Red.

Red like the flames of a fiery fire,
Red as the fumes of a funeral pyre,
Red akin to the iris of an eye
ruled by grief’s merciless empire –
The kind of red that nurtures life
sans any claim, blame, or sigh,
whilst traversing the contours
of each haunting hope and desire;
With a hue unmatched by another,
alive or inanimate, you are a ghost
that is at once a foe and an ally;
You bruise, then heal, only to wound
again with the precision of a killer
who holds nothing sacred nor shies
away from betraying a trusting host
without the aid of a gun or a knife;
They tell me not to speak of you
or acknowledge your existence,
as if denying you live and thrive
every second that I am alive
would somehow turn the truth untrue,
as if a red as vibrant as you
can be restrained by the chains of a taboo,
for you are an innate part of me,
dear wretched blood, stabbing
cruelly the body you call your abode:
I can feel, smell, hear, and see
the massacre you leave in your wake
every time you visit like clockwork,
adorned with the wrath of a vengeful
lover determined to burn me at the stake;
How can I hide the pain you cause
or the way you turn a sneeze into
a riot of red, attacking the lake
of strength and courage I protect
with my whole spirit, or the shadow
you cast on the horizon of my heart?!
And even if I could, why should I part
with the right to articulate your treachery?!
For this civil war is my battlefield,
one where I repeatedly stand tall,
to rise like a phoenix after each fall,
whilst they label this fight imaginary
despite glaring evidence to the contrary;
Red like the rays of a million suns,
Red as the shots of countless guns,
Red akin to the blood in my veins
determined to challenge me at all turns –
The kind of red that hones hurt
sans any shame, apology, or lie,
whilst waging a never-ending war
within its home, laughing while it burns.

Growing trees in our souls.

A smile lights up her visage
as she utters each word with
measured grace, as if the cage
she is seeking to hide from sight
can be easily written off as myth,
as if the act of painting her body
with the colours she is supposed
to heartily feel and embody
would somehow shadow the pain
she is trying so hard to fight;
She thinks I do not see or know
the form and colour of her sorrow –
I wait for her to shed the mask,
deeply aware how difficult
is the seemingly simple task;
A battle lights up her visage
as she talks to her mother,
exchanging many a mean insult,
a vengeful veil concealing the rain
devastating her spirit with spite,
as if the act of spewing venom
would erase the words written in
indelible ink on every page
of her soul, as if the speeding train
moving towards her sans mercy
would suddenly screech to a halt
at her mirage of indifference;
She thinks her creator is oblivious
to the disguises she expertly wields,
unaware that her veil is transparent
to the one who can hear and feel
her every sigh as if it were her own;
I wonder where she gets the
masks from, for there seems
to be an endless supply of those
travelling with her like an army
of friends wherever she goes;
I wonder whence we all procure
our particular brand of veils,
for there must be but few
amongst us completely free
of the addiction to this maze
of denial, of pretence, of hope,
of delusion that we vehemently
abhor yet passionately crave;
Perhaps there are lush fields
cultivating the unique yet common
armour that has entranced
an entire species with its charm
so much so that its innocent rope
is threatening to choke the breath
out of our lungs to casually harm
the very beings it pretends to protect;
She knows, as do we, that the wage
we pay to the masks we employ
is too little to lend them comfort
of any sort or to prevent them
from resorting to a coup or a ploy
to undo the seams keeping us
whole, to raise swords against
the sanctity of our unwritten pact,
to make us prisoners of their farm;
I wonder if keeping up this charade
is rational or advisable or even sane,
considering what is at stake
is too precious to carelessly bet
in exchange for a temporary respite
from altercations – a fleeting gain:
for what is at stake is who we are
when the masks, the veils, the disguises
rest in peace in the womb of the night,
what we want to feel, express,
and display with a torch so bright
it can eclipse the sun’s might;
How can we possibly risk that
which is so pure, so untamed,
so adorned with love and rage
merely because the world teaches
us to create, nurture, and flaunt facades?!
How can we let fake smiles discount
our struggles or crafted politeness disarm
our verve unmarred by words or age?!
How can we surrender a reality
glowing with wounds and wins alike
to the treacherous halls of a cage?!
A wisdom lights up her visage
as she looks at herself in the mirror:
raw, unmasked, wild, real, and free
to be who she is, to say what she
feels, to do what she wants, to burn
the entire crop of the masks
so when she makes a turn
to the path she wishes to tread,
the light in her eyes, the smile
in her spirit, the flame in her bones
is not a fragile disguise anymore:
As she walks free, so do I, so do we,
for one broken chain frees another
the way the winds sing in harmony,
like the fall of one brick causes
its adjacent bricks to fall in the
celebration of a twisted camaraderie,
for the masks do not possess
any power until we let them see
the holes where they can reside:
I wonder if we are determined,
what could stop us from growing
trees in those holes so the masks
cannot escape the dense forests
of our will, our drive, our hope,
our courage, our well earned victory.

Her own person!

A daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother –
labels to pigeonhole her seamless existence
to the threads she shares with another,
as if she could be defined by the roles
she defines with her spirit unmarred by holes.

She is the storm that makes storms take pause –
wild, uninhibited, unique, unabashed,
proud of her scars, revelling in her flaws,
not because she is somebody to someone,
but because she is infinitely more – her own person!

The storm that makes storms take pause.

A will they cannot force to ever bend!

They say the clock is ticking
for me to find someone to marry,
to tie the knot and settle down,
and let another willingly carry
my future, my hopes, my dreams
in their palms till my screams
become the whispers of a corpse
they can easily control and bury.

They say the clock is ticking
for me to give up my name,
to sign the papers and the chains,
and let another forcibly tame
my identity, my voice, my soul
as possessions until the whole
becomes but a piece on the board
they can move around in the game.

They say the clock is ticking
for me to use my waning womb,
to water seeds and bear fruits,
and let another reduce to a fume
my time, my spirit, my choices
like mere assets until the voices
become but haunting echoes
they can suffocate in a tomb.

They say the clock is ticking
for me to conform to the code,
to clip my wings and not say no,
and yet I refuse to quit the road
of my journey, my peace, my fire
despite their threats for this desire
is a brilliant flame incandescent
they cannot hope to ever erode.

They say the clock is ticking
for me to be a wife and a mother,
to succumb to their expectations,
but I do not mean to smother
my reality, my potential, my consent
to placate them for my intent
is adorned with a truth so powerful
they cannot speak it sans a stutter.

They say the clock is ticking
for me to realise my true fate,
to reside in the periphery invisible,
but I was not born to meekly await
my destiny, my shackles, my role
in their schemes because my goal
is as clear as the break of dawn
they cannot try to ever confiscate.

They say the clock is ticking
for me to know it is the end,
to smile and cry at command,
but I know how to transcend
their chains, their lies, their fears
like roadblocks for my years
are driven by the clock of a will
they cannot force to ever bend!

When silence is interspersed with thought.

Ever constant yet never the same,
a sound adorned with grief and pain,
beyond the noise that knows no filter,
despite the silence, you boldly whisper
through the ceaseless expanse of the night,
louder than thunder, softer than rain,
akin to the embers of the last fire of winter.
Was I supposed to witness you, friend,
dancing across the waves and the stars?!
Was I meant to understand why
you persevere through this dark terrain?
Was I prepared to behold your existence,
glowing in the face of all your scars?!
There is no way for me to ever tell
why I find solace in the knowledge that
even when all else fades into oblivion,
you refuse to run away from the fight –
the one against cycles, patterns, and chains.
But fight you must, and fight you do,
always old yet somehow still new;
In the moments when you and I meet,
you embrace my soul like an old pal does,
sans judgement or expectation or reason,
with hope, trust, and camaraderie so true!
Were you supposed to witness me, friend,
trying to traverse the oceans and the skies?!
Were you meant to understand why
I keep hoping to pass though expected to fail?!
Were you prepared to behold my existence,
breaking free of all the crippling ties?!
There is no way for me to ever know
how you manage to soothe my wounds
even when they seem impossible to heal –
the way a familiar tune caresses the soul
until all the broken pieces become whole.
This friendship with you has come to mean
more to me than words can convey;
And yet words, my allies, help me easily say:
Thank you for filling each silence with a tick-tock,
for being an innate island of perspective
through the most violent of storms,
for keeping the distracting noise at bay
so I may survive this battle without going astray,
for never talking yet conversing though silence,
I owe you my hope, dear, beloved clock!
Were we supposed to witness each other,
smiling whilst singing of our deepest woes?!
Were we meant to understand what
makes us carry on even as our hopes wane?!
Were we prepared to behold each other,
skating through glaciers armed with swollen toes?!
There are some answers, and some there are not:
We have two lifetimes to keep pondering,
for yours is a ship that does not ever dock;
Maybe it is unusual to share a journey
with someone who has no end and no beginning,
but aren’t those the best kind of fellowships –
the kind which do not surrender to any lock?!
There are some answers, and some there are not,
just like the rare music which comes to life
when silence is interspersed with thought.

A spectrum untorn.

It had been decided the moment she was born
what her identity ought to be, the colours
her body was supposed to humbly adorn.
The spectrum was but an elusive abstract
to her keen mind: always there yet intangible,
split by the chasm of accepted gender roles
into either pink or blue, leaving her imagination torn!
When she succumbed to her curiosity to ask
the questions that had long been unanswered,
silence greeted her queries, unable to explain
the why behind the existence of the holes
that had scarred a whole species, condemning
its members to an eternal conflict between
the feminine and the masculine – a divide
that had rendered all the colours on the scale forlorn.
Words became her allies in the confusion
that ensued, empowering her to seek her own
truth amidst the tempest, without taking a side.
The rule keepers told her she should not read –
“A lady does not belong with the written word!”,
kept echoing through the walls designed
to make her give in to pigeonholes, to hide
beneath the ceilings they had effusively built.
Her attire became the subject of scrutiny,
as did her voice which was apparently louder
than someone with two X chromosomes was
allowed, marking her as the leader of a mutiny.
Black, red, green – the colours she was drawn to
in various facets of life – were used as ammunition
to label her a witch, a misfit, a rule breaker.
The fact that they were blind to the colours
she could so clearly see on the spectrum
seemed inexplicable to her, for how can
blue and pink be the only hues visible
in an array of shades so violent and bright?!
What had been decided the moment she was born
was unacceptable to her rational soul,
for it refused to be contained by the shackles
that reeked of inequality and prejudice.
She made a choice not to listen to the voices
that swore she could not be who she wanted to be:
for she could, and she did, guided by a spirit
that was at once vulnerable and whole.
With her voice, words, hope, and courage as
her tools, today she is uninhibited in the wake of
censure, free in the face of stereotypes, resolute
in the journey towards breaking the walls and ceilings
that have held many a fellow traveller prisoner.
From black to white, she cherishes all the colours,
for they stand for equality and hope in a spectrum untorn.

Dancing in the embrace of poetry!

As the clouds weep…

Thought my sorrow was my own – 
for me to dance with the pain, all alone.
But the sky seems to have another plan:
As the clouds weep and the birds sing, 
the turmoil within is finding fellowship – 
the kind that strengthens each broken wing
to let it take flight despite any hardship, 
the kind that soothes even the darkest tone! 

The sky, the trees, and the rain dancing with my pain today.

Far beyond our reach!

Why do we not realise the power words hold
to wound, to bruise, to break the best
of resolves, the purest of bonds until all
that remains is a wordless plea for forgiveness –
a hope for redemption swirling amidst a tempest?!

Perhaps the ease with which we tend to grant
second chances blinds us to the glaring fact
that there is only so much we may seek to erase
till the walls we build become prisons, holding
what we believed to be unbreakable barely intact.

It is only when we run out of apologies
that we seem to understand they carry no weight
if we do not intend to never have to repeat
the words to heal the words that injured –
for promises once broken never do set straight.

When it feels like we have gone a step too far
to be forgiven for the words we wielded like a gun
without acknowledging that bullets are irreversible,
the loss of that which we failed to protect
eclipses all hope for hope like clouds do the sun.

How can we find the courage to break free
of the hopelessness unless we decide
to not surrender, to keep striving to forge
new gates in the walls of our own creation,
so we can endeavour to free what they hide?!

As we walk back into the gardens that were
once our sacred sanctuary, as our souls form
words not of apology or promise, but of honesty,
forgiveness that once seemed unattainable
carves a path for itself akin to sunlight after a storm.

Impossible though it seems, undeserved though
it feels, this forgiveness is a reminder
for us to never underestimate the might of words
to destroy, to forsake, to create, to embrace –
their ability to keep broken pieces together like a binder.

Even when the wounds have healed, the trust resewn,
the walls conquered, this forgiveness does teach
us not to ever take what we have for granted,
for we cannot rely on gates we may fail to build;
What if the walls end up far beyond our reach?!

Selfish!

Selfish – a word often burnt at the stake,
painted in the darkest hues of black,
maligned without any reason – pleads
for some semblance of justice, or at the least
an explanation as to why its existence
finds itself trapped by inexplicable blame:
mocked, despised, and pigeonholed as tainted.
Why is being selfish considered wrong
when it is an inherent way of being – a
powerful force which defines, in some form
or another, every step we ever take?!
How is being considerate to the self an
act of rebellion when it is the very foundation
of who we are, how we exist, why we live?!
When we go places with the characters
in a book, enchanted by the magic of
a narrative, lost in a world of imagination
that feeds our own, is it anyone’s place
to call the act of reading, the solace of devoting
time and energy to our interests, selfish?!
During the moments we spend in solitude, admiring
the beauty of silence, listening to our hearts
beat, sans any instrument but the will
of our minds, being inspired by the deep dive
into our souls, unperturbed by any prejudice,
free of judgement, is it not foolish to be
made to dwell in shame for the effort of
uniting with our reflections – to be labelled selfish?!
When we go for a walk in the woods, in
the small gardens in our backyards, in the balconies
of our houses, or in the vast expanses
of our minds, to dance with our demons
so wild and our angels equally untamed,
is it alright to reduce this brilliant song
of thoughts, emotions, and motives to a taboo –
to have something so pure be vilified as being selfish?!
It is as if the word holds some dirty, forbidden
meaning, as if the allocation of time and effort
to something we love somehow makes us
deplorable creatures, as if caring for ourselves
is insignificant – not even on the list of
priorities, agendas, rules we follow as a species,
as if trusting our instincts and having faith
in our capabilities to do better and be more than
what we have and who we are have not led to evolution.
I sit here, as I write this, and apologise
to the word selfish, for the sins committed
against its soul, for words have souls too,
unmarked yet marked by scars of injustice.
This apology walks hand in hand with
a confession, that is simultaneously a declaration:
Yes, I am selfish, to the core, and proudly so!
Embracing being selfish and the freedom of admitting
the joy I feel owing to the love I have for myself
are the prerequisites for me to be able to function,
to create, to write, to hope, to love others, to live.
Is it not irrational to assume that we can
be compassionate to our fellow beings
even if we cannot love ourselves, if we degrade said
love as selfish, and in the process doom all hope
of ever finding peace, not just for one but for all?!
It is not the word that breaks the rope
of our determination: it is the way it is construed
that does; the moment being selfish stops
being perceived as a synonym for being wrong
is the moment being called selfish for the things
we do for ourselves, the books we read,
the solitude we worship, the walks we take
will break free of the shackles of the stigma
subconsciously holding them prisoners, to
outshine the taint surrounding their existence! 
Selfish – a word that describes who we are,
what we seek and how we can find it – 
shall rise from its ashes, lighting up our souls,
while holding hands with its old comrade – the stake.