Pens and Pages

For those of you who haven’t met me in person, I must, before writing about the miseries of wearing a bitch face, write why I say I have a bitch face. I am a plump woman with a round face and I vividly remember my batchmate at MDI, Nikhil, claiming that my “default face” is similar to a sad smiley, which implied people who didn’t know me would find it difficult to approach and talk to me. Similar were the thoughts of my Capgemini FLP (Freshers’ Learning Program) mate Alakananda who had said that if one sees me from a distance one gets the impression of someone with an attitude of arrogance. When a person is not smiling, it is quite understood that the person is either thinking something or listening or doing anything but not smiling. When I am not smiling people ask me, “What’s wrong?” I remember my first job at Capgemini when our senior Sashank would complain out loud, “ye ladki roti kyu rehti hai?” And since he would not give much opportunity to me to reply, I would jus...

I let you go like some old habits of mine- Checking your Facebook profile every minute I touch my phone, Reading our old messages for signs that would tell you don't love me anymore, Putting a burning cigarette in my mouth every time I thought of you, Exhaling the smoke every time I realized you aren't with me. But such are the habits that do not die- You come back to me one more time, You collide with me on a busy street on some Saturday morning, looking at someone else's photos from that phone in your hand; I let you go like the wine of Venice I swear I would never drink again, I let you go like the promise of never writing a poem again Yet I hold a new bottle of wine dearly in Vienna, A few blank pages and a new pen sit by my side in the cold nights when I would sit in a train and try hard not to think of you. But such are the ways with thoughts- When I close the doors, they find a new window to come in, Rotten like the smell of the dried fish you used...

Jesse-James Black Photography Tears not wept out from a long, long time When days turn into meaningless nights. She shall smile some other day, Some other time. Each word she writes holds a story within- She shall make you read it some other day, Some other time. With a million stories so hard to tell, Poems so hard to narrate, She shall write it with each tear she drops, But another day, Another time. She picks up thorns The way you collect coins, Found on a happy day On an empty street. She has made her own museum now Of thorns that didn't pinch her skin, But yet made her bleed. Some day she shall spend those thorns, Like you'd spend yours On some crowded river-side On a weekend away from home. But she'd save those like you save your coins, To let them loose only when she'd weep for the first time, On some other day, Some other time....

I wasn't old enough When I first believed in magic. Over the years, I have learned To believe in it, Even more. Believe that doors will open, Or at least, a window will do; Believe the bars will be shattered, Or at least, they will melt The way blocks of ice-cream do. I wasn't old enough, When I first saw magic, In a stranger's smile, In a bar of chocolate Handed to me out of the blue. Over the years, I have seen Magic still lingering around me. I have believed in magic, I still do. The way I stumble and fall, The day when things can't go more wrong, The way it's all good again, Faint smiles And the tears I wipe. And I still see magic Before I go to sleep The way the bird near my window Probably smiles with its weird beak. And everyday I wake up, The bird awaits my call, It flies away As I take my morning stroll. Gestures of kindness And the humble people I meet, I believe there is magic, At every step, in every deed. I am old en...