Suggestions

Fictional Arts

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The Golden Age of the 90s Kids

Everybody has their childhood memories, which cannot be erased by any means or will never disappear but will be stored forever somewhere around in their hard disk. The 90s kids have been blessed in many ways. They are the generation
January 25, 2022

Moon is Weary

She fetches and carries,gets the kids ready for school,remembers birthdays, packsfor holidays, writes Christmascards to people, she’s never met… Sun argues, he pulls his weight,and his is, after all, the greaterlight, but moon moves oceansand tides, keeps the pantrywell-stocked and the calendar
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Yellow in Four Quarters

AmaltasPetals of the sun, finespun, clustered,cascade down avenues. Golden Laburnumchandeliers shower singed, stingingstreets with wisps of breezy blessings. MangoA heady scent at first. Then, fleshypulp, mischievously exploding off skin,landing on skin, sticky, irrepressible.Summer’s cossetted, indocile, luscious child. TurmericA pinch that packs a
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White Tiger of the West

I am no common-law wife no common lawless thingI am his Choiseul—the one he seeks on starry nightsalabaster pearl Aphrodite shucked from her shellemerging glistening with a wild surmiseSo luminous O- rion promptly dropshis belt
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Alone, I am not

dark-skinnedwill the stars mistakeme for night first datepouring tea, he asksmy cup size consentthe distance between the hemand my knee burqaand yetcatcalls an orchidtrapped in a paperweightchild bride clean sheetshe wants meto talk dirty oversewingthe ripped lotusdaddy stitch grafted roseslowly becoming whatthey
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A Spring Morning

I saw a melting sun​At the edge of your eyes.Could you ever see​Colours dissolving into the skyline—​Flowing like liquid light into a sky river?​ Or was it the river itself,​Melted into those very hues​On a bright spring morning?Everything I ever saw—​I only
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Mother / India

you are not born a motheryou become oneit begins with a manwho wantsto make you morethan womanless than mangive you a jobhe cannot do himselfknowingwhile you are at ithe will doall that you are as good atin his own muscular way so
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Self-obsessed

I love my smile,I like my nose,I’m fond of all my pictures—of each carefully or carelessly crafted pose. I think of myself,I believe in self-care.Regret is a stranger;I choose with flair. I am not selfish,I have empathy for all.But you can’t play
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Aunty

Now that we’ve been 40Best to be accepting auntyBetter than dreaded behenjiThough not by much at all Do you dread accepting uncleIs it better than funny sirjiThough you get that dignified bhaisaabAnd are lucky to have janaab No one wants to be
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Solitude and Company

Most readings inform; only a handful wound, unsettle, or illuminate. Fewer still insist on an immediate translation, demanding to travel beyond the confines of their original language and find a wider readership. In my early twenties, I devoured several novels by Buddhadeva
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No Oats for the Champion

We are having oats for breakfast, but our black-and-white tuxedo cat has ordered cheese spread and toast from the à la carte menu, which has only two items on it. Oats and cheese spread and toast. His unexplained acquired taste for this
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The Deer in Tacoma

As we laced up our shoes on the balcony I heard the sound of her first, the thunder and blur of reddish brown fur– The deer galloped just underneath us and disappeared around the corner. My partner, incredulous, said, Did you see
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Bessemer

I do not know why peopleromanticise the days of their youthAs if the only errors they made thenwere sexual indiscretionsor emotional misapprehensions,and therefore by definition, recoverable.This has not been my experience! Let me explain.Thirty five years ago,the tine of a forkthat I
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Perseids Peak

Perseids peak…sharing my secret garden spotwith you summer in full swing –on the old fountainonly ivy first zinnia in bloom…suddenlyin my childhood garden lavender moon –a butterfly exploringits beams following the butterfly…my New Dawn rosein bloom half an arch mixing watercolours…after the
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The Rusted Key in My Hands

​I walk my way back home,clutched by a handle too familiar in my palms.I press it down, expecting the swing of wood,the sudden rush of white-washed walls welcoming me home.But it will not budge.I nudge and nudge for minutes in the quiet,annoyed
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Bunches of Tulips 

bunches of tulipsline every aislewith a vibrant nodcan I hold a smileas bright in my heart wandering aimlesslywithout a seatcarriage by carriageI wonder too aboutthe moon’s resting space teashop menuedged with rosesevery type of sconelingers on the tipof my indecision
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Inside the breath

Sunrise is nothing butthe thinnest red linealong the burnt horizon Moon is nothing buta cool pearl tucked in blueclouds, sinking westward I am nothing but a shadow,an inhalation, an exhalationsomewhere between.
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Firebird

A firebird springs across the fields, forest-bound skimming scarlet, down brown-gold slopes speed to a eucalyptus blue; As she cackles, flitting from twig to twig. balling down the hill, gathering speed; white smoke and crackle pause at meandering tar before leaping up
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Blind Spot

As a child, I always wanted to be invisible. It seemed like such a fun thought. Now, after all these years… the blank stares, the silence at the dining table, the lack of response… have I finally become invisible? cracks on ice
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Beyond ‘Good Touch Bad Touch’

The lesson’s familiar, yet incomplete,For safety’s sake, we must redefineThe boundaries of touch, the invasion of sightWhen eyes devour, and privacy takes flight Private spaces, once sacred, now breachedBy hungry gazes that linger and clutchThough assault and murder loom larger stillWe mustn’t
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Anatomy of a Sigh

standing underthe showerwatching the water flow…what’s it about betrayalthat excites us so striking Plutoout from the planetsnot realisingwhen I stopped beingpart of your universe deadheading rosesin one fell swoopafter our fighthe sends mea shrink’s number wonderingwhether to lie yet againabout my bruises…I
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Of Resilience

We grieve,we mourn,we love again.Offering the pliant vessel of our heartsInto another’s hands.Because, in loving,we are sheddingour past skinsAnd, the weightof weary expectationsSome…our own. The beauty of this worldis in the retrieval of lost thingsA reverenceA redressal, of sorts.The 10, 000 joys
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Daughter of the Soil

[Dedicated to the phenomenal black poet and activist Nikki Giovanni from Virginia, USA, and to her poem ‘Lemonade Grows from Soil, too’, from her book ‘MAKE ME RAIN’: Poems & Prose.] The raw, spiraling dance that sprang like unseasonal growthof turbulence, reeking
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Violin Auditions

violin auditionsfor Philharmonic Orchestra…golden rain closed city –the cherry-plum tree keepsyesterday kids laughter a sky of blossomsthrough the apricot branches –bustle again on my street spring cleaning…the green silicone utensil setmy wind chimes project one night at Balchik…a white flowering cherry treesteals
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Jaws 7

Seven-year-old jaws are very very sweetShark-shielded gaps are nestlingBetween apprentice teeth Upper maxillary, lower mandible, withCentralInsicorFirstBicuspid___LateralCanineOn retreat Bunch some sevens togetherYou’ll find the missing fleetThread the fallen togetherTo make Kali’s new wreatheYashodha scolds open Krishna’s mouthThe universe lies underneath Cliche: Eyes are
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In the Small Hours

the small hoursbeginning with songthis afterlightwhispers of healingsoftly, softly… will you hold onthe way leaves dothrough the winnowingof every raindropupon your heart sometimesthere is a voicereaching back to me…as if you remain
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Heirloom

    I will be on leave in the second half today, as I have a check-up at 4. Akila notified her team in the group about her early absence. She shut her office laptop and unlocked her phone with her thumb. She
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Summer Rain

Summer rain. Do I like it? When I am sitting inside a café, looking out as I wait for the hot coffee Iordered and watching people run around for cover? Yes, I do like summer rain then. I like the wetsmell of
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Unbuttoned Time

At fivemy feet did not touch the floor.The rocking chair kept meafloat. Nothing chased me.Time sat nearby,unbuttoned,watching dust learn sunlight. The world arrivedat a size I could hold.A day bent easily,slid into my palms,and stayed. Now my son countspast his hands.Six arrivesalready
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I cried

I told him “I am writing a book”. He asked me “What is it about?”I said “It’s about what happened to you”.He rolled his eyes.I looked at his eyes.He said “Another one to hear about how we feel & what we need now
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After Valentine`s Day

after Valentine`s day…an empty gondolaswings the moon spring news…the postman stops at the gatewith lilac flowers my new pergola –bougainvillaea still climbingthe moon downwindmy cherry blossoms hat…and then I meet you pink Mount Fuji –pieces of fragrancepiercing its frame our bus makes
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When Love Rots

She was perturbedby the strange stenchengulfing the house.She kept lookinginside the fridge,outside the garden,under the bed,over the oven,in the vegetables,in the frozen meat.But nothing was astray. Yet the stench remained.It seemed to come from afarShe followed the fumesthat took her to the
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Love

I lost my grandmother very earlyand so her sister took her placewith her light coloured sarees,her warm, welcoming smileand her amazing cookingand even whenthe fog in her mindbegan to eclipse everything else,she would still smile andask how we were doing andto stay
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Something Gave

Something Gave He told her to eat with her eyes first.It was a degustation menu. She played up her naïveté and asked if that had anything to do with disgusting. Ivo missed the twinkle in her eye, the mock coquette in the
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Outage

When the world got dark, five years ago,it was not only my world.An aeroplane got struck by lightning.My brother died long before his time.But even before that, a dear friend had failedIn his bid to start a new kind of life. Then
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Schism

the river dividesyour space and minewhere currents undercut the bankripples hide the undertow. our words erupt freestyleacross the water and tanglein river gum brancheslike giant birds upside downwings spread, beaks snappingblock a way forward. on opposite banksour footprints in the muddy edge.I
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Being

No prophecy told me that I would meet youApollo is speechlessIs there a Cassandra for me to listenFor once.I am in confusionEmpedocles’ Love and HateRule in our cosmosIt comes to Being and PerishBut our love is an AtomIndivisible.Everything is mingled togetherLike your
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Beyond the Stars 

I daydream about standing on the lunar ground,Observe the silence and no earthly sound.Earth would look like a tiny blue marble,Hmm! It seems like a story of Marvel. It is the Universe, where darkness is your only friend,An endless journey where time
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Flying Squirrel 

Will you give me a night rideon the magic carpetof your wings? Will youallow me to see the worldfrom dizzying heightsbrush the tops of trees and mountainssavour the taste of pure rainbefore it falls to earth,tip my shoulders with the sky’s inkinessthe
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Childhood’s Fable, Womanhood’s Scar

Childhood’s facade shatterslike brittle glass on concretethe crayon’s vivid scrawlbleeding into nursery wallsMama’s voice a whispered lie“kind eyes of a god”a fortune in his pocketa mind like sharpened glasscutting through deceit The silver screen’s false promisesSuperman’s impossible featsa composite of flawless liesa
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Yellow Windows

Those houses are so big Maa, let’s run, we can touch them if we run now”, Uma shouted with joy holding the end of her mother’s worn-out saree. Her mother chuckled at her words. “Do you really think, you can touch them?”
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Back to Childhood

balerina after dancing…slowly on the shiny floorthe moon in her slippers still in love…a ruby chestnut leaf hangsby the waning moon another Endless Column…the sky turns gold betweenthe chestnuts on the avenue first day of school…on the freshly poured asphaltautumn paints getting
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The Lunchbox

Unpacking the untold story The story of my lunchbox Carried on for the entire week Mondays were aloo paranthasEnergised mother, excited childI was happy. She was happy. Friends were impressed. Tuesdays were bread pokorasDilli wali mother, Dilli wali daughterI was content. She
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Here, Kitty Kitty

Oh, belle coquette with your noirishallure—Catwoman slinking backinto your boudoir whiskers whet,aftertaste of cream still velveton your tongue. Oh, Pussy-cat, Pussycat, where have you been?To whom did your heart belongthis April night under a swollenmoon sous le pont? Did you lovehim enough
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To Women who Seek

If love must be begged forOr asked forit morphs…And doesn’t remain love.Take the shedding scalesfrom your skinthe wounds in your heartAnd, build around thema garden of rosesan altar of gemsfor, they’re precious.The knowing,like lighting on an ink blue skyis a gift.Or, didn’t
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Love is Irrational

Love is IrrationalHumans say that love is complex;It leaves your mind perplexed.Nowadays, augmented arguments and egos are its prime features.Humans are indeed strange creatures,Having no capacity to understand its true essence. Open your vision, look around;You will realise that love is beautiful
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Baghera

Baghera is the word for Panther in the Garhwali language. Garhwali is a Central Pahari language belonging to the Northern Zone of Indo-Aryan languages. It is primarily spoken by over 2.5 million Garhwali people who are from the Garhwal Division of the
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Breastmilk

Her finger touching the nether lipSometimes, in pensive thought.At night bent wound like a nippleSucking slow to soothing, sleepHand flung caressing the pillowDreaming the soft breast of her malike it was in her infant state. What pains this proud poised,Independent young woman,A
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Black Pots

Earthen world – clayey, resistant,With compact top and substantive basis,Inside black pots. Farmhands exchange seeds,Now pooled in an inventory,Based on tribal subsistence farming,Inside black pots. Go Dutch with knowledge, diversity, security,Debar killing, monoculture, hybrids,In effect veritiable unsoiled sap varieties present,Inside black pots.
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Send No Roses

Valentine’s on February the 14th,The internet drips with UrduAnd its syrupy tropesFor romance.The language of love,With its endless supplyOf affectionBlooming in lettersLike liliesDraped in syllablesOf gossamer.Mohabbat. Mehboob. Jaan-e-jahaan–Love. Beloved. Life of the world.14 lives of the worldIn which lived Bilkis Yakoob Rasool
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Hours

(the hours)Completed on October 23, 2022 The sweet poison of hot water hitting my tired feet at 3 amAll that was left unsaid as you board a 4 am flightMy heart melancholy, waking up late for fajr again at 5 amA forgotten
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Rain

The door creaked open gentlyLike a cat’s paw paving way stealthilyTo peep inside for foodI got up to see if it was a whirlwind…It was drizzle embracing zephyrSinging a regal neomeWith a monophonic harmony.Water washed heat giving birth toPetrichor – the best
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Circle

Iridescent points of lightin the orbit of your eyes shining,in the nightly blackness like a cat’s eyes gleaming.The Hawk watchingh its prey, prowling high,Circling around before the deadly plunge below. Like the time we wed, your ring round my fingerThen my slim
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Soul’s Cost 

I checked today—My wings are shattered.No flights this summer.I’ve scoured every wing shop,“No match,” they say. It’s obvious, isn’t it?Each soul is singular.You can’t just swap a wing—it’s not right.To claim another,you’d have to steal a soul. I’d never take a life.Well,
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Dawn

As the earth adorns the cloak of darkness,A masque it orchestratesWith various creatures at play,Offering typical sights and soundsYet seeming bizarre each time –Be it the waning moonAmidst the shadowy cloudsOr the wolf’s howl in a distant village,The haunt of the croaking
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