Love

Love is not for
Cynical cowards
Love is only for the brave
Who believe in love

Portraits - netri

Her hands sit beside her

Her voice is mild, almost sweet

I ask her about her daughter

She replies with affection

And when a group of men come into the room

Everything changes

Her hands start flying out

She starts banging the table

Her voice rises

I suddenly notice

That she is wearing a waistcoat

A shirt, trousers, and a modi waistcoat

The attire that has come to symbolize

Formal, authoritative dressing in our times

I know she is putting on a performance

And yet I also know

Why

She knows they will not respect her

If she is mild and sweet

To be a leader

Is to leave behind your sweetness

To be a leader is to command

To push, to exert

To carry your decisions through

To be a man, in short

 Or what a 'manly man' is supposed

Anything less, or anything else, 

is a sign of weakness

I wish she had known what I know

That it’s ok not to be a man

And you can still be whatever you want

Portraits – Shikshita

She knows she is wise

She knows she is much more

Than she is given credit for

She knows she could have

Eaten the world

If only she had learnt to read

It came to her, so late

So late

And yet she will make the best of it

She will not let it be wasted

This boon from saraswati

Every time I ask her a question

She will jot down the answers

She is wise

She knows everything

By heart

But she will write it down

She will frown

She will study it

She will make corrections

And then, only then

Will she look up

And she is so proud

What do I mean to you?

I planted the barr

And I planted the peepal

Hoping they would live

And you gave me seven hills away

Not caring if I die

-          A daughter’s lament, sangini

impressions - narakot

Like that one particular city

In the list of invisible cities where

The distance is measured

Not in meters

But in how high the pole should be

For the festoons to be hung

In the middle of the square

So that they don’t hang in the faces

Of the revelers dancing below

And how high the balcony should be

So that the lover can

Climb up it at night

In this particular village

To go from one house to another

You walk past the yard of one

And down the wooden ladder of another

With steps carved out of a single stem

Peek past the kitchen of one

And step lightly across

the living room of another

And so that at any moment

You are sitting on the roof

Of one neighbor’s house

And at the base of another’s

With half a dozen ladders

Sticking out at impossible angles

From your yard

Some going up, some going down

And some, a stranger will never

Be able to figure out

How high do you build you walls

So that when you set out you

Rice and corn to dry

The husks don’t fly down to your friend’s?

How far away from the canal should you be

So that the waters of another

That create a noise beside your house

As they flow by on their way down

Don’t enter your house?

How strong should your ceiling be

So that it doesn’t break

When the dozen children of mathighar wrestle

And how thick should your floor be

So that you can sleep despite

The moaning young couple of talaghar

How high a window should be

So that you can open it to enjoy the moonlight

But your daughter cannot climb out at night

In that particular village

If one house decided to build a pakki ghar

I wonder if it would still

Have a way for travelers

To pass through their living room

Still have angles

For a dozen ladders to lean on

And how everyone else will negotiate

The road, if the house turns out

Not to have these facilities

I wonder if they will

Have anything like a ‘proper’ road

And if they will ever master

Walking on that road

Without anything to climb

And anywhere to descend

I wonder if that will be better

More ‘subidha’ than this

But I wonder if the loss of beauty

Complicity, the way one house shows

Hundreds of years of history

Is more important than modern comforts

I wonder if I am romanticizing

A difficult lifestyle,

And if they wouldn’t prefer

The ease of a road, after all

And then I wonder if

I am exoticizing something

That is nothing out of the ordinary

That it as natural as breathing

To those who live in it

One day

You will understand
How precious it is

Mute

What's the point
Of putting your chats on mute
When you don't bother...

I better
Put my heart on mute
Teach it not to jump and leap
At every little beep