Category: Poetry

Who am I?

In an ever changing world

Who am I?

Am I the blue and red hues of my most favored colours,

Am I the moon I praise,

Am I the friends that nurture me,

Or the job that decorates me?

See, the question of who am I has been stuck to my forehead ever since I yelped into existence

So is it true to say that all of life’s embellishments are what make me so?

They are therefore I am?

What if I was blind?

And jobless

With no friends…

Then who would I be?

It is known, I am human, female, Indian, but all the technicalities in the world still do not explicitly explain what makes my soul the way it is.

Who am I?

“Brave and therefore scared”

To find the difference between what we are and who we are is a life long task

There is never a moment where you can undoubtedly say;

“This is me”

We are unpredictable with depths not even ourselves can comprehend until it happens

I am not so much what I do or have; but I am who I am because I do those things, because of the choices and actions behind those decisions to be and do.

I am in a constant state of

“this is me right now”

So don’t fret love,

You aren’t supposed to know who you are,

just know why you do the things you do and do not do

And one day sitting on a rocking chair

You will collect all the moments and say,

“so this has been me”

And you will have to grapple with you.

So try to be a good apple.

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A Conflicted Mind 

Life is a disgusting entanglement of shameless moments 

Who are we to be happy?

Have you ever looked into the eyes of a weathered old man at the traffic light?
Drenched in life
Dirt smeared on his very being
Not knowing where or when or what will sustain him next
Bones poking out of his skin as if he is already dead to the world
He might as well be. 

Who are we to be happy?

Have you ever looked into the eyes of a little girl standing on the side of the road begging for anything.
Literally anything
Hands out
Shame in
The fight for survival should not be a priority of a 6 year old
Yet the corner of the road is her classroom
Where she learns of:
The many different ways people say no
The many different ways people ignore her
The many different ways to be rejected of the most basic needs in life:
Food
Shelter
Love

So the next time you teach your children the basic needs of a human
Think of that 6 year old

I believe that life is a bunch of choices
I believe that everyone should work for what they get in life
But that is an ideal
And the world is not an ideal place.

To be stuck between a rock and a hard place
to be an enabler of the broken and homeless…but not the helpless.

There is a saying “where there’s a will there is a way”
But the operative word being “will”  and for some it is a long way away from their reach.

“Excuses
They have all their limbs
They are able to work”
This is true
But it is an ideal
And this world is not an ideal place.

I am not naive
I know how the world works
I know that you work for what you get and who are they to get anything for not working

But for some, just being alive is work.
We know not of their internal struggles

And come to think of it, people with degrees, clean clothes and a roof over their heads cannot get jobs
What are the chances for the road wanderers?

Some way or the other we are affected by the old man’s weathered hands and the little girl’s lost eyes. But when our weekends arrive we dance away the daylight that has stained our eyes and shake off any dark imaginings that do not align with the present atmosphere.

Because that’s how life is. Very few of us take in moments and let them stain us. 

Sometimes when I laugh amongst friends in a crowded bundle of night life;
I remember them
So vividly
Do they ever laugh the way I do, and will they ever?
For me, that is the saddest and most purest moment of grief I have for this world. 

And in that moment I feel a pull of emotions.
And guilt consumes me.
And in that moment I question myself

Who am I to be happy when the suffering around me pours through from every angle of life? 

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Russian Dolls

Painted by a courageous, bright and perplexed society 

We are all Russian Dolls. 

We are layered to fit into our very many personalities  ever so carefully.
We are aggravated by time
Sullen by sorrow
and elated by love
We are colour
We are complex
As the layers are disheveled by all that is life
We are torn apart. In half. Each time.
Hoping to find a new, brighter, better you.

And each time we are cut by size.
So are we really growing?
And just like that, we are
Russian Dolls.

There is many of us in one
There is more under the next
And even more under the more.
One thing I know for sure

Is

The colour we exude shines through the very many layers
As long as you believe there is more beneath your beautiful

We are all Russian Dolls
And when we reach the end
The innermost portrait of all that is You
One realizes that it is an infant
The infant in you
That just wants what it wants
to be loved
By You

We are all Russian Dolls
Be the colour that you exude
And embrace all the layers that is you

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They

He was a guy who did not know how to do this
Which was ironic because he knew how to do everything
He had time to fiddle with the intricacies of life
To oil every fragment so it turns just right
To tighten all the screws so nothing falls apart Continue reading “They” →

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