good times, bad times. happy times, sad times.

good times

and bad times

are so hard

to tell apart.


feeling insignificant

makes me

do my best.


feeling powerful

sucks out

all my energy.

they say

happy feelings

transforms everything.

i disagree.

trying to feel happier

matters so much more

than actually feeling happy.

once i lose the will,

i lose all ways…

pretty little fool

i am still that little girl

who didn’t think twice

before shedding a tsunami of tears

in front of a tsunami of people.

i am still that little girl

who didn’t feel the need

to hide her upper body

(of course, i didn’t have a cleavage back then).

i am still that little girl

who asked the most random people

if they could give her a chocolate

or help her with her backaches.

i am (very much) still that little girl

who could share

her deepest secrets

with complete strangers.

i now realise that

at least one out of

the tsunami of people

i cried in front of

would come up to me

with a tissue (or a flower).

i now realise that

at least one out of

the ones staring at me

would look into my eyes

and not my (almost huge) breasts.

i now realise that

at least one out of

the many random people

would have my favourite chocolate

or help me with my backache.

i also realise that

at least one out of

the many strangers

would use my secret

to explain

the true meaning of life

to me.

one more

there used to be a time

when i’d make a list of all the ‘one mores’

i wanted from my partner —

one more meeting

one more kiss

one more chance.


i see how the ‘one mores’

brought temporary happiness

and permanent loss.

so, all i do is

look for reasons

to call the ‘previous ones’ ‘more than enough’.

starry struggles

i saw you struggle

while trying to figure out

where to put

those ceramic stars

in our room

(blue and white beauties).

i let you struggle

for the room and the stars

were equally yours.

you initially placed them

between our beds.

-i thought they looked great there

a few weeks later,

the struggle returned.

– you weren’t happy with their placement

so, i looked at your confused face

and smiled.

you walked all around with those stars

to find a suitable spot for them


you accidentally dropped them

and they broke into tiny little pieces.

this time,

it was you who looked at me

(expecting me to be upset).

but, i had no reaction.

“you bought them…”

you said with disappointment.

“i should’ve let them remain

where they were.”

“it’s fine,”

i replied.

“don’t worry.”

but, you were already worried.

over the next few minutes,

i saw you struggle (yet again)

while trying to figure out

how to fix

those ceramic stars

with whatever we had in our room

(blue and white shards).

with patience and time,

you turned those shards

into stars


i finally looked at you

with adoration.

-here’s how you made us last for so long

/once again/

here i am (once again)

stuck between multiple worlds —

with a million chances, a billion possibilities, and infinite ways of reacting.

have i lost all old feelings?

have i caught new ones?

will i be as helpless as before?

will i give all of myself to them (once again)?

would they want me the way they currently do?

would they be as detached as they are right now?

is history repeating itself?

i will not be the same ever again.

but, i am still who i was two years ago.

before it ends

unclean mirror, imperfect art.

sunny afternoon, a fresh start.

momentary happiness, momentary gloom.

incomplete assignments, hostel room.

detached ex-girlfriend, new intimacy.

same old backache, a mind that’s fuzzy.

full hearts, triggered souls.

soothing cuddles, midnight strolls.

twin bicycles, homecooked rice.

old connections, pajamas with stripes.

unmissed breakfast, missed dinner.

cold coffee, no liquor.


looking into your eyes
felt like a mix of calm and chaos

it didn’t give me butterflies
but still made all cells in my body flutter

you didn’t let me hug you (or even touch you)
but i felt as if we were one

we looked very different (and almost mismatched)

(one with keratin in her hair, the other with hair curled by hard water
one with deep cleavage, the other being completely covered from head to toe
one with clipper nails, the other with shaped & painted nails
one with tears in her eyes, the other with tearless but sadder eyes
one wanting the moment to last forever, the other being in a rush to leave)
but i somehow knew that you and i were…a miracle


Silencing her is suffocating. 

Allowing her a voice is exhausting.

There was a time 

when people appreciated her

for her openness.

They saw her for who she was

– just another girl next door

who liked pink and had a clean cupboard.

They didn’t need more colours (than just pink)

and more possessions (than random diaries full of poems)

to realise that she wasn’t one of them. 

-they saw her in her femininity and in her poetry 

they praised her, got her poems printed, and read them when they were alone

The lesbian inside me screams for the same recognition. 

She declines calls, ignores messages, and looks for ways to explain to men she doesn’t need them to reply to her stories about the ‘D/S’ in BDSM (“I’ve never been with a ‘D’,” they say. “This ‘D’ isn’t for you,” she thinks.) Not every V needs a D inside it (do they not get that?)


“I know what I am doing,” I say to him. “I have read all the instructions carefully and that too multiple times.”

He continues to explain all the instructions to me.

“Listen,” I finally say. “Stop mansplaining.”

He sends another voice note with explanations and a message about who I can approach to get help.

“Stop mansplaining,” I say again, without reacting to any of his messages.

“I am not trying to do that,” he replies. “See, you are so confused. That is why you need help. Approach her, she’ll guide you.”

“Yes, you are!” I say once again. “Yes, you are mansplaining.”

“If you felt that way, then I am sorry,” he says. “I was just trying to help…”

“It’s fine,” I reply.

“I don’t know why you have to get so angry about the smallest of things,” he says.

“Oh, so I am the one who’s wrong now?” I ask. “You’ll guilt-trip ME for calling out YOUR mansplaining?”

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Let’s please end this conversation here.”

“Sure,” I reply as I keep my phone aside.

My phone rings after five minutes.

“Don’t forget to call her tomorrow,” he says. “She’ll help you out.”

“I thought you just said that you wanted to end the conversation,” I snap.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he replies. “The conversation about you thinking that I was mansplaining, not about the help you need.”

I don’t reply to him and keep my phone aside, once again.

He sends three more messages with the names and contact details of three different people I can reach out to.

“Wow! You’re such a saviour.” I say sarcastically when I’ve had enough. “I have so much more clarity now.”

“You’re welcome,” when I hear him smile, I know that he couldn’t sense the sarcasm in my tone.

I get back to my work and try hard to forget everything he said. However, while reading the instructions again, I realise that I hadn’t just been right, but even accurate when it came to my understanding of the entire process. So, I take a picture this time to prove my correctness to him.

“Correct!” he replies, as soon as he sees the picture. “I was wrong.”

I don’t respond.

He sends a smiling face to me a few minutes later.

I still don’t respond.

This writing can also be found on Women’s Web. Here is the link for the same: