Saturday, October 29, 2016

How is it that we hurt the people we love the most?

The moment I said it I wanted to take it back
But words take up a life of its own
It hung heavy in the air between us,
Poisoning everything in its path.
How easy it was to wound, to hurt,
A part of me had wanted some payback
for what you had told me the other day,
for all the all years you kept telling me
what was good for me, who wasn't good for me
And for your concern which I tend to see
as a judgement on my choices, on my life
So I lashed back with the only
weapon I had, but I see how childish that
was of me, because really, I do love you very much
And I am older now, not a sixteen year old
rebel-without-a-cause, and you are older too
And I should have been more considerate
Instead I had caused you pain
And I suddenly saw the world from your eyes
The fear that your children are slipping away from you,
But I didn't know how to fix it, you see
You had retreated, I didn't know how to draw you out
And the day dragged on with this pointless
 hurting, with our swollen hearts painful to bear.
How is it that we hurt the people we love the most?

Monday, October 24, 2016

You asked me to write a happy one

You asked me to write a happy one,
 And I did think of one yesterday
On my way back from Loktak,
And there was so much beauty to be
grateful for- the worn-out boat docked
at the shore where I wanted to fall asleep in,
the cheerfully yellowing fields.
But the words got lost
in last night's sleep.
When I woke up, the bitterness returned
I guess I just can't fathom the world around me
I am home after so many years
and it breaks my heart daily
To see so much beauty smeared
by so much rottenness.
History hasn't been kind to us, you see
This country hasn't spared a thought for us
and democracy has lost all its meaning
As for myself, I am railing against
the idea of merely following
a life that has been laid out for me.
I fear of becoming just like everyone else,
cocooned in cynicism, to be content with tokens.
Maybe it is hard for you to even comprehend
how looking non-Indian can affect my life.
In some ways,my life was rigged against
my favour from the start.

In my stories

In my stories, the girls I write about
don't win in life, they are shunned, feared
and hated, they live in the margins 
they are the witches parents warn about
In my stories, these girls live a life
I don't have the courage to claim
They talk back, they scream, they shout
They hurl things at people who
are always telling them they are wrong
They laugh recklessly and often
They drink and smoke in the backyard
They let their garden grow wild
In my stories, I give them a house
If I feel generous, a trip to the beach
Where they can run wild
and sleep on the sandy shores
But I don't let them win at life,
Sometimes they miss their family 
who have disinherited them,
At times they wish they had a shoulder to cry on
Sometimes they think of ending their lives
A few times, they do.
In my stories, my girls live a
life of protest, and isn't that something too?