Month: March 2015

Mirror

Behind dilapidated buildings
of a cold heart,
half constructed skyscrapers
of untold futures,

torrential storms of summers past
and unforgotten,
bouquets of dying yellow roses
now lay brown, untouched.

There are trellised streams of salty waters
formed on what once was a handsome face.

There, the soul of my deceitful self lay.

On a valley on top of a mountain,
In the worlds I created in that
honeycomb of a mind.

Messy networks of beautiful lies,
forgotten and now buried
in jars of black clay made of a magic
dark as the pupil of my eye.

Purple blood run through my veins,
the remnant of undisclosed secrets,
of undiscovered lives.

There are cracks on my lips that
even expensive lipstick does not cover.

Signs of the created past I told
with the smoke I breathe
out of the same mouth that tastes
only bitter blackberries.

Graffiti on the walls
of the last chamber of this soul.

I will one day return
to the beauty of unspoilt innocence
and unadulterated truth.

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There are many Indias (Five things about the Khasis & Meghalaya)

5 Feet Tall

I’m seventeen and in my lifetime, I have had many people ask me what my nationality is. I am Indian. I grew up in India but many people think I am not Indian. I remember when I was seven and my classmate was sure that I was Chinese because he heard me speak to my parents outside the school gate. And even now, I am taken by surprise because many other Indians do not really know much about my part of the country. I don’t even expect people from other nations to know. I have had so many people ask me, “How can you be Indian? You don’t look Indian.”

india

For many people, there is a certain picture they have of India. Maybe it’s dirty roads with hectic traffic and runaway cows. It could also be abject poverty, illiteracy and brokenness.It could also a picture of a beautiful and rich culture…

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For her who has no name

For some reason, she can’t find the words to write about what happened
or the pain and hurt that followed, her fear of big blue rectangular boxes,
the nightmares that made nights living hells or the faces that followed her even
in corners where she thought she was hidden. she could never forget the feeling of numbness,
no words to protest, only silent screams that fade into a lonesome darkness.
She would never speak or tell or relive.

And I cannot find the pieces that are now lost.

Photo credit: madamepsychosis / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND