart and sad react
Angry react and comment at
misogynist dumb fuck
Feel virtuous. Scroll more? Next!
There's some people who lost their
homes to slimy mining companies
Share? No, sad react only no one comments
on these; only rape, rape
Indian Army Rape Us
and maybe the odd lynching pricks
anymore. So scroll
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perhaps there will be one about Love Jihad
or an honor killing. Sad share about no freedom
to love that will get them
suckers for romantic love thank God for Bollywood
Sad reacts and a share
Then they scroll down to see what's next.

i dont speak English

It was for the first time when Deep came to the city for his higher studies,

Deep ! a village boy! With higher dreams, with higher hopes,

Looked upon the city as the key to achieve his goals.

According to his plan things were going on,

Till the time he entered the college for the first day all alone,

Hindu college, being one of the leading college of DU,

With determination all he was focused was to make his dreams come true.

But the very first thing he noticed was the language spoken by the people,

All he came to know was English was the only way to mingle.

Deep did all his studies in Hindi medium, all he knew was to speak hindhi,

Understanding English was enough he supposed,

Soon he realised he was wrong just to suppose,

Full of knowledge he was,

But none noticed or pause,

All looked for English speaking friends,

Forgetting about the fact that only words can’t be uttered without knowledge,

10 years passed….

Gone are the college days gone are the struggling phase,

Its time for a reunion, a time to meet, a time to retreat, a time to discover new opinion.

And there comes Deep, he is no longer Deep,

He is now IAS Deep and English was his only pitch.

People wondered is this the same Deep whom we ditched.

A time was there when Deep was rejected, now is the time when by everyone he was selected.

During his speech the only line which toughed everyone’s heart was,

Insan ko bhasha se nahi karam se pehchana jata h.

( A person should be known through his values not through his language,)

U B FAIR

Squatting on the commode,

I look at an advertisement

that dangles on the backdoor of the toilet.

It proclaims - ‘India’s first skin lightening cream, FOR MEN’

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR’

U B  FAIR - is the latest

alchemic agent of self-transformation

in the inherited legacy of discrimination

passed down generations -- in myths, fables,

poetry, idols, songs and sermons.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

My (s)kin, the Dravidians, they are called.

On attaining puberty, they gift girls aspiration

packaged in tubes of white, pink, and

all shades of pastel.

Made for 45 crore women -- brown, black and

all shades of darkness.

Conditioned to feel incomplete

unless they turn translucent.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

She rubs her chin, upset at the stubble

stubbornly interpreted as masculine.

She rubs her crotch, tugging at her itchy balls.

She wishes for three holes where her legs meet.

Her skin, a sponge, soaks up

insults, slurs, snickers and glares.

The outlines of her anatomy,

categorize and repulse her into a binary.

But her skin, also a shell, cracks, peels and

crumbles under the weight of conformity.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

Meanwhile, he who is deemed ‘lower’

by virtue of his birth,

rummages through your dirt,

Numbing his skin and sensation with

The only fairness he knows;

A handkerchief soaked in whitener liquid.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

How To Fix A Safety Pin

in sari pleats. You have to first

pick the biggest pin from the bundle

and throw safety from it.

Contemplate whether to wear

or to not wear. Wear, not wear, wear, not…

You wear.

Because the nightmares of sari slipping in public

have haunted you enough.

It holds your sari in a place, lady-like.

Like a lady, lady-like.

Suck in your abdomen. Hold! Hold! Hold!

Look down and fix the pin

but hold! Don’t un-hold your breath.

One, two, three… three two one…

Juggle the breath, the pin, and the eyes

like a circus juggler. But remind yourself

to pick the biggest from the bundle

and throw safety from it.

Don’t worry, try again—suck in your abdomen again

and look down, again.

And in.

Into the first fold, aiming sharply

at your smooth skin.

Punch its sharp end through the second fold.

And lock it. Lock,

lock yourself within a feeble wire-folding.

Pick the biggest from the bundle

and throw safety from it.

Abdomen out, eyes up and relax. 

Keep yourself safe from the pin,

whose safety you had thrown in the bin.

While you sit through that seminar or

That uncle’s daughter’s son’s wedding,

don’t drink or eat too much.

It might upset the pin.

It might pierce your little abdomen

and brutally slaughter your organs.

A blood bath.

A bath of blood.

Because you had thrown the safety

into the bin.

April

If I could strike out April,
Cassias will not weep drops of yellow
Mother will not be born nor will I
Nor your parents nor will you
No celebrationsno marriage anniversaries
By clicks of button our directions are made
for flight tickets
of picking of dates
of graduations
of sleepless nights
Many things happen on April
A phone call that shifts the cosmos
Counting how many pills did you popped,
how many needle holes on your skin
A midnight of April
A dreadful dream could've been better
Like a passing away of winter air
Sleeping forever
No need to paint your face
no red lips to enhance
simply comb your ruffled hair
splash your shame
soak your tired skin
Why wait to eat untill the stomach growls
Why strike out April?
The bike bangs the same head
awakening the same pulse
deafening ears, throbbing head
Slowly casacading into the memoir of the fist
'Sshh, speak not if you don't want a fist' 
they sayThe fist that crushes his own brittle sperm and egg
swarm of maroon blood fumes
hard enough to adjust the vision
no sound no cries
Its a fist to get your head right, they say
Only 'sorry,' is all you can say
But April tell me!
who can silence the screams of a baby
Blatant strike on the fontanel!
who remembers the blackout
Who holds the moment of that blackout...
Who handles your nerves
What made you gasps for air
Eyes shut, sobs on the background
Warm drops trickled on your skin,
 it wasn't mine
It was April's.
Gentle sobs gentle hands dabbing the wounds
Wake up from your hallucination!
slowly pull the green shoots, pull yourself out of this mud
Bare it all, skin and bones
Let fire ants showers on you
let it slash, burn, roar and scream
Like a 3-inch rusty nail grinding into your heel
April felt everything
Weight of whispers,
A glance shifts the cosmos
On your knees
Touch the heaven's crystals
A broken body rises on April
There's too much to strike away from April.

Creed of time

Deutronomy - "you shall marry your rapist"
 I will not.
Ephesians - "submit yourself to your husband"
I will not.
I don't need an ancient piece of parchment telling me
Who I belong to.
Why does a mere appendage make you the owner of me , my body , my soul?
I am my own being.
I don't need my brother, my mother, my father
Telling me who I am.
I am not searching for my better half,
I am not a half
Hell I am not yours.
A band on my finger does not make you the owner of me
What is this a barter?
The white gown the white sheets
 waiting for my blood
Like a butchers meat.
Charm is decietful, and beauty is vain
But I sure as hell am more than my stain
Corinthians- "women should keep silent in church"
Scared?
Are you scared that once I speak the appendage that gave you the right to own me falls short.
Are you scared that I may just be more than my boob and my womb.
The length of my skirt made me your girlfriend
The length of my veil made me your wife
I wonder what made you the son of a
Mother.

Dear Bully, Screw You, Really

Dear Bully, Screw You, Really

Walking down the corridor, I could feel my heart race.

You’d stand outside the classroom, sharpening your claw, ready to pounce on me.

I’d walk slowly, keeping myself from falling down,

trying to avoid those preying eyes.

Each step, a constant reminder that

I am not enough.

I will never

be enough.

“Hey, why do you do walk so strangely, do you have an amputated leg or what?”

Looking you in disbelief, I’d always wonder why you detest me so much.

What did I do to deserve that hatred?

But Daniel and Roma would calm me down.

They always told me that I am perfect.

“It’s windy outside, might want to hold on to something, amoeba!”

I would clench my fist and close my eyes.

Daniel and Roma would tell me I’m perfect.

“Heard you still didn’t get your period, get yourself checked, maybe you’re a man.”

Inhale. Exhale.

Daniel and Roma would tell me I’m perfect.

“Yo blackey, is everyone in your family this dark?”

You would roar out in laughter with your friends as

my eyes would well up and I gasp for air.

Damn, you and your friends.

You know, I couldn’t ignore this laughter. It still rings in my ear.

Can you imagine a child having sleepless nights because of someone’s laughter?

How could you, dear bully?

Daniel and Roma weren’t there anymore to tell me I’m perfect.

They moved cities. Lucky asses!

So I, in all my capability, had to repeat to myself.

“I. Am. Perfect.”

You remember how you pushed me in the morning assembly on the stage?

The thorny laughter emerged from the crowd as the earth opened itself to swallow me

The 12 year me couldn’t take this laughter. She just couldn’t. She has had enough.

Every roll call in the morning now went with me stuttering “P-p-p-p-present, ma’am”.

I looked around to see the benches floating in the air.

“I am glad you finished your sentence before the recess”, you shouted.

I shut my eyes and could still hear the background score of those giggles and laughter.

Dear bully, screw you, really.

You’re the reason I still seek for validations as I breathe.

Every, “Am I looking fine?”

Every “Did I make a fool of myself?”

Every “Shit, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth”

Is a consequence of your stabbing.

These wounds may not be visible on my skin, but they cut deep.

Last week you commented on my instagram picture saying, “God damn, you’ve turned hot. Wanna grab a drink?”

Guess what, dear bully?

I am not glad that I’ve grown hot according to your beauty standards.

I remember every single instance clear as a day, so let’s not pretend we are besties, okay?

But, let’s meet over drinks that I will make sure to throw on you.

The 12 year old me can’t wait to tell you that “I-I-I-I-I am perfect”.

Razor way shun

like grass their lives
were thrown around
a complain
and they were gagged and bound
like fodder.
they endured each storm by bowing down
till their foreheads touched the ground.

a hundred years later 

their names started dying
for the bearers of the legacy
of pain have started lying
and why wouldn't they
when at every step
you tell them that
they had it easy.

dalit literally means oppressed
but we all know
it actually means
"the lucky people with quota".
by the fifth visit to his friend's house
he was familiar with each little crack
on the cup reserved for him.
i wonder who is more obsessed with reservation. 

Our reservation of hate
exceeds their reservation of jobs
but that's alright.
Our arguments, like daggers
returning to stab the sheaths home
in on the quota problem in india.
slums will never be tall enough
to be a part of a City Skyline
so let us conveniently forget
that 93% of the people
below poverty line are dalits.
let Us forget that the arrogant seeming IITian
was once forced by his teacher
to clean the entire school.
not because he was throwing around garbage
but he was considered garbage.
Cows our are mothers
but they can have the privilege
of conducting her last rites,
while we collectively pretend that
the man entering the sewer to clean it
does not know
that along with the
poisonous chemicals, his body
is also being exposed
to our toxic gaze
which can't imagine him in clean clothes
let's hope that like their history,
the people vanish as well.
its not genocide
if the people stab their own
culture to death
with blades of shame.