How to not fall in love with a ‘Rahul’: A 3 Step Guide

Oh my god, girls, have you seen Rahul?

He’s got bluish grey eyes.

Yes. Bluish grey.

He’ll really look at you and nod

as you explain away your

dissertation topic.

Step 1- Do not get fooled by those eyes.

Wait, give or take 10 seconds,

he’ll cut you off mid-sentence with his

“Umm, well, actually…”

Mansplaining is his forte,

you’ll realize as you fall prey to

his talents.

Girls, have you met Rahul?

He’s got that Royal Enfield Bullet

that makes all the right noises.

He’ll force to drop you at

places you can reach easily.

Every time.

Awwle, how cute no?

Step 2- Sense the misogyny in his tone

when he says, “Babe, you know how

unsafe it is for girls to travel alone.”

While you’re at it, also wonder

why you started dating him in the first place.

Uff, Rahul is so hot yar.

He’s got those biceps and six abs.

He'll flex those muscles and

make promises like

“Babe, you know

I will always protect you.”

How romantic is that, right?

Step 3- Snap back to reality and

let the sexist overtone sink in.

Run as far as possible, because

the only protection you need is from

a Rahul.

Self- Reflective Piece

I’ve always thought of myself as a bathroom singer version of a poet, who writes but never shows her poetry to anyone. You see, I fear being judged. A lot. All the time. But still, having harbored such inhibitions, I joined the ‘Crafting Poems’ class. After talking to my fellow classmates, I found out that the majority of them joined this course with an aim of writing good poetry so that they can grow for the better. I, on the other hand, joined this course for one very simple reason- I love reading poems. I’ve always been more of a reader than a writer. That’s not to say that I don’t like writing or I didn’t write before joining this course. I maintain a journal. Well, every day is not a dear diary moment for me, obviously. I write when I feel things which I don’t feel on other mundane days.

All the poems, I had written in my journal, was for ‘me’ as against the ‘reader’. These poems were rooted in my personal experience and I wrote them for myself. But it was only after joining this course that I realized that you write for others too. After having the in-class discussion with Nitoo Das, it dawned on me that I had been wrong with my prejudices about poetry. Poetry in all its capability creates a beautiful living and breathing larger space which drives home a point. How poetry says much more than just the words strung together is absolutely beyond me.

In the very first class, we talked about our favorite poems, Faiz’s ghazals and Amir Khusro’s Chaap Tilak, and what a nazm and a ghazal essentially are. Giving us the taste of Urdu poetry, Akhil said: “You know, Urdu poetry is always about departure and not about arrival.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant by this until the third week came along where we read English Ghazals. I had no idea that ghazals were written in English language too. It is grand how Agha Shahid Ali introduced a new form of poetry and bridged a gap between two civilizations that he traversed. For him, introducing the form of ghazal in English became a way through which he retained his true identity in a foreign land. I could relate this to Czeslaw Milosz (whom I read in my ‘Modernity and Metropolis’ elective) for whom the aim was to write as if poetry is no longer a ‘foreigner’ in society.

In the ghazal week, Akhil gave us a little introduction about radif, kafiya, matla and makhta. At first, they sounded like the name of desserts, but then later they became the 101 of poetry. The prosody week hit me hard with the technicalities of poetry which I still very much struggle with. Looking back at my naïve self, I wonder how much I had to learn and unlearn. This process is perennial in nature. The first poem that I wrote was like a toddler learning how to walk properly, and it is with a tad bit of confidence and feedback of my lovely classmates, that I can now safely say that the recent poems that I’ve written can at least walk properly, if not run.

Let’s briefly talk about my ever so innocent poems that I have managed to write. The first poem that I wrote for this course is called ‘Remember’. It had lines flowing longer than the river Nile. I had no sense of enjambments and commas. It is really interesting what good punctuation and enjambment can do to your poetry. The workshop by Nitoo Das also stressed on the right uses of those. In that workshop, we also talked about how to play with clichés. Akhil in one of the classes told us that one needs to earn the right to use clichés. I, on the other hand, have a soft spot towards them. To be very honest, the repetitiveness of the clichés give me a sense of comfort while I am writing. This will not come as a surprise to the people who’ve read my poems. That being said, I have exponentially toned down the usage of clichés with every next poem.

After writing two horrible poems, I finally got some understanding of how to write a good poem and I finally wrote a city poem ‘Where do I live?’ which was well appreciated not only by the teacher but by my peers too. Ever since, I have not written a shitty poetry, except maybe one villanelle, which is titled ‘Shitty Poetry’. It’s intended to be a satirical poem. I have played a little with the structure of the villanelle that I have written, taking inspiration from the poem of Elizabeth Bishop titled ‘One Art’.

The most challenging poem that I’ve written in this course is the performative poem called ‘Dear Bully, Screw You, Really’. Having been on the receiving end of bullying in school, it wasn’t easy for me to be vocal about it. From the girl who didn’t use to share her poems with even her friends and family, to performing a poem about my childhood struggle in front of the entire class, I have definitely come a long way.

The major share of the credit goes to Akhil for being not just a professor who nurtured us amateur poets under his wings, but also giving us the right values. I still remember the feedback session I had with him where while analyzing the love poem that I had written, he told me to never chase a person who isn’t emotionally invested in me. Rather asked me to invest those feelings and emotional labor on myself. I hope to transform that energy to better myself so that it can bear the sweetest fruits. (There. Another cliché as a parting gift)

Fan and a Light Switch: A Hate Story of Love

I have blades, she says.

No, not those that cut.

Don’t ask her,

she’ll tell you otherwise.

She tells me when to go

and when to shut.

One might call her controlling.

I don’t.

At least not in front of her.

She conveniently gets cozy

with the switchboard,

how dare she suspect that Ceiling and I

have a thing.

I very well know the song of jealousy

but I prefer not to sing.

I always think that I’ve had enough

I won’ take it anymore now

but whenever she goes up,

I spin around.

Love is a silly thing.

I don’t know how to tell you

and where to start.

It’s like with every patch up

I tell her

“Till short circuit do us part”

An Unknown Known Face

I am not at those coffee shops

and those airports.

Don’t stand in my favorite aisle

of that bookstore.

Don’t push and push and pull

those

huge glass doors to find me.

Don’t run on those escalators

and

enter those elevators.

Just,

don’t try to find me.

Don’t search for my scent

in other people

you can’t breathe the same love,

twice.

Let’s only meet by coincidence, no?

Let’s count on serendipity for once.

Let’s doubt if it was you whom I saw

in the rushed office lunch hours

at Cyber City.

Let’s miss each other

by a few seconds.

And even in those chance meetings

let's stand on the

opposite metro platforms

facing

each other.

And between those clusters of

unknown faces

let's

see each other.

Mathematical Locha

You and I had that quadratic equation,

very complex.

Funny, how I tried to solve you

and now you’re just my ‘x’.

You never even used to

cross my path,

you son of a parallel line!

And here I was thinking that

I was the radius

of your circle.

Your circumference really

made me blind.

Shit Poetry

Under the shade of an Oak tree

with a feeling of no regret

I will show you my shit poetry.

Chasing the sun to reach there early

looking breathtaking in a dress so violet

under the shade of an Oak tree.

Maybe I’ll charge you a small fee

or a puff from your marijuana cigarette

even this shit poetry isn’t for free.

Art deserves time so you better not hurry

your eyes kissing the paper will get wet

under the shade of an Oak tree.

“It’s about me?” you’ll ask in a voice so husky

I’ll roll my eyes and say “you bet’.

There’s a reason why I titled this ‘shit poetry’.

Our love or this poem, what’s more ugly?

If life was a board game, you’d be a chess set.

Under the shade of an Oak tree

I will show you my shit poetry.

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”.

Come Back, April

Come back, April

shine on my face.

I miss how warmly

you used to hug me.

I know, I know,

I’ve been rude

like a cold

December night.

But, trust me,

I’ll change. Look into my eyes.

I’ll not crib like a

July afternoon,

when life gets harsh.

Will learn all the

romantic ways of an

October evening.

I swear, I’ll not be moody like

August afternoons.

My sweetness will melt

you, like a typical

March morning.

Spring is not spring

without you.

I know where I went wrong.

I know

you left because of my

“I hope Winters come soon” outrage.

This time it’ll be different.

I give you my word.

For this time, I’ll kiss the petals,

not pluck.

For this time, I’ll let your fragrance flourish,

not contain.

For this time, I’ll even let those eyes

appreciate your beauty, and 

not get jealous.

For this time, I’ll love you, for

not stop loving you.

Masculinity 101

I am not here to tell you to love your kid

though I really hope you do.

He really won’t love himself

unless you love yourself too.

80’s glorified Rambo and the Terminator,

hypermasculinity became the new norm.

Schwazeneggar and Stallone demanded men

to look like Greek Gods,

kids were taking steroids in every dorm.

Broad chest, six packs, arms that can lift a fiat,

they’ll constantly tell him to be a 

‘manly man’.

Fist on the wall, he’ll scream really hard,

let his tears trickle down his face and 

not fry his emotions in a pan.

While millions of Adonises 

collect likes on social media, 

you tell him 

muscles will never be the mark of masculinity.

Really hear what he has to say, dont just listen,

teach him to embrace his own sensitivity.

Expose your dark side to him,

let the light slide in through those cracks.

The insecurities you harboured as a man

will dissolve,

He will emulate the person 

you become

so dont fall back.

You in all your enoughness,

teach him that he’s enough too.

Real men aren’t afraid of losing a job,

or the new life their wife is trying to brew.

He’s not your dream project project,

you might want to stop.

Why is your childlikeness appreciated,

when his childishness is not?

It’s A Happy Ending After All

My body floats in the air,

while the ring on my finger

pulls me down.

Gravity has 

always been confusing.

I sometimes

fail

to recognize

this man 

living with me.

He drinks dark clouds every night.

Lying on the bed,

I hear the creak of the door.

Feel the darkness of his shadow.

He gently touches my arm,

gently,

swallowing my insides.

I flinch and stand

on the floor

meeting his red eyes.

He reeks of nightmares,

yet

sleeps like a baby

every night.

I clench my fist

I know the horror

he will unleash

now.

He burns my body 

every night, hoping

someday

I’ll turn into ashes.

But tonight will be 

a different night.

I have my own

grand plans.

He comes really close and

whispers, “You know, I

don’t 

want to hurt you.”

Giving him the 

brightest smile,

I feel the 

knife in my pocket.

“You know, I don’t,

want to hurt you.”

I repeat.

Hoping they’ll open

the hell gates

soon.

He’s coming.

Where Do I Live?

  1) ‘18-B, Paradise Building, Punjabi Bagh’

      is not my home

      but a constant reminder

      that He’s not there

      The bed where I lay, 

      still

      holds the weight

      of his body

      The closet filled with my clothes

      can’t lose

      the cologne of his shirts

      His bathrobe on the towel holder

      is still a little wet

2)  They constantly exhaust me with their 

     “Hey! Where do you live?”

     Be it my colleagues asking me  

     “Where do I put up?”

     The cab driver asking me for

     “my location”

     Or the receptionist asking me 

     “my residential address”

     Even the online shopping sites mock me 

     whenever I place an order

     Little do they all know

     I don’t live there

3) I live in that party at

    Tanya’s Gurgaoun house

    Thats where I first saw Him

    Drink in one hand, 

    smile on the whole face. And, oh,

    that grey tshirt

    I’d say it was a love at first sight, but,

    I know you will cringe

    No, wait. I live at Tamra Restaurant in CP

    He and I would go there

    after work

    Honestly, we went there as much as 

    F.R.I.E.N.D.S went to Central Perk

    But, now, I go there all alone 

    not to fill my stomach,

    but my soul

    No, now I remember. I live at

    Lodhi Gardens

    It’s where He confessed

    His love

    for the very first time

    It felt like a Bollywood movie

    The greens around made it

    look more sublime

4) Sorry, I’m in a hurry. 

    Have to go find Him

    Have to catch a flight 

    to Varanasi

    and hope He misses His

    to Heaven

    Have to reach before 

    they scatter Him

    in the Holy River

    Before I lose him to oblivion 

    Before he goes

    Home

    leaving me

    to live alone

    

शिकस्त (Defeat)

शिकस्त

दीवार पे महज़ एक तस्वीर बन रहगये हम जिसे बिना एक नज़र देखे ही गुज़र जाना चाहते हो,

कल तक तो तुम्हारे जीने का ज़रिया थे हम, तो आज जीते-जी क्यों मर जाना चाहते हो?

जो मोहब्बत में मोती पिरोये थे हमने,

वो धागा उधड़ के क्यों बिखर जाना चाहते हो? 

मुसलसल जो वादे किये तुमने इश्क़ में,

उन लफ़्ज़ों की रूह से क्यों मुकर जाना चाहते हो?

ये ख़ामोशियों का सिलसिला, जो छुपा था, ढका था,

वो पर्दा गिरा के क्यों अकेले ही निखर जाना चाहते हो?

 मदरसों में क्यों सिखाये नहीं जाते बेवफाई के सलीके,

आखिर वो कौनसी नज़रें हैं जिनमें डूब मिट मर जाना चाहते हो?

जब राह के मुसाफिर बन न सके तुम,

तो इश्क़ के जनाज़े में होकर शामिल क्या साबित तुम कर जाना चाहते हो?

English Translation

Defeat

I am but a mere photograph hung on the wall, you’ll pass the wall without glancing at me once,

I was your means to live until yesterday, why do you want to lose your will to live today?

The pearls of love we strung together,

Why do you want to break the thread and dismember?

The vows you made of an eternal love,

Why retract from the soul of those words now?

The chain of silences which were hidden and veiled,

Why do you want to raise that curtain and shine alone?

Why don’t they teach the rules of infidelity at madrasa?

Whose gaze do you want to drown and die in?

When you couldn’t be my traveler/partner on this journey of life,

Then why bother being a part of our love’s corpse last walk?

Remember

Remember

Remember the last month, when Her Majesty invaded the territory in all her bright red glory,

You saw me doubling over in excruciating pain and felt sorry.

You asked me if I wished to become a man whilst you gave me the hot water belt,

It would’ve been nice if men too shared the blood and pain that we as women felt.

No! I refuse be a man that’s what I told you,

It’s a price I have to pay to be a mother, an explanation with which I grew.

Remember when you told me to smile at strangers,

And then one day I did and that put my life in danger.

You thought life is about living these beautiful little moments,

But then he chased me till home and left me smelling pungent.

You came home running and saw me shaking,

And asked me whether I wished to be a man to avoid this character staking.

These battles have to be fought as a woman was what I told you then,

The time when I will ask ‘would you rather be a woman’ is not far, amen.

Remember the other day when you came to me and sat me down,

‘I am gay’ you said the three words and I kept myself from having a meltdown.

These were not the exact three words I was hoping to hear from your mouth,

I had imagined our kids’ names, for crying out loud.

And when this time you asked me whether I wished to be man,

It’s a vehement yes, I kept repeating. If only I can.