Suggestions

Literature

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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
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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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I saw you

I saw youWhen I was weak,When my voice was quiet,When my tears were loud… I saw your nailsScratch my flesh,Dig into meLike I was nothing… I saw your hands-Rough, cruel-Grab my breasts,Twist pain into my skin, Prove your manhoodwith violence. I saw
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I awaken

i awakento the beginningof a new dawnbreathing inthe saffron raysof our blazing sunnaked & exposedas wheni was first bornundera falling starjoyfulthat my soulwas ridinga blue moonbeamstraight intothe cool greenevening breezepast the billowingcloudspast themilky wayimmersing intomy mother’spure white & eagerimmaculate breasts
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First Spring Blossoms

first spring blossomsstreaming down in thehot-pink windagainst an azure skyone by oneexudingtheir spicy perfumeinto the earth’s poresintoxicating scentsswirlingaround & aroundmaking the airheavy & drunk below insidethe mother treea cluster of blue flowerssprouting like childrenopeningtheir armsheavenwardawaiting their maturityto shedtheir petalsto pour out theirfiery
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Pastel Pink

spring deepens…almost open lilac budspulsating light cherry tree in bloom –love is sweeterunder its branches it flows from the gutter –the morning sun carressingthe house porch blossoms after dark –the sky pulsating perfumein pastel pink the solar lampin the garden turns on…cherry
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Craving Time

Scattered sunrise peeks out from the horizon,its warm colour clotting the sheets, oh! that Indian blush, the morning awakensslowly on flushed skin. If one can only be so lucky to find oneselfin these moments in time, when there is balance to be
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The Ship

If you were to travelto the opposite hemispherethe moonwould appear upside down.I think about that a lot.— my moon is a capsized shipto people way up north— if I were everto set foot on the motherland,my world would be flipped entirely.What does
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Women are Never Hungry

Women are never hungryyou see, through the artists eyesthey are but food, noodle-like,long, voluptuous or nubileand ham-med in,always sitting besideupon but never at the tablewomen are to be consumed. women are never hungryas through the system of servitudethey make and make food,stirring,
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Neiman Marcus Cookies

Preheat the ovenBeat the sugar with the wet ingredientsSift together dry ingredientsStir everything togetherRoll into ballsBake for 8-10 minutes I preheateverything.The oven ready forthe next batchbut nothing goes in. And stillit isn’t enough.I tried to put theingredients in there,the salmon,the avocado,the other
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The Morning Chorus,

The Morning Chorus,Buner, Khyber Pakhtun Khwa, Pakistan The lazy sun stretches across the skyAnd with it rises a haze of wood smokeThroughout the mountain valleyThe chorus of the world wakingUshers us into a new day The lowing of cows laden with milkSteady
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I Remember

A girl-child in a man’s worldBorn of the same lineageBut lower-birthed. A free spirit – a little fighterLouder, faster, bolderIn spite of being the ‘weaker’ gender. Not less lovedBut lower-rankedAnd always a bit outmanned. Not less specialBut never firstAlways just second or
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Bat

There once lived a mammal. He liked to call himself a dreamer, thought he wasn’t the only one. He liked birds a lot. Loved the way they flew to distant lands. He looked at them with bewildered eyes when they took off
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Full inbox…

Full inbox…how does the moon lightthe Earth in one night? Tangled morning moonthrough my sour-cherry blossoms…another woman breastfeeding Forest deepens…untangling my daughter curly hairwith argan oil First moon beams…the lotus sinksinto its past Aurora…God stirs the whole skywith a finger A swan
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China Doll White

I hang white sheets,never crispsomehow wrinkledlike my crow’s feet,forehead,around my lips,crinkle on my nose,below my eyes,no matter how I try to iron,cleanse, tone, moisturise,the folds come back. White swaddles, burp cloths,become beige,sand,hessian,almond.Almond eyes.Get the colourout.I tie the burp cloths together,plan my escape.
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Final Call

You smell of forgotten woollensstuffed in old closets, five roundsof radioiodine nearly scrubbing outyour inherent talcum scent,no more than a whiff of a life that was.I whisper-shout toward rowsof sterile doors, visits fromthree feet apart (prison or recovery),hoping my voice breaches the
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Storytelling

A round steel thali winks at me as steam arises from a bowlof curry, a stick of cinnamon floats like driftwood seekingwelcoming shores. Little fingers trace the faint etchings of a name engraved lovingly by a twice removed aunt. A pigeonwith eyes
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Liquid Stars

A Tanka Sequence Prayingall day & all nightto Godnever questioning whycancer invaded my life until the doctortells me what stage canceri have, my fearswill hang like dewdropson a bleeding heart pale gray cloudsacross the morning stari gatherstrength & couragefor my first chemo
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Lost

I don’t remember my first English wordbut I remember all the Khmer-dubbed Thai moviesthat raised me in the living roomover the hum of sewing machines from the garage.Not a word of English was uttered in my homeexcept for MJ, Madonna and INXS.I
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