Oh dear Cuckoo,
I wonder why
you found home in the Nimtree
of my kitchen garden
despite the bitter fruits
that it delightfully gifts you.
Do you like the shape
of its pointy leaves,
or do you prefer
the health in bitterness
that it brings
to your sweetness?
Or should I find delight
that you come to Coo back
to my Cuckoo calls?
Seven Coos in a row, first thine, then mine,
ending with your high pitched Coohoos
showing white flags to our arguments
which go on fulfilling the urge to linger
just a little more
despite the usual whiney notes.
My dear Cuckoo,
I'll plant a Gulmohar of fire flowers for you.
Stay, to make musical my garden's evenings.
Stay, to answer my cuckoo calls.
Stay, for I want you to.
Stay, for I love your authentic Coos.
Irregular English Ode.
Last Holi, when I was ousted from my paternal home, a loving dear friend decided to give me refuge.
It was the first time in my life that I played with colours. It was the first time when I wasn't covered from head to toe in oversized shirts or kurtas to hide my body and breasts if and when someone from the cherished extended family would forcefully sneak in and drench me in coloured water. It was the first time that I wasn't told to stay inside the house and reveal myself only when called for. It was the first time that I wasn't instructed to dress up in salwar kameez.
It was the first time that I played holi and ran around in a t-shirt, a payjama and a pair of chappals chasing friends. It was the first time I did not fear being groped and I wasn't. It was the first time I looked like a hybrid of a steel utensil and black grapes moulded into a human.
Post drinking the holy bhaang and singing, I carelessly snatched the dirty dupatta of my friend's mother and draped it around my head to complete the refugee look. My friend clicked a picture of me in my now horribly amusing attire. I sent the picture to you giving you a chance to make fun of me for a change.
Instead, you counted the number of times my dupatta was draped carelessly around my neck blessing me by running over my colourful head. You told me how you loved the dupatta doning my face that was drenched in the tradition of colours. You told me how beautiful I looked with my eyes piercing yours from that dark face smiling at you. I loved you more in that moment. I found home in you.
Two months later, you left me to be destroyed in your love and your lack of love. I marinated myself with the colours that dripped from what was left of us.
A year later, when I'm white and colourless, it dawns on me that you loved a woman who was draped in the dupatta of calm lacking the sequin made of confrontation. I showed my true colours. So did you.
That Holi, I was ousted from two patriarchal homes. One belonged to me, the other belonged to you.
Wishing everyone a Happy Holi (:
I am a man
who loves to curl his eyelashes.
I fancy looking at myself
in the mirror
licking my deep red matt lips.
You can smell
the floral Burberry in my neck
by my bottle green polka scarf.
The pink eye shadow
makes me look dreamy
and my tights
make my butt look cute.
I'm waiting for the day
when they'll launch
a range of halters with laces.
And oh, the crystal stellitoes!
Don't you see my design?
Now that you have noticed me,
ignored my presence in my face,
carry on with your day,
and remember me later.
Describe me to your friends
and give me a sick nick name,
remember my face and
have a good laugh
Remember my face.
Tell them that you and me,
we both love faux.
I bought faux fur,
you bought faux pas.
I give you fauxpology,
you give me fauxminism.
Post women's day feminism.
The Better Disappointment.
"Run! Run!", with his teeth clenched, he repeated in his head. The long stick with a metallic hoop at one end large enough to become the garland of death of another manfriend, was like a magnified bubble hoop. He tried to put the hoop around the neck of the wailing dog hiding under the white Maruti, but it's incessantly moving snout was making the task difficult.
"Run! Look, there is a little space beside the car, you'll fall in the drain but you'll be away from me and my likes. Save yourself." But the dog couldn't read his mind. Trying to catch the little dog's head, he thought about Tikua. "Back in Basti, I had a friend Tikua. I saved him from the nearby lake with algal boom. Amma hated him, but he loved me. I loved him. We lived together, by first sharing the food, then by walking together, then crying together, jumping together... Tikua had speed that no other dog in the village had. He was swift and brave. You are not like him. He was white, like you are. But you are not like him."
The little dog gave up after putting a 20 minute fight. He pulled the string of the hoop tight. The dog let out a deafening cry.
"Tikua is disappointed in me, even though I've praised him 23 times before. Tikua must be disappointed with you. You get the better disappointment." And he shut the little dog in the van.