A humming word

Note: For a childhood friend, diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Dear sister, I have seen you weep for long You let the salty tears wet your soul Does vulnerability make you whole ? There's a tremor in my heart, every time you wail. When your soul is famished My heart turns pale I don’t know how you do it, Sister? Every time you’re hurt, You open the windows; inviting the dusty bad along with the breezy good Have you no fear of being misunderstood? Being strong is now a euphemism for Mincing your emotions in a grinder of time But Sister, you sing when you’re joyous Laugh, when you are boisterous You cry and live You mourn and give Your cheeks are drenched with your tears But in your heart, reside no fears Sister, i am afraid too But when i am in the crowd I mask it well I dont want be apart from the crew But Everyone is fearful of the same The same mask. A different name.

Context: This poem is for Shah Rukh Khan. During the lockdown, his movies and memories that flooded my heart kept me going as I missed meeting my colleagues and friends, whom I love dearly.  Poem: Love wore jeans and t-shirt  and spread its arms on a screen and gyrated, spreading its charm I had no clue, around me, what was going on  my heart swelled watching this scruffy haired man   Of course, over the years,  I learnt love is not what is seen  or unseen but what is felt  But whenever I think of love  S R K is how it is spelt 

Context: This poem is written for my mother who is a tomboy. As a child, it baffled me to see her demeanour versus the coy aunties I knew. But as I grew up, I realise that her presence, though strong, moulded my life in unique ways.  Poem: She is a marigold, an unlikely flower to be loved. Unlike a rose or a carnation that hoards our senses.  a marigold has a chunky shape with its petals tightly meshed But no rose would adorn the door like the marigold.  which in times of need is like the truth and statements, bold She is a marigold: beautiful. unique, strong  Leading an unabashed life,  crafting her own right and wrong She is a marigold. She is my tomboyish mother.

  /for a dear colleague, Anees/ Listen to this song   while reading  Is it the strength of her voice or the depth of her baritone Baked in humility. When she looks, her eyes reflect  A question, she cannot ask.  She speaks not from the tip of her tongue but from the  Bottom of her gut It is laced with a nobleness,  as soft as the handwoven clothes she drapes  But none see it for their senses are veiled  With the loudspeaker of a blaring noise That only deafens their conscience and  Mimics nincompoops

We collect dirt, dust, and grime, not only on our bodies but also on our souls. In the glittering images and persona of Facebook and Instagram, we don't share the innermost thoughts but what if there was an avenue to do that. And that's what Sammy Sahni and Uzma Hyder facilitated at the office of Pause for Perspective. Tucked in a lane in Begumpet, the office of Pause of Perspective is a retreat for the soul. One can grab a book and read there or attend a Slow Down Saturday workshop to reconnect with yourself, among the other activities that they conduct. In a mileu of chirping birds, dragonflies, the scent of fresh air in a balcony, we sat on the floor, in an hexagonal shape and our connecting points were Sammy and Uzma, Ruhi of Pause for Perspective. Sammy read poems from her latest book, Iridiscence, and each piece was followed by discussions on what we felt. The motley of crowd from a yoga teacher to a student to psychologists, gave us fresh perspectives. I parti...

There's a monkey stitched to the fabric of our soul. It jumps from day to day, year to year, decade to decade. Its mouth shaped like an empty bowl and its vacuous eyes pouring hunger. It sprints from tree to tree for a fruit or with its primate mates. Sips water from the nearest lake and ambles under a tree for shade. It ain't sure if its manmade but it gropes the distasteful plastic leaves. The monkey finally seeks solace under the twilight on a terrace. Spreading its arms and legs on the mattress, it awaits for its eyes to close and its fantasy to begin. The monkey is now unstitched from the soul. The soul celebrates. It sits by the parapet wall and looks at the balmy evening--a lullaby.

Despite the rains over the last two days, we hoped that there would be no thunder or lightning last evening. And thankfully, there wasn't. A few of us met met at the luscious green KBR to read our poems. The idea was to stay away from coffee houses and chai ki dukaan to soak ourselves in the greenery. And, we found a sweet spot under a tree. After a couple of rounds of poetry a peacock walked graciously. The velvet colors it adorned were gorgeous. The peacock hopped on to the trees nearby and then onto a tower. We ended the session after three rounds. The poetry read by these closet poets about their deepest emotions of love, patriotism and hurt, will remain with me. Here's my verse (an ode to Centenary--Jallianwala Bagh Massacre) April 13, 2019 The banner of summer sun and call of cuckoos wrapped the little Sikh boy, let's call him Little S, and his sister who were playing chuppam chupai. Little S hid behind the turbaned man with broad, strong shoulders. Sister came...

Poetry that urges you to write is qualified as good poetry. But poetry that compels you to write leaving your chores behind is great poetry. That’s what Gulzar Saab is all about. Selected poems by Gulzar (tr. by Pavan Verma) is an effective read. The variety in the subjects and the varied lengths leaves you gasping for more. It is like a beautiful love letter on a rainy day that you wish to read and re-read till the words soak inside of you. Sample this: Meaning From the square,  through the mandi,  past the market  Along the red street floats the paper boat  Helpless, bobbing about in the unclaimed,  orphaned waters of the rain  In the wanton streets of the town, frightened,  it asks: If every boat has a shore  Will I too have mine? Gulzar Saab dabbles in pain, humor, love, books as easily as he writes about his daughter, whom he fondly calls: Bosky, his friends and his mentors. The earnest lines in the poem:1857 will boil you...