#deshnawrites

[lemonadesandlavender]

His money in gambles, our future in shambles.

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Every god is a dad but every dad isn't a god.

He is sitting there still, maybe blinking two times in a span of 4 minutes and intertwining his fingers in the hope that god likes complicated, unsolvable things, especially when men do them. He prays to god, let this be a good game, let me be a good man, let them breathe clean air.

His hands sweat so much that the cards are now soaked and losing their colour little by little, but his eyes don’t. They want to win. They want to inhale the scent of victory and fulfillment.

God looks at him and cries salty tears, bitter even. He made brains and the man left them to rot away, dusting a day here, a day there. It is not supposed to be like this. Oh, it hurts. He cannot cope with any of it anymore. He has left the premise.

The man has been sitting there left alone and he doesn’t even realize the absence of god and keeps trusting the darkness. The clouds turn gloomy and all the other eyes are now sharp and lined with kohl. Losing a game had never felt so pointy before.

The ropes of his traces are loosening from his hand now, he doesn’t even try to hold onto them. Maybe he just wasn’t supposed to carry all of this load on his back, maybe he just isn’t made by god.

The little eyes are now devoid of any moisture and the little ears do not agree to listen to anything except the deafening white noise. Maybe the little noses are accustomed to smell the reek of alcohol from a mile away and maybe the little throats try to puke as soon as it hits them.

The god looks at them and cries sweet tears, bland even. Hoping to be a good god, hoping to be a good dad.

[lemonadesandlavender]

A father's ability to choose his children over the pots of gold kept at two extremes of the rainbow might be so unbelievable to the god himself, that he kept it in the books altogether.

[lemonadesandlavender]

Soul of my city.

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My soul in the city.

It has been exactly a year and two months I have been living here. It feels like I moved here yesterday, no wonder new faces don't amaze me anymore.

My tongue has turned sour from how sweet everything here is. People ooze out sugar here and I don’t know if I like that to my heart’s content. It dances corner to corner and never would it be satisfied.

Every corner squares me out and I find there are so many ways to go, four to be specific and I never was and never will be able to make a choice about which way to turn.

The old jhumkas I bought on the street were worth every penny, they took me around the city and I didn’t even notice. My Jean pants always feel lighter and I am afraid I will wear the pockets out as long as I keep going.

The smoke from the rickshaws wears me out and I think I will restrain. I am better off sitting in one filled with a bunch of strangers going for the same destination.

The smiles I have stored in my brain have been born here and I won’t complain to you, God, not anymore for you taught me to wait a little longer to see how the city shapes you and you shape the city.

I am willing to wait a few more years to see a Sunray and after that, I leave it in your hands, god, if you’d let me turn my footsteps around.

[lemonadesandlavender]

My drug of choice is unique.

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Love can be addictive.

Little speckles of white dust are making their spaces in the lungs of many, I remember seeing a heavy white curtain at the corner of the street somewhere, knowing as soon as I try to separate them, my lungs would be filled too.

My legs are starting to stutter and me hands are shaky, the veins popping out, my body wants me to take a step ahead, in fact many steps ahead and my heart takes a leap backward.

I told you a few years back, I have always listened to the angel. My heart chooses the angel once more. The cool kids are on the other side though, will you be able to survive, in your skinny Jeans and floral not cropped top?

My drug of choice is love, I have basked and bathed In love since i was a little uninucleated cell.

My heart blooms and my head feels lighter when I inhale a string of love from the palms of creased hands here and there.

I frown and frown so much that my eyes get wrinkly if I do not get the love I want from you, from him.

I can sway my hips to the beat of your love and never get tired, maybe sometimes your love might make me throw up rainbows and pixie dust but as long as I pop some pills, I will be okay.

I will be love one day.

I am love right now.

I was love all along.

[lemonadesandlavender]

We were like January and December.

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Opposites attract.

The story starts with me and ends on you.

You're like the last month of the year,

Everybody wants to sleep in your vigorous addiction

Me too.

I’m like the first month of the year.

I mark the end of your cool.

As soon as you come anywhere near me you lose the barrier of the tough exterior

The thick woolen shawls get replaced by a smile and long sleeve t shirts.

Your eyes count the stars under the moonlight and I go in the living room to turn on the cooler.

The story starts with you and ends on me.

[lemonadesandlavender]

List of reasons to keep breathing.

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Know your worth, seek help.

1.       By your warmth, The ice on your palm needs to melt and the water then needs to evaporate to go into the clouds to give the earth a beautiful rainy season and the annoying umbrellas and mud.

2.       Your eyes need to experience a shooting star once in their lifetime or if not, maybe a searing scar.

3.       The bus you once spent your childhood in going back and forth from the school needs to see your face once again, to hear your shrieks once again.

4.       The books in your tbr list and your desk need to be read still.

5.       The sun might just stop radiating it’s Sundays if your lungs stop working, who knows?

6.       Your grandma is preparing the kaccha aam for the summer mandatory achaar, and the porcelain jar might go to waste if you don’t taste it anymore.

7.       The bracelets your ex boyfriend once gifted you need a wrist to carry them, we don’t leave the past behind, we embrace it.

8.       The heart in your chest is made by the god to beat at the rate of 72 beats per minute and you will be called a felony if you try to do otherwise.

9.       Your pinky finger, alive at that, still is meant to get linked with another.

10.   Just because you are worth every cell in your body.

[lemonadesandlavender]

The rivers of white at the back of my thighs.

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How I love being a woman.

The skin under my arms is a little jabbed and I see little rivers of white on the back part of my thighs,

The eyeliner of one of my heterochromatic eyes is trying to soar to the sky and that of the other one is being a little dramatic,

I see a little line of affection at the center of my torso and I smile a little wider,

I have not slept properly In a while and it shows under my eyes, the hollowness of my cheeks tell you how much I’ve been eating,

You see me letting my hair down and trying the scrunchie around my wrist and you’d never imagine why I’ve kept that thing so close to me at all times,

My thighs sometimes roar like an ultrasound thunder and even though you stand so close to my soul you’re practically mixed in it, you won’t be able to listen to it.

The dusty shades of my skin are burning holes in your eyes, I dare you to open your eyes wide and see for yourselves how bright I shine beneath,

You could rip the outside of me apart and you’ll still see thousand layers of resilience underneath,

I cry and bleed at the same time and my hands shake like they are going to cause an earthquake real soon, and I still walk holding your hands in mine.

Your hands on me don’t fit in the curves and if I jerk your hand back, don’t be afraid, it would all make sense sometime in the near future,

The sunflowers and fuchsias have embarked themselves upon me and the fragrance snares your nostrils too I know, go ahead, bask in it, cause that’s how I love being a woman.

[lemonadesandlavender]

Meet a poet outside the poems.

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A poet breathes through poems.

I wait for you to puke out all of your insides as soon as you lay a fingertip on my tongue but you don’t. The words you read on a 6 inch screen are enough to count you out.

Meet me outside my poems one day, we’ll plan a date. I dare you to smile at me and not get a smile back.

You enter my life with a nod and you’ll find thousands of poems crawling up your leg, want them or not.

I live through poems, I breathe through them and let the world know ‘I am' through them.

The treacherous nights you have called me a sinner have been vanishing away from your hand like sand does from a closed fist, warning you to shut your mouth and let poets live like the madmen they are.

You can’t ever meet me outside the poems, you would be screaming, crying and throwing up at the sight if ever there is.

A poet or not, you won’t accept. A 19 year old girl or not, you won’t accept, a human or not, you won’t accept. What’s the point?

[lemonadesandlavender]

Your back and the moon's surface.

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Similarities between the moon and you.

The moon's surface has scars, and a huge scar right on the front which we see every night. Once something hits the moon, that event becomes frozen in time. They call moon a powerless ball of mass.

I zoomed in on the scars one day through the telescope my grandpa gifted me when he could no longer walk, and there are various things I see inside the scars,

1.       A child sitting with it’s back in my face.

2.       The back lit up in agony.

3.       The back muscles tensed.

4.       The blood and sweat staining the clothes.

5.       The clothes sticking to it’s back.

6.       Sand In his right hand.

7.       An axe In his left.

8.       A mountain in front of the child.

My eyes get hazy all the time, especially when I look into the telescope but this once, my eyes are blinded, blinded by the beauty of it all, so I quickly snap my eyes open and look somewhere else, anywhere.

I see,

1.       A child with it’s face in my face.

2.       It’s eyes lit up with determination.

3.       It’s fists clenched.

4.       A smile starting to form on it’s face.

5.       It’s content face.

 And then I realise the scars are what  make the moon look so beautiful and hard work is what makes a human look so beautiful.

[lemonadesandlavender]

The organs or the skin?

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Deathbed thoughts.

My skin isn’t sitting right with me today, I burnt it on the burner a few years back, and i still fear holding lighters in my hand, and still I manage to smoke out my lungs and several other organs except the skin.

And now, my skin has started to act up, little ulcers and patches of ashy skin are visible, dark circles under my long lost eyes and scraped off nail beds don't count as prospects of worry anymore, concealing won’t work.

I have been gnawing my teeth and biting off pieces of unwanted flesh right off my arms, I can’t reach my legs, they are rotting off and maybe the beds surrounded by these tubes and beeps would too someday.

The hair on my head lost their grip on my scalp long before I put my hands into fists and pulled the roots like a crazy woman, I want them grown back to their original length and me shrunken back to my original size, non existent.

The fear of me leaving this bed and climbing off the tree top isn’t calling me anymore, the fear of my skin leaving my body before anh of the other organs do is.

[lemonadesandlavender]

Prayers walk in high heels.

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God listens even if you don't pray.

Mother, you’re eyes are beating me up secretly,

Talking to me in that hushed tone you use around grandma for whatever sin I cried upon an hour ago locked up in my bedroom,

your feet don’t touch the ground anymore.

The women of this society taught me to start wearing heels,

I will look like an unanswered prayer they said.

Someone might force a hand towards you they said.

I say, prayers might walk in high heels,

They are closer to god than you,

3 inches closer.

Even if you raise a finger, god might want to hold your hand and shed some tears,

Nobody thought god could shed tears, he does *hush*

Prayers are taller than you.

If you have 65 kilograms of substance in you, they have 65.3 kilograms.

Everybody loves heels, men and women alike, maybe men more than women.

Don’t remove them from your feet once you put them on,

You might see a little blood and faint.

Always keep praying.

Prayers wear white heels I think,

Indicating purity.

I have seen some prayers wearing red heels as well,

Of vengeance and remorse.

Pray white, not red.

Pray all the time.

Pray every day.

Pray.

Don’t pray at all.

[lemonadesandlavender]

How honest do you want me to be?

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The real questions.

Should I tell you all the ways you don’t stand a chance against my ever increasing fear of god and a little bit of crippling anxiety?

Should I crawl over the mountains on all fours and try to jump off the cliff only to wait till you come finding me and tell me not to, hold me tight until I forget all of my sorrows?

Should I just park my car in the no parking zone?

Should I kill everybody who even thinks I am a b*tch? You ask how do I know? I can walk into people’s minds on my fingertips. God gave me a superpower the day he made me.

Should I tell you the story of that time my mum beat me until I stopped crying and locked myself in a room until the next sunrise only to cry the whole night?

Should I tell you how I wanted mum to see my puffy eyes after that night just like my mum did? I am my mother’s daughter after all.

Should I tell you how I think this is world is absolutely unfair and it still looks a little lavender and a little yellow to me?

[lemonadesandlavender]

जैसे पेड़ से फल गिरते हैं।

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तुम कैसे बाकी की दूनियाँ से अलग हो।

माना था मैंने एक ज़माने में, तुम जैसी आखे मैने न अपने बरामदे पर खडे रहकर सडक पर से अपने एक हाथ में राशन से भरी थैली और दूसरे हाथ मे अपने नन्हे की उंगली पकडे गुज़रते हुए किसी अनजान की देखी है, न शीशे में।

कई साल यूँही बीत गए, अब भी हम रोज़ सुबह शाम एक दूसरे को देखते है, कभी प्यार तो कभी तृष्णा की नज़रो से।

बाहर आँगन मे इकलौता पेड जो तुमने इतनी शिद्दत से पाल पोसकर बढाया है, मै हर दूसरे दिन उसे पानी पिलाती हूँ, वह मुझसे यूँ बातें करता है जैसे मै बहती हवा हूँ, उसके जीवित होने का एक मूल्य कारण।

उस पेड़ पर अब कई फल उग आए है और मैं वादा करती हूँ, जैसे ही वे फल अपनी जगह उस नम ज़मीन पर बनाएँगे, मै एक एक फल को रसोई के ओटे पर रखी लाल टोकरी मे सजा दूँगी, ताकि जैसे ही तूम लौटकर आओ, तुम्हारी आँखे मुझ ही को तराशे।

उस ही पल मे मुझे ये भी समझ जाएगा कि तुम्हारी आँखे इस पूरे ज़माने की आखों से अलग नही हैं, बस उनकी अगन मेरे आँखो में झाँकते वक्त कुछ कर बैठती हैं, जिससे मेंरी साँसों अटक जाती हैं और मुझे जीने की एक और वजह मिल जाती है, बिल्कुल उस गिरे हुए फल की तरह।

[lemonadesandlavender]

One eats you and you eat another.

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Two types of grief.

You see, us human beings go through several tunnels in our life. Some we see and deliberately go beneath and some we don't know about like those in trains.

My grandpa showed me through his actions, there are two types of grief.

Type one- It eats you up raw from the inside,

The gall bladder starts releasing all the dark colours of bile, mostly black.

Eyes, which once looked like a sunflower turn into something vile, dangerous, dangerously empty. If they popped out of their sockets the next moment, wouldn't make a difference.

The trees which used to sing to you once, now don't even take a look at you, you feel breathless due to the lack of oxygen.

If you keep looking at the lines of your palm, they start shifting away from each other, coming to a point with no visible lines.

The ice now melts the second it touches your searing fingers.

Even if you interlace your fingers with a warmer hand, you start doubting every second of it, start playing 'among us' in your heads.

Type two- You pick up some drops of water and put it in your eyes or maybe glycerin.

What if the world knows, proving yourself grieving is important.

You see a pair of eyes everywhere, you can't rub your hands towards the sky in peace.

You scratch the key on a metal desk to listen to the satisfying screeching sound and then you get to sleep.

You turn the fans and lights off and wear two to three layers of clothes in a may summer.

You don't want to but you do, grieve I mean.

[lemonadesandlavender]

The most unsettling book you've ever read.

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Me.

There’s a bookshelf full of books, some grey, some black, some dusty, some brand new, some shiny, some dull with time, some scented, some foul in your study and you roam your fingers through all the books in search for a perfect one time read like one does.

Your fingers land on the one book you should’ve never even bought. You pick the book up,

Eels are crawling all over it,

The book is covered with cobwebs,

Some pages have been eaten by bookbugs,

Each chapter is gut wrenching,

Your eyes get blinded by the beauty of it all,

The Achilles heel in the previous chapter pulls out your insides and the space is occupied by a green bile,

You need to continue the next chapter to get rid of that bile,

Your eyes are starting to burst into little firecrackers,

It is a murder mystery, fantasy, fiction, romance, goth, self help, autobiography all at once,

You feel like you’ll throw up after every other line,

The cobwebs are starting to shift onto your brain through your ears,

Your hands are getting slippery and clammy but you hold on tight,

You’ve not finished the book yet and you throw it in the nearby stash of books you will never even touch again,

That book is the most unsettling book you will come across

 

That book seems to resemble me from some angle,

That book is me.

[lemonadesandlavender]

Would you kiss me under the rain?

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Question to ask to your soulmate.

If you had a chance,

Would you taste my blood on your tongue everytime I make myself bleed scratching a mosquito bite too much?

Would you look at me like you looked at the northern lights that time we went on that trip?

Would you be willing to entwined your fingers into my hair even If that means your hands get oily and clammy afterwards?

Would you turn the bed post corners all rounded just because I hit them too often because of my clumsiness?

Would you come with me to the other side of the world just to climb a thousand stairs in total to reach to the beach of my dreams?

Would you put some extra sugar in the coffee I drink every morning, cause you know I don’t like my coffee bitter?

Would you take my feet in your hands and pull out the thorn out of it in the middle of a crowded street?

Would you dig your hands inside my chest towards my heart just to find a lot of blood with your name written on each drop?

Would you kiss me under the rain and drag me into the sweetest oblivion?