A Figment Of Ur Imagination

As AbOvE,sO bElOw…As WiThIn,So WiThOuT…

Category: love



the manner in which your fingers whisper secrets into my palm, cupped like a lotus, its perfume causing the air around us to sway drunkenly.







A, for the agendas you write on her skin

B, for the barbaric 

C, carcasses you want to make out of her

D, for her dwindling 

E, existence; she dreams of

F, freedom.

G, for the gates of her vagina that even the autocorrect refuses to mention

H, for the hell you’ve put her through and for the heaven she fights for 

I, for years of inequality that pinch on her thighs 

J, just below where your pleasure rests.

K, for the Kajal She

L, lures you in with so that you could 

M, murder her soul.

N, for the no that escapes her mouth

O, offering no respite to her.

P, for the places you felt her shivering under you

Q, for the queers that sing songs that sound like her death

R, for the reasons you should not have used her

S, soul and body alike.

T, to the hours she laboured to give you a child 

U, under the burden of her murder

V, for all the violence she was subjected to.

W, to the woman who produces men who slight her existence and reduce her identity to


treat her like X,

Devour her soul like Y

And throw her away like Z.


|a big thank you to all those of you who attended the last slam poetry session!|

Polyglot’s Problems

Hindi runs in the veins of this लड़की

every द, ध, ढ, ढ़, ड़ slips off my tongue 

and I take great care to pronounce 

each right for it is indeed my mother’s

tongue and I wish to do justice to

her tireless pleads.

I speak English in phrases and metaphors,

a language in which I am soft spoken 

and delicate; where the crown of 

sophistication rests on my head, from

a बच्ची, I am a woman.

My toes wreathe in the sands of Punjabi,

a language that is happy and heartfelt,

but I’m also a कुड़ी, an object of male

attention, and gazes that constantly 

rest on my shoulders.

दीदी at home does not understand the three

other people that I can be so for her I am

a परोगी and in Marathi only I tell her that

मी तिची आभारी आहे.

I often read French aloud, a language où

je suis une femme of poise and sincerity,

where every word I speak with such

deliberation that you would not realise 

I am now five different people in one.

Now, no one dare say that I am difficult to



That’s the purity in messy people.

They touch you in places the world has left untouched.

They take your heart and senses on a road trip and hope to hell that you’re courageous  enough to never return back to normality.
After all, there’s no life in the mundane. 

Curiosity is 

that slutty cousin of  anxiety 

who fucks up everytime

for a handful of candies.


You’re staying up until 2am for all the wrong reasons. Because you’re wasted. Because you’re  heartbroken. Because you’re bored and lonely and scrolling through social media until you’re forced to surrender to sleep. 

You shouldn’t be half covered with blanket with your head propped up on a pillow, daydreaming about how things used to be back when you were in a relationship. Or plugging your phone into the closest outlet, just in case that text you’ve been waiting for comes through. 

Find a better reason to stay up until 2am. Stay up because you had a great idea for a story or a song or a poem, and you don’t want the idea to slip away as you sleep. Stay up, because you’re on a creative streak and don’t want to ruin your flow. Stay up, because your passion burns brightest at night. 

And if your career isn’t the reason why you’re awake when the sun is resting, let love be the reason. 

Stay up- not because you’re in the middle of a brutal fight filled with ugly words. Not because you’re tossing and turning,  wishing that the argument never happened. Not because you’re crying your eyes out over the kinks in your perfect relationship. 

Stay up, because you have a million things to say without enough hours to say them. Stay up, because you want to set a new record for the amount of times you make love. Stay up, because you don’t want sleep to rob you of a second time with them. 

Stay up, because you found something that makes the yawns and baggy eyes feel worthwhile. Don’t choose existing over living. Don’t scroll through Twitter, then Facebook, then Tumblr, then back to Twitter again out of boredom. And don’t relive painful memories of your ex, because you have nothing else to think about when the silence envelops your bedroom. 

If you’re gonna stay awake until 2am,  find a good enough reason. Find your passion. 

Because, once you find something that’s actually worth staying up until 2am for,  you’ll find something worth living for. You’ll find your reason to be. 

Thunderstorms and Hurricanes 

We used our tongues 

like swords in a war.

Slicing through

the insecurities,

and exchanging 

breaths of revolutions.

We were hurricanes

curled up in a satin blanket.

We were the thunderstorms,

wrapped in mortal bodies.


|excerpt from the poetry slam yesterday|

Playing The Lover’s Role

Those three little words I love you never meant much to me. I mean yeah of course in the beginning; how it feels so sweet to finally hear something you’ve yearned for is such a victory. But after a while, the thrill of hearing those words are an ending to a sorry conversation that lose its meaning .

It’s when I love you is said in such a tone as if forced. No one is asking you to love me darling. But if you’re going to play the lover’s role then make sure you’re saying those words to me on 2occasions:

  1. You’d rather claw your heart from your chest and feed it to the bears than to ever think about losing me.           (OR)
  2. I treat you as if you’re magic. I disappear into your body and dissolve myself into your veins making us one.

If it’s not intense, if it’s not skin ripping, soul bleeding, life shattering 
…then save that high infatuation you have masked as love. I want no parts in the mediocrity. 


I don’t think we ever shut

ourselves from the world 


We leave the doors of our heart unlatched, 

hoping that the perfect 

stranger would knock on it and 


You feel like home.

-I’ll be waiting. 

|yes, wishful thinking would be the death of me.|