Poetry on her skin.

Poetry on her skin.

Hey! I wrote this poem based off of a prompt I got from another poem by the same name. Check it out here: “click me”. I hope you like it! Also, I deliberately put in a reference to Marvel because Avengers: Endgame is always on my mind. Enjoy the poem and tell me what you thought!


1957,
one autumn night,
she asked me to write poetry on her skin.
It was right after I’d kissed her waist
and told her how her skin reminded me of paint –
of blue seas, white birds, yellow autumn leaves, and red wine,
every shade that made her human.
She smiled because she knew the artist in me was talking.
She took a pen and gave it to me
and asked me to color her with shades of poetry.

Continue reading Poetry on her skin.

Dilruba Samandar

Dilruba Samandar

I tried very hard to make this not so crazy. Tell me if it worked? Comment down below and let me know if you liked it, if there should’ve been any changes, or anything else. If you really really like it, share it with people.


“When I was seven, my father and I went on a little trip to a city close by for five days. A mini-vacation to Bologna filled with questions and games. On the fourth day, when we were both tired of the games, I decided to ask him all kinds of questions. There were questions about Shakespeare and Frost, about Pizza and cheese, about answers I’d never gotten in my bedtime stories, and about mom. When I asked him why mom wasn’t with us anymore, he answered it with a sentence that shaped my life enough that I ended up here.”

Continue reading Dilruba Samandar

Mumbai 1.0

Mumbai 1.0

This is part one of a Mumbai series that I’ve planned. This one is to maybe help you see Mumbai through my eyes. The next part will be a conversation I had with somebody from Mumbai and their story. Do let me know in the comments section if you’d like that, and tell me stories about your city.


I’d heard about Mumbai a lot of times – about how the city never slept, about how it was filled with writers, singers, and actors and even the trees were musicians. There were no mornings, just late nights and super late nights. In the afternoon, the city buzzed constantly like an alarm clock. I’d heard about the insane traffic and crazy streets, about the gullies and the people who lived there. I stayed for seven days in this foreign city that had always sounded like home.

Continue reading Mumbai 1.0

Tomorrow’s a new day.

This one is for new beginnings.

(You might want to skip this if you don’t want to read about me. Thank you for coming here, though)

Before I tell you all about my journey, you should know that I am not the son of an army officer who has to wear uniforms and smell like good-byes. I am also not the son of a business tycoon who travels often and migrates with a suitcase filled with his family to wherever the market is looking good.

My father is just what he is supposed to be, a father. He does what he thinks will be best for his children. But every now and then, you can also see a small hint of a nomad if you look deep enough into his eyes. That’s how it began, by being a father and a nomad.

I was very young and in Delhi when my father got a wonderful job opportunity in Dubai and he had to leave us behind to go. Even worse, we had to shift to Chennai while he worked hard and became a warrior in the corporate world, fighting for peace and a beautiful house for his family to live in.

As a six-year-old in Chennai, I remember three things. Kinder joy, Jim Jam, and games. Of course, there’s the occasional ‘Remember that’ moment, but that’s usually just nostalgia and my mom talking. Eventually, we moved to Dubai.

I don’t remember much about the experience of my first flight except that I never even realized the plane took off because I was too busy eating. I spent almost five years over there, with Coke bottles, Indian food, and my best friends. But the obvious thing happened when I, personally, least expected it. My parents decided that it was time for the kids to learn what India was all about, and what better place to learn that than Delhi?

Because I was older, I don’t remember things about my time there that I wish I did. But then there is also the curse of being a human, which basically means I remember a few things that I don’t want to hold on to. My first heartbreak, first vodka shot, and my first poem have the same person and place in it. The same girl, and the same city. How can Delhi not be special for introducing me to love and Poetry? I called it home.

Three years into the best years of my life, we had to shift again. It is kind of obvious at this point because my family tends to do everything a bit too much, but this time was different. I knew what home felt like, I knew how a group of friends can be better than four walls and how disco lights can drive the darkness away.

For the first two years in Gujarat, I missed home. I wrote poetry on love and social issues but never on home because it was too damn hard. It got worse when distance took its toll on my friendships and I had fewer people to talk to as time went on. I developed commitment issues, and insecurities of my body and everything around it.

My life became a big coin flip and I had a very short span of time to call heads or tails, to call alive or existing. I don’t know what I chose, honestly.

One day, it all became okay. The nomad gene inside of me kicked in, and I promise you it is the best pain-killer/antibiotic ever. I still have atelophobia, and I still have insecurities but it’s easier to accept that now. I did not make best friends again, but I never stopped making memories.

I made my home but it wasn’t four walls or a group of friends, or two arms and a heartbeat. It was blurry memories, nostalgic smiles, and poetry. It took time but it was worth it. Stay strong.

Have a great year starting from whenever you read this.

The smell of trees.

The smell of trees.

We’ve spoken about Agastya before, in this post – A new haircut. This poem is based on a very particular line that I wrote for him in that post. I hope you enjoy this! Do comment, a lot. Literally.



“He missed his people and the way they smelled like different kinds of trees.”

– Utsav Raj

Home is a tricky concept.
I think of it as a wall,
with cracks running down its spine,
picture frames of memories
hanging on fragile nails,
and a very nostalgic touch to it.
You decide what the wallpaper is,
what it looks like
and what it smells like.

For me,
it looked like people
and smelled like trees.
My best friend
who I barely spoke to anymore,
stood on the far left.
If I ruffled his hair
I’d feel a breeze on my face
rushing away to hide
its European Larch scent,
fresh and distant.
A kid I used to teach
stood on the far right
and when I tickled him,
he would giggle endlessly.
He was sweet and smelled of honey
like Sassafras trees.
Dead center
was the girl I loved.
When I kissed her forehead,
and my nose played hide and seek
with her hair,
I caught a fragrance
and it reminded me strongly 
of cherry blossoms.

Home is a tricky concept,
and unless you leave,
you’ll never know what you’ll miss.


Instagram handle: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Oh, and share this a lot, please?