dear stranger,

since eternity, your name has been tagged
not with value but with warning;

apprehension, threat and peril are words
it has become synonymous with;

a vehement no said by my conscience and
protective glares from my parents are ubiquitous;

there’s something terribly curious about you.

dear stranger,

why is it that when i speak to you,
my heart’s at ease and and my mind speaks free;

why is it that when i pour my heart out,
i feel no guilt nor a fear of judgement;

why is it that when we converse recurrently,
i feel as though i’ve never been truer to myself;

it feels as if you’ve been around the whole time.

dear stranger,

i have neither spoken to nor seen you in person,
and yet i feel like you know me better than most;

you’ve had patience and you’ve been kind,
you’ve been generous with your time;

miles, cities and even continents away,
you’ve been a strange solace;

s t r a n g e r s,

but then again, what’s in a name?



the home, a house

w h e n
endearing chatter & loud murmurs
are replaced by
deafening silences & soft whispers

w h e n
loving caresses & forehead kisses
are reduced to
accidental brushes & hesitant eye contact

w h e n
the carefree atmosphere & relieving comfort
is defeated by
troubled glances & recurring heartache

w h e n
effort to make amends & mutual understanding
is conquered by
dishonest apologies & pretend empathy

w h e n
involuntary smiles & reasons to return
are crippled by
stinging tears & excuses to leave

the home starts to feel like a house


the garment of grace

slithering gracefully around her torso,
a garment woven of silk
but of culture and tradition more so;
embroidered on each fold
of its endless length,
is beauty painted in gold;
with its loose end over her arm,
she’s a walking ornament,
trailed by elegance and charm;
the presence of everyone around,
by her grandly simple fabric,
is eclipsed into the background;
this subtly beautiful apparel,
is anything but a mere article of clothing
it’s a saree, a woman’s quiet laurel.