Harsh Snehanshu

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Harsh Snehanshu (हर्ष स्नेहांशु)

The non-cute co-founder of YQ. I write long poems, letters & build products. I will suggest grammatical edits quite matter-of-factly. Please don't mind. Edit your quote and delete my comment. This is just to uplift the quality of content. Feel free to point out edits or criticism in my posts too. Check YourQuote's YouTube Channel. Link below.

bit.ly/YQChannel

Top tags: poem love balconyletters yqbaba life
Leaving the monotony
of a city long lived in
for a city unknown,
I'm always on the lookout
for relocation.

Delhi to Paris, Sonipat to Manali.
Travel is the force 
that puts my inertia of rest 
to rest, giving me
the requisite acceleration.

Startups thrive on velocity,
being in motion often
puts you into motion.

On moving.

24 MAR AT 18:48

The worst revenge
you could take from me 
is letting the book 
I gifted to you 
eat dust.

Worst revenge.

24 MAR AT 13:26

A LETTER TO THE UNREACHABLE

Your phone is unreachable. Even the whatsapp message is undelivered. In this age of instancy, where the messages reach before even one could reread them, where their meanings are dissected even before the writer understands them fully, your offline moment is a matter of great fortune and celebration.

(Continues in the caption)

Your phone is unreachable. Even the whatsapp message is undelivered. In this age of instancy, where the messages reach before even one could reread them, where their meanings are dissected even before the writer understands it in its entirety, your offline moment is a matter of fortune & celebration. Instead of worrying about your disappearance, I’m happy. Happy that without forgettable conversations, a hopefully memorable letter is being inked. Happy that the words that were egging the tips of my fingers have finally come out. Happy that after a long time, I wrote something fairly long, and irrelevant (if you decide to infer meaning from this), but still of relevance, if you read it in jest. It’s of relevance because it talks about you and me and has a rather poetic word as its inspiration. Unreachable. The word that came first through a foreign source, a pre-recorded voice. A word that sounds what it means. Unreachable. Un-reach-able. That which cannot be reached. That I cannot reach. That leaves me with choices. Choices to let go of this absence. Or to panic. Choices to lose my mind, or lose myself in the downpour of words of little relevance and larger promise. I choose to let go. You were home while we were talking. Tired, drowsy, unable to write, unable to sleep. You must have dozed off, as has your mobile. Sleep is a good antidote to tackle the guilt of no writing. My room has your belongings here, spread around as if this were home to them and they are to stay. Your bag, your bottle, your scattered notes. Next to my possessions: typewriter, twelve-string guitar and an OCB. Your toothbrush is safely tucked next to mine, where lie two dotted ones, used, swollen, stranded next to the washbasin, beneath the loofah. Every time they are used, I fill those with water, make a yo-yo out of it & test if it’s indeed waterproof or not. It can hold two liters. Yes, I tested its tensile strength a decade ago while I was a Physics undergraduate. I have been paranoid. I fear one day there might be a thin stream dripping out of the elastic sac and we’d have to think beyond just the night. A medicinal morning or many mauve months. Ruptures aren’t the greatest news late into the night, you know. Neither are pills in the morning. You were here for the past few days. I introduced you to my friends, cousin, relative. I felt comfortable doing so, surprising myself. So many people have slipped out of my life, as if I were trying to catch water in the fist, in the last couple of years that I got used to losing or leaving. I didn’t care to introduce anyone. Frankly, I wasn’t sure of them. Rather, myself. You, however, broke that glass curtain of unsurity. After almost 3 years of tossing between she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not and I-love-her, I-love-her-not, finally I met someone in you who not only loves-me-loves-me-a-lot, but whom I could love. When I dig further, I could figure why. I couldn’t get along with too interesting folks lest I bored them to death. Nor could I stand less interesting folks, for they would tire me with their conversations. You struck the sweet spot between the two, being the right kind of boring, my kind of boring, obsessed with the bare essentials and lukewarm to frivolities that make other people croon. Neither Kafka made you gaga nor did my French typewriter. Yes, BB ki vines did. When introduced, you too felt comfortable with my friends & family. I realized why we fitted. We share the same upbringing, same values (except for cleanliness where I owe it to the boys hostel of IIT-D), same socio-economic ethos, same non-materialistic way of living and even the same writing app. Sorry for the marketing plug, but now that you know me, you do know how it’s unavoidable. I’m a marketer more than a writer. Any surprises that you call me a chindi bania? You are still unreachable. No, I’m not anxious. I am leaving in another week, anyway. It’s good that you are unreachable. Unreachability in the same city gears me up for the unreachability while long distance, lurking around the corner of this month. Unreachability doesn't bother me. It's the phrase ‘long distance’ that I am scared of. Balcony Letters #39 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

24 MAR AT 4:04

Sometimes, 
when the ghosts 
of your absence 
try to haunt me,

I make them sit 
and ask,
do you, too, 
like no sugar 
in your coffee?

Late night conversations.

24 MAR AT 0:41

Your handwriting
resembles our daughter's
when she will be nine.

On lovers with childlike handwriting.

22 MAR AT 0:40

Thayil's book of English poems
lies soaked in my flooded house,
flooded because the kitchen drain
malfunctioned and vomited out
whatever shit it was overfed with
for the past three years. Its pages
are soggy, stuck like lovers making
love for the first time, translucent 
with words peeping, moving like ants,
floating like ghosts, here and there,
from pages far beyond the first one.

I heat up the iron and press its face
against Thayil's words. They quiver,
sizzle, as if a needle is pricked 
against the skin. Vapours of his
words, from the section ACHE 
where he talks of his dead wife,
escape from the book and slither
into the sky in search of the muse
who mothered those memories. 
The page, warm but no more soggy, 
reads the poem's title that says:
T{e Air H~re Is Crowd♧d.

The Air Here Is Crowded Thayil's book of English Poems lies soaked in my flooded house, flooded because the kitchen drain malfunctioned and vomited out whatever shit it was overfed with for the past three years. Its pages are soggy, stuck like lovers making love for the first time, translucent with words peeping, moving like ants, floating like ghosts, here and there, from pages far beyond the first one. I heat up the iron and press its face against Thayil's words. They quiver, sizzle, as if a needle is pricked against the skin. Vapours of his words, from the section ACHE where he talks of his dead wife, escape from the book and slither into the sky in search of the muse who mothered these memories. The page, warm but no more soggy, reads the poem's title that says: T{e Air H~re Is Crowd♧d. #poem

20 MAR AT 13:27