tranQUILLity 🤍

Last night, in my disturbed slumber, I dreamed of a voice asking me, ‘What is the one thing you crave?’ ‘What would your final desire be?’, asked the booming voice, and I had but one reply - I ask for sunflowers on my grave. Few words capture the crux of my life as succinctly as ‘piggy-bank’ does -  a piggy-bank, where memories, I save Memories of people, of conversations, of relationships - in memory of my memories, let a sunflower grow on my grave. Celebrating that spectacular sunset I never got to witness, or as a souvenir for that long-overdue solo trek to the mountaintop cave; In remembrance of all those unfulfilled wishes on my bucket list, place a single sunflower on my grave. I shall always be proud of myself for blazing my own trail, albeit one step at a time I’ve walked a path I strived hard to pave And if that rekindles one soul’s fire to chart its own course, may the light shine on as a sunflower on my grave. Having said that, I have regrets too - I allowed myself to so...

I am a poet. My womb carries dreams, memories,  sometimes even grudges - all of which, I nourish  with the choicest of words. My scars become stretch marks on paper, as my pen touches the page, and thus, I  give birth to a thousand new worlds. Little blobs of ink, shyly planting a kiss on a crisp, spotless page,  shimmer just as bright as my eyes do, at that instant in time. I am a poet - I pour out my ecstasy,  my grief, my longings and even rage with a pinch of similes and metaphors, and a spoonful-and-a-half of rhyme. I’m a poet - magically, I spin verses  out of every mundane affair and can sing ballads of every fleeting thought. No no, don’t presume that I am vain - there are times when I try till I despair but an empty page best describes that, for which sonnets fall short. Pangs of fear shoot through my veins,  as I feel, frozen on the brink of my tongue a whirlwind of musings, a trunk full of tales I have barely begun to say. Stranded without w...

" One day, the world will understand --”   We hold our breath and purse our lips and wait sadly, our ‘one day’ never will arrive. When the bloodstains are washed off the battleground, the seeds will have forgotten to survive.   If only we’d had nothing to reveal, no confessions to make. Nowhere to ‘come out’ of, no fragile decrees, nor hearts, to break.   oh! That we’d been as you are – but why do voices say we are not? Do not we thrive on the same air and the same bread as you do? Why then, are you and we apart? Why are we told what to wear whom to love how to live, devoid of a voice? Who gave you the right to lay down these laws, and stripped us of ours to exercise our choice?   Was it not Love, that caused battles to be fought, and yet is worshipped and praised? Love for Man, for land, Love – why, when we yearn for Love are stones pelted and accusations raised?   Why...