Old light.

How old daylight felt on me

Drowning me, kindly

It never spoke to me

Of the rotting corpses, of the men it saw making love

Of the time before men or the time before that

It simply stayed

And that stance spoke

Of an isolated afternoon it lit big brown eyes of a girl of twenty

And two men took notice and vowed to make her his’

Of a rippling golden harvest amid a backdrop of a black cloud

Its stance spoke of the colour the first blossom of the spring in time, stretching back to thousands and thousands of years

It spoke of insignificance, as I was to be.

I stand and weep and weep, out of delight , out of sorrow, out of a desire to be remembered, for the beauty of being wiped away from time’s memory.

It simply stayed.

Who will protect you?

Don’t waste those heaves of your breast

On a nobody

Don’t rain your youth away

No one cares

They dream of you at night

Under folds, lying beside wives with throbbing wombs

They worship the very tread of your hair on your sweaty back

They don’t care about you.

Don’t scatter your fragrance to the airs

It will take you to them

And you wont ever return.





Dream murder.

I look at her, like an overcast sky

Looks down on the world, in growing contempt

I look at her like she is of dirt and insignificance, I wonder why

With each day, the disdain in me, more intent.


If I could, I would flick her off the edge, watch her fall into nothingness

I would then feel delight creeping into me

The action sweeter, with her arrogant willingness

I’d watch her destruct, like a hundred years before a mighty tree.


For now, I trace with my eyes gnashes and cuts all over her skin

Marring her beyond redemption

For now, I only taste her murder in dreams and oh how I win

Only each time, its that woman that won.



Chipped nail polish, a traveller moves on

Waiting with wakefulness

Native to only night, in hours before daylight,

Alights her cold fingers, in practised mindlessness

On the ashes at her feet, where she had spent the night.


To a bored traveller, up a morn earlier than those that sing

This sight of her fingers, bewitched him to complete submission

Chipped nail polish of a colour, she would reproduce in every succeeding painting,

He beheld, in stark contrast to the ashes, of the fire the night before, another rendition.


When the first light seeped in unwanted, blue and white

The elements dissolved, blurred beauty now plain, old wretch

Registering grief, coming out of shock, she stirred ever so slightly, he was appalled to see the sight

Of but a woman, a miserable woman, in the bosom of a burnt house, in this desolate stretch,


Where neither human nor humanity ever did corrupt

With fragrant vapours of rotting corpses

That’s where she lives, up , up and up

And the traveller, understood.

And the traveller, moved on.





Maiden no more, now I am the lore.

“I wear love”, she said

“Love?”, I ask.

“Love”, she nods

“Show me”, I say.

“Tear lovingly out of the warmest evening sky”

“Six yards of its expanse, six more if you like” She says, sounding like mist, if mist ever sang

“And then?”, I ask, stupefied.

“And then, let it engulf you, waist down, let it fall to your feet. What do you see now?” , She asks.

“I see my arms and breasts, so bare, so stark” I say, timidly,trembling.

“Do you know how the sea splashes against a rock, pleadingly?”

“Let it just as stealthily, reach your shoulder, shrouding your breasts in a temporary death.”

“What do you see now?” she asks

” I see, my navel bared to the whims of winds, slight and rogue alike”, I say.

“Brilliant. What else do you see?” she asks, she sounded like thunder, if thunder ever sang a lullaby.

“I see a stream of light, stretching forever behind, trailing, cascading behind me”, I say.

Just then she holds a mirror to my face, a mirror clearer than the clearest day.

A quiver runs through my veins, strengthening the spark in my eyes

A dull resolve took shape in my heart

And I saw love, when I saw eyes

Which knew how to love

The deadliest lies.




A good book did nothing to me, save make me more miserable and cruel and wretched. How does the book ” Far from the madding crowd” make my 678th attempt to write a romance feel like ?

While I was sitting there, chewing mint like a cow, thinking of why I had to even write, I decided to go watch the movie of the same name. Swaying golden harvest, sun, the colour that I can achieve only after 15 instagram filters. This wasn’t making me feel any less worthless.

Now like a saviour, came Toufeeq, the butcher.

I see him through the wire mesh, he looks round. I yell “maaaaaaaaaaa”. He got chicken. I just ate. He disinterested me. I went away.

Mother and him were talking when he complained about our door which confused him. He thought he was at the wrong door. Why ? Because our door had the word “om” inscribed on it.

My mother then apologetically tells him that she didn’t find enough time to do something about it.

He says, ” I was thinking that this could never be a Muslim’s home” He laughs, like a child

Chicken taken, money given, he leaves.

And I am left wondering how many generations it was going to take before someone in his family, passed by an “om” inscribed door and just passed by it, thinking of that 2’O clock lunch appointment.