Young and Reckless

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On the prompt- “Three things he could never tell her…”

There were always so many stories he wanted to tell her, so much he wanted to confide in her. He wanted to sit her down and speak to her for hours and hours on end, but it was never the right time, or occasion.
Sometimes, he wanted to sit with her by the sea and stare at the horizon, saying nothing. On other times, he wanted to take her to his favourite restaurant, sit across her and tell her all of that he was unable to utter.

He particularly wanted her to know 3 things, 3 things that knocked at his mind every morning and did not let him sleep each night.

1. He first fell in love with the idea of her.

He wanted to admit to her that the idea of her was one that…

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Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Round and round goes the clock.

I’m growling, I’m suffering, I’m crying
It’s hurting, it’s paining, it’s killing
But I’m not dying.

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out
My soul is slipping with every cry, every shout
I’m not leaving, I’m still staying
I’m not dying.

Craving a hug from the grim reaper
But I push him away
This romance is not permitted
This romance is not accepted

I’m moaning, it’s paining, I’m hissing
But worry not
I’m not dying.

Our love story would not start
Death is waiting, I’m ready and willing
But I’m not dying.

I want to grab and hit and remove
All of these machines that make me feel alive
Alive but not really

I finally see the end line
The race was too long
But now my pace seems slower
Can’t wait to reach

I’m coming, I’m approaching, I’m trying
But wait —
How much ever I try
I’m not dying.

I’m not dying.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Round and round goes the clock
With every tick I’m sighing
But wait,
I’m not dying.


He looks like the sunset. His hair a lighter tone of the colour of his skin, and his eyes a calming amalgamation of crimson and hazel, he looks like the sun setting deep into the waters, making you stare at it for long, long evenings.

He sounds like honey. All his words weaving deep into each other forming sentences that are music to your ears, his voice is the voice of a flowing sweetness. He sounds like the crackling laughter of a baby, making you want to listen to more and more of the pointless stories.

He smells like new books. New books and the rain. He emanates the kind of smells that make you feel nostalgic and refreshed at the same time, he smells of untold tales and of memories of the past, and you want to sit there and inhale it deeply.

He is what perfection looks like, sounds like, smells like, to you. He has many a flaws and imperfections, pointed out by so many others, but you do not seem to notice them, and when you do actually notice them, you ask your mind to shut up and overlook them, because he resembles the waves of the aggressive ocean, that make you feel passionate and joyful at the same time.

He is yours.

Yours alone.


Woh laal, chamakti building, 

Woh lambi line 

Aur wahi dher sari hassi.

Woh badha sa pankha

Jo bahar ki tezz dhoop

Aur mann ki garmi,

Sab ko thanda kar deta hai.

Viswavidyalya metro station.

Sab dekha hai isne. 

Woh pehle din ka darr,

Woh graduation night ki saari,

Naya, panapta, pehla pyaar

Aur wahi dosto’n k beech ann-mann. 

Viswavidyalya metro station.

Ghanto’n jab tumhara intezaar karti hun

Toh yahi laal chamakti deeware’n 

Woh translucent sheesha, aur ice cream wale Bhaiya,

Mujhe dekh kar muskuraate’n hai.

Saari kahaniya’n suni hain isne

Saare secrets jaanta hai yeh,

Jab exams khatam hone par Rajeev Chowk ki baat karte ho,

Ya fir late ho jane par us hi Rajeev Chowk aur uss Kashmiri Gate ko koste ho,

Sab sunta hai yeh.

Tumhara harr gamm,

Harr khushi aur

Harr kahani ko janta hai yeh. 

Viswavidyalya metro station. 

Yeh bhi unn hi Rikshaw walo’n ki accuracy se hairaan hai

Jinse tum aur mai.

Yeh bhi saja hai unn aunty k earrings se

Aur wahi Darjeeling momos isko bhi pasand hai.

Viswavidyalya metro station,

Roz ana-jana mushkil lagta hai, 

Par shayad, Hindu-Ramjas-KMC-DR-Sriram-MirInda-KamlaNagar k dil mai basta hai yeh.

Viswavidyalya metro station. 


I remember the sight of happiness

It came with people

It stayed in crowded rooms

That sight is now fading

It came with confidence

It stayed in self-esteem

It seems invisible now

I’m abandoned



Tied down by my own insecurities

Locked through paranoia

Unable to walk without a stick of anti-anxiety

Surrounded by a pool of my own self-confidence

That has come out in tears.

I have lost my own identity

My will to continue

My incessant desire to break free

Is now, a dead motivation.

Flirting With Death

So happy to be featured here 🙂




This is a very old poem, but is very close to my heart and is one of my favorites. I wrote this in the backdrop of the painful partition that India and Pakistan underwent.

There lay a million dead,
Thousands of children under-fed.
The fight seemed to be never-ending
Along with people, emotions were parting.

In this fight between races of human,
In the eyes, where the fires would burn,
Who knew what was the incentive,
Where was the lost motive?

Were we to unite or to fall apart?
With a barrier in every heart,
None knew where they belong,
Gunfires replacing the cuckoo’s song.

Tears of blood staining every cheek,
Relations growing small and weak,
Everyone ran and seeked refuge,
The last kiss, the goodbye, the favour huge.

And as We flirted with the grim reaper,
As our scars grew darker and deeper

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An Open Letter to Vocabulary.

Dear Vocabulary,

The idea of writing this letter to you came to my mind while completing an assignment where I stated something starting with “…when men” while referring to a general aspect of human nature.

It struck me, quite weirdly, what some sets of feminists often talk about — how you too (I do not know intentionally or not, willingly or unwillingly) have given in to patriarchy. It’s sad.

You are a child of language, language that all of humankind (at least we have moved on from “mankind”) uses to communicate thoughts and ideas and feelings. Yet, sometimes, using you puts men on a slightly higher platform than all of the other genders, because words like “guys” while addressing a room full of more than a single gender are casually used.

Also, while I do not want to take names, but in certain languages, a group consisting of varied genders is referred to, in masculine.

It’s ironical, isn’t it, how something that’s so diverse in its very nature entirely ignores diversity?

I’m guilty too. I often go to a group of my girl friends and start my sentences with “okay guys” or “bhai sun na..”

I sometimes feel that you are, after all, the biggest weapon all of us on Earth have, for you make our voices go loud and clear and also echo in minds, and while all of us are allowed some flaws, the position you hold, it’s time we work on the flaws and move towards making you slightly more gender neutral, for you really can’t afford the flaws.
Transform now.



Thoughts that come and go, but shouldn’t go.