The closet for the stars.

The closet for the stars.

This isn’t your 1800s Shakespearean poem. This is the 21s century rendition of the word Poetry. Type: Poem x story-telling. I hope you like it. Comment if you do. Let me know 🙂


The ’90s weren’t easy,
but then now is not very different.
When my father came out as gay
to me,
we had a long chat.
I’d grown up with two dads,
but I’d never questioned why my pigtails
were made with my father’s sturdy hands
when others had it soft.
One day in school made me question why.
When I asked,
he smiled and told me everything.
He told me about the ’90s
like it was a tragic song
with all rhyme but no reason.
He said
‘I was in the closet for 20 years,
and it wasn’t just four wooden walls
grabbing my throats and suffocating me.
It was a Narnia of nightmares.’
Of course, he made fantasy references. I was five.
‘When I came out,
things were very different. Acceptance was
a choice. Not a human right.
It got better.’
He made me understand
everything wrong with ‘time’ when it was young
and made me believe
that things will always get better;
‘the star does not shine on its first day’.

When I turned twelve
and fell in love with my best friend,
she left.
But there was no closet for us stars anymore.
so I smiled and kept looking.
I found better friends
and they stayed.
‘Something is better than nothing’
my father used to say.
I guess we have the ‘something’ today.
It’s time for everything.


Previous post: Travel bird
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Travel bird.

Travel bird.

This one is a throwback post. More than a throwback to a post I’d written once, this is a throwback to how to live life. It’s short but I hope you like this, and if you do, maybe comment a lot?


Go to places,
Find mountains that remind you of people,
And seas that make you forget everything.
Discover old streets that whisper stories,
and broken buildings that look like broken bones.
Sleep out the day, learn to love the dark.
Sleep out the night, learn to love the light.
Close your eyes and feel the wind,
and rustle like a tree under the burning sun.
Giggle under the stars,
and among the ruins,
Just like the people who lived there
A long time ago,
probably did.
Paint your passports,
and cut in your bucket list,
instead of your wrists.


Previous post: https://spiralss.wordpress.com/blog/tomorrows-a-new-day/
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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.

Two, happy poems.

Two, happy poems.

Well, it’s Christmas tomorrow. I had to write something that left you smiling. I hope you like this, and if you do, maybe comment a lot? Also, share a lot. Just takes a button. Also, tell me about your happiest memory. Anyway, enjoy! Merry Christmas and Happy holidays!


In a line of poets
that can break your hearts
and numb your skin,
of course you would prefer the one
that makes you feel happy.
Consider this your rebound poem.
Do you remember
what your happiest day was like?
For me,
it was probably the day I wrote poetry.
The first draft was awful
but it had something very important in it.
It had a lot of me.
When I made a friend read it,
I had the widest grin ever.
I wrote a letter to a stranger once
and had an envelope smile on my face
as every word I wrote
made him less of a stranger.
I love oceans.
They’re like puppies to me
wagging their tail-like waves
running to me as I walk closer to them.
That reminds me,
I love puppies.
I held my first pet in my arms like a newborn.
Maybe my smile will finish this poem for me.

Keep smiling,
okay?


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Mud paint and memories.

Mud paint and memories.

Beth was an artist. On some days, she would take half-filled whiskey bottles and paint her boyfriend’s face on it. The skin would be dark and the nose small, the lips chapped and cheeks flushed. She would color every inch except the small circles in the eyes. She would leave that to the sun and whiskey. It had to resemble his eyes, after all. On other days, she would draw little hearts on her cheeks and let his compliments fill it with color and life. Her favorite piece of art didn’t involve her boyfriend at all, though.

The favorite piece of art was a painting she’d made when she was fourteen. Her dog had just passed away and painting was the only way she could cope with the loss of someone she’d lived with all her life. Her dog, Husky, was a military dog when it was young. Beth’s father had brought him home when he had to (for lack of a better word and to make the dog sound more human) retire. Beth was born a month after Husky came home. They were always fascinated by each other. She had started drawing because of him. On a summer morning when she was just four, she was playing with paper when Husky came running into the house. He ran all over the room, including a paper, with muddy feet and that was her first painting. Paw marks.

When he passed away, she drew his picture. She made the background bright red, just the way he would like it and could almost see him wagging his tail as he went crazy because of the color. She colored everything except his body. For the body, she used the mud from where Husky was buried to give his body its natural color. She had it framed and it still hangs on top of her bed. I’ll leave you with a happy memory, though. 

Ever since Beth was born, she had never had food alone. Husky would always be there to have half of it. He ate everything – ice creams, pie, fruits, socks. Everything.


Related: stay.
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