Ms Ihavethedayoff

It was another one of those winter mornings. An endless gurgle of my complaints. This hurts. This hurts. This hurts.

I still woke up, it was already late. I had to get ready and get going. Wooooh! Yeah. I do a little stretch and a jig, a little cinematic bounce up and down. Let’s get this party going.  That’s when a sharp spike of pain from the depths of misery says hello to me. Oh right. Hye. I am on my periods. My incentive dips to subzero. I will mope throughout the day. I don’t want to be positive. No, I won’t do yoga

When I am deciding what to wear after I come out of the shower, half frozen, my phone rings. I am annoyed at the name. I want to snap. I want to tell the person its morning and I don’t take work calls before 10. I still pick up.

“Hello, Good morning”

“Good morning, Zeenath. We are given an off today..  so.. “ I stopped listening. After appropriate amount of time, I said,  “ Yay thanks. Bye!”

I throw my phone on the bed, quickly tip toe to it, make sure the cracked screen is still only cracked and not shattered, I go back to my happy ballet routine. I don’t know any ballet. I just flap my arms about. I have long arms and they are very flexible so they sometimes look graceful. * Slices an arch through the air* See?  No? Okay.

I complete my happy ballet routine and move through the day with renewed energy and a zealous appetite. I don’t need to diet. Not today. And when on periods, it doesn’t count. You are feeding the monster, not yourself. Its forgiven calories. Yes, even the cheese. My monster likes cheese.


Silence rules us. We abide by its palm pressed tightly against our mouths. A breathtaking morning is felt, not laid out neatly like tarot cards, in handpicked cherry like sentences. A freshly laid tar road, ambushed by the autumn shedding is taken in, not talked of.

But a change of season is too tempting to let go of without at least once, half swinging, sneakily to the drum beats of the heralding song.  Winter is here and the moon lingers, the sun behaves like a caffeine addict. It rises grumbling, slowly and by noon, with coffee in its system it rains down anxiety on my city.  The winter sun stings, we scurry off to cold walls, in dug out sweaters.

Autumn Party.

Moods are set to dusty pinks

Autumn evening in full swing

Spices of faraway lands, like dreams


Silks that dare to be fancied, by bodies unclean

Harps sing like birds in the spring

Hail the queen and the king

For this drop and this game 

For the crop and my dame

Crop burnt to ground, dame doomed for shame 

Hail the Queen and the king, again! 

Drunk with love, she looks at me

Eyes hollowed out to just barely see

Her arms just skin covering bones, so tiny

Yes, I love you too. You know me.

Hail the Queen and the king, one two three! 

This Autumn party will turn to night

With the palace gates closing, so shall the light

This game will get cold, the drop no more in sight

Someday, Someone will set things right.





A blue Diwali.

Never truly felt the mad rush of the sparkling cloudy skies

Carousing down my veins in a stupor and drunkenness

Never really felt the heart elated to almost bursting point

Didn’t really look at someone with eyes like a child.

Never felt an urge to light up a firecracker, to hear it explode, to watch it in its pride

Couldn’t quite savour the yellow balls of delight, like on other days

Never really felt like revering the stone god just that day, or being kind

Could let my self drown in the spirit of the celebration

Something held me afloat, held me tied to the rock, the safe rock

From where I see the drowning people, smiles on their faces, the skies reflecting in their eyes

They look happy