Grid View
List View
  • fallen_42 1w

    It is another evening in a small town
    Probably a village where stars are visible clearly
    People have reached their homes
    Office hours are over because my mother has returned from work
    And I am lying on my bed as if future is a dreary dream
    I have no vocabulary to translate how I feel into poetry
    I am a refugee in my own body
    But that doesn't make a good diaspora story
    There is too much me in every word I write
    It makes me want to skin the very identity that has brought me here in the first place
    All my days are filled with confusing revelations
    But most of them are rejection mails from editors
    I am not a right fit for an audience that has severe liking for grieving poets
    I have nothing to contribute to this hungry world
    All I know is there are too many bodies burning all at once
    And we are breathing their ashes
    This evening is filled with it
    I can smell it
    The skin and hair burning
    I can hear their regrets
    And goodbye is a mere consolation
    I do not meet the needs of editors
    They wish me good luck
    But where do I place this body
    If not in their hands
    And ask them to mend it however they like
    They say migration stories are good muses
    And I tell them about my blood
    Never steady
    I show them wounds that travelled from my body to my heart and stayed there
    Forgetting the places where they took birth
    They say some voices are bigger and louder
    Mine is but a whisper
    Fading into the crevices of night
    How do I tell them a body is a country
    And these wounds are nothing but borders
    Overlapping right where my heart begins
    That it is still migration if one forgets about his existence
    They laugh, say only a dead poet is a good poet
    I fold my body like wheels of an aircraft taking off
    And go into hiding
    Nothing hurts like a citizen being told how he looks foreigner in his own land

  • fallen_42 2w


    It is a usual day
    The winter sunlight is falling slantly on my wet hair
    And some boys are playing games on their mobile phones
    A truck nearby is buzzing like a bee
    Difficult to ignore
    Wind blows softly, little afraid
    Touching my dry cheeks
    And slightly tattered skin on hands
    Nothing extraordinary has happened to me in a long time
    But a surgery
    Whose scar I will carry like a soldier returning from war
    My friends have yet again disappeared on me
    And I am waiting for the text, a prosecutor's appeal for mercy
    Which I will politely accept
    Because I still haven't learnt how to say no
    Winters have arrived like a guest who intends to stay longer
    And I am preparing the room for it to stay
    A little corner by my bedside.
    There is no fireplace in this house
    But laughters tend to warm us up on really lucky days
    Winter moon will shine again
    And I will sleep just as any other day
    A tasteless monotony donned over us will keep us from dreaming
    Another morning will wait;
    A passenger who takes a train at 7 to reach his office on time
    Missed breakfasts
    And sun lit corridors
    Will make us get up again and again
    Until summers arrive
    And we start seeing each other as bodies
    Rather than objects failing to regain the warmth of a sunny day
    Till then I will try to stand straight
    Like a dying crop
    Making survival seem easy

  • fallen_42 2w

    I never thought twenties would be so lonely. I could see people struggling, friends saying sorry for not being friends enough, people we called family preoccupied with something that required no efforts. It was as if I was thrown off the edge and waited for people to catch me yet when they didn't, they blamed it upon time. I could see myself hungry but now nobody was ready to share the fruit. They had earned it and weren't willing to give it up. When did twenties get so lonely, I wondered. We were the same old 90's kids who would jump on seeing a rainbow. Now our rooms glimmered with blue yellow lights. We just had to say," Alexa turn the bulb to blue". Everything was at a distance of fingertip. Were we sending wax sealed letters to our friends, lovers? Not anymore. Were we dancing on the old songs? No. Were we celebrating our friends' success? These were the simple questions. My mother, a primary wing teacher, told me about the simplest acts her students would do for her. Some would say how they loved her and some would bring their favourite fruits for her. Mother, then, went on to tell me that I wasn't asking the right questions. Friendship dwelled on a single question," Were we willing to share our favourite fruit?" I laughed it off. But perhaps she was right. Our twenties weren't sad because we had no time, it was sad because we had too much and nobody to share it with. Our favourite colors nobody knew, our favourite poems from childhood, the dance moves we never dared to show. Everything was asking for revelation and yet there we were, hiding our true selves, waiting to fit in without knowing that as much as we wanted to dance in the rain, the other person was waiting to throw his umbrella too. We were scared to make a move. We were afraid to sing and all our melodies lied strangled in our throats.

  • fallen_42 2w

    Yellow gaze of the setting sun
    Reminds me of the days
    When the flowers wouldn't droop at the sight of me
    I wonder if happiness is all glammed up
    In the little corner of my heart
    Waiting for the train to arrive
    And take her farther from this lonely world
    Glimmering sunflowers
    And setting sun
    Teal blue sky
    And violet eyes
    Is it too much to ask for beauty?
    I wonder if things when left alone
    Come back together like a lost cat to its home
    It's still feral
    This need to be happy
    But tell me a sober way
    Where I don't run away
    From striking realities
    Steel countenance of a monotonous life
    I am afraid if I wait long enough
    I might fade into nothingness
    Empty cans and unread books
    Vacant roads leading nowhere
    Is it enough if dreams remain distant
    Ghost of memories haunting at dusk
    And me wondering things if touched become real
    Everything sleeps to the lullaby of silent sky
    The flowers
    The birds
    The pages of a half read book
    And the girl who wonders about her place in this sinful world
    Everything eventually comes to an end
    The colorful skies
    The lonely birdling
    The pigmented dreams
    The rebellious blue moon
    And me, entranced and sad
    Like the little star falling and fulfilling wishes

  • fallen_42 4w


    I sit at my desk
    And try to compose a poem
    The kind which can save people
    My hands tremble and I know
    Today is not the day a poem would come to me
    Bow her head as I take feathers off her head
    And use them to write something strikingly real
    She stands far off
    And turns around as I scream
    Takes the baggage she has by her side
    Runs for the train that blows its whistle around dusk
    And sets off for journey towards a land less miserable
    I call her
    Run behind her
    Promise her in my vague little voice
    But all she does is look at me
    With her fierce eyes and says nothing
    My poem is silent today
    She doesn't laugh like usual
    Doesn't say in her sing-song voice
    What hurts the most
    Blue sand at her bleeding feet
    Turns violet
    Says, she is an ocean on fire
    And there is no enough water
    A land ripping apart
    Not enough distance
    A newly diagnosed disease
    Not enough bodies
    Thousand voices inside her head
    Not enough listeners
    A scab of wound, she picks her skin off
    And I wonder from where does she get all this pain
    She is an absence
    Yet people spot her faraway
    Says she is a refugee, jumping the borders when nobody sees
    My land is full of mishaps
    A nightmare which crawls from the dreamland
    And far into reality
    She is a witness
    But nobody asks her the questions.
    I hold her hand
    And find myself turning into her
    I am a mirror
    But she doesn't reflect today
    All I see is emptiness
    Filling the space; like ink spilling
    Universe expanding its way through nothingness
    Why, she asks
    I wonder if universe is a cat getting up after a deep sleep
    Claiming its place as her body stretches and she yawns
    I wonder if my poem is repelled by the world
    For she vomits out metaphors
    That don't make sense
    Says world is an earthworm
    On a barren land
    Trying to dig its way deep into the soil
    But there is nothing but rocks
    Says the world is struggling
    And the sun is shining in all its glory
    Says it's summer
    And the world is shrinking now
    Laughs at herself
    As she tries to get up
    Falls unto the hem of earth
    Calls it a war
    Declares herself as the war victim
    Says she has reached another country
    But how long can I really stay, she asks
    I remind her how it's all in her mind
    That she is still standing in front of the mirror
    How long does it take for the light to bounce off the sliver colored mirror
    Before it takes a shape, she asks
    I think hard
    I want to say something poetic
    But all I can utter is how it takes eight minutes for the sunlight to reach earth
    How everything is eight minutes late to a world thriving on light
    How this difference makes me wonder
    If this poem is me
    Staring at myself from a dark place
    My poem wants to heal
    But there aren't enough wounds worth mentioning
    So she departs slowly
    Away from my body
    As I see her smile
    Today my poem leaves me silently
    A world corrupted by competition doesn't notice
    Yet again another earth takes birth
    Universe pretends otherwise
    A poet dies from rebelling too much somewhere
    Another one writes a poem into existence
    Everything happening at once
    Wounds and healing
    Before a poem loses her way
    Like this one did...

  • fallen_42 4w


    A borderline mind,
    my therapist says other people have it worse.
    I try to make sense of this
    As I look at everything but her.
    There is a big mirror in her room
    I wonder if she asks people to meet themselves through that
    I think about how many people have cried looking at their reflections
    Will I be asked to do that as well?
    This, I think to myself, will make for a good poem
    I am unsure of my identity
    Now that doctors don't call me a depressive
    But a borderline
    "How do I process this", I ask my doctor
    And he says nothing but increases the dosage
    I remember my therapist yawning behind her mask
    Bad for therapy, I make note to myself
    Yawn, I swear is communicable
    Because now we both are yawning
    Uninteresed in each other
    This won't last long, I say to myself
    My doctor is yawning too
    Now I am looking at him.
    His plastic shield to protect himself
    of the virus or humans, I can't tell.
    I tell him that I wanted to be a doctor once
    "What changed?" He asks
    And I, trying to be funny, says," physics teacher"
    "Borderlines tend to do that, keep changing their minds"
    I laugh loudly
    My ambitions were the part of a disease
    My whole life was a disease developing and manifesting itself
    I wonder if doctors are taught to treat their patients as humans
    Or if we all are walking syndromes waiting for diagnosis
    Fifteen minutes up!
    He gives me the prescription slip
    And asks me to come again after two months
    I calculate how costly his yawns were
    And I decipher, 500 bucks each for three
    We leave and people/patients with their expecting eyes look at us
    How do I tell them
    That the magician inside that small cabin
    Is bored of us
    Or tired maybe
    Because the pigeons don't disappear there
    I keep walking along the corridor
    My head held down
    Trying to act unbothered by the pairs of lost eyes
    There is a lift in this hospital
    And nurses who talk politely
    A basement too for physiotherapy!
    I remind myself as I hold the feral cat in my arms
    And pat her head
    I know I am not going back
    I kiss the cat on her head
    As she stretches and yawns
    I laugh as she looks at me lazily
    And runs away
    I look briefly at the sky turning into yellow and red
    The lake in its glorious blue
    The house without windows
    And a dog that just scared cows and is walking proudly now
    I remember I have it all
    Little things that bring me back to life

  • fallen_42 5w


    Scattered yellow leaves
    And trees standing bare
    There is something that fall demands of me.
    Ladylike, her fingers touch my hair
    Motherly warmth oozing out
    As if telling me about ends, rarely beginnings
    Fall is a sunset
    And I am the photographer capturing it
    My maa asks me not to salute the setting sun
    A bad omen, she warns
    And I like any rebellious child, do otherwise.
    The lavender sky
    Bows down at the feet of fall
    And she lets out a chirpy laugh
    I believe she knows already about spring
    And budding flowers
    Poets and their changing muse
    Rivers and digressing paths
    Sparrows and the barren windows where they make their nests again
    She looks at me like a lover does
    With assumptions and doubts
    With laughter and unfulfilled vows
    And asks me to take a seat
    She has a story to tell
    But she asks me not to mourn.
    She talks about her child
    And how he went away looking for a living
    "Wasn't this house home enough?" She asks, tears in her eyes
    Fall, I tell you, is a woman without grace
    She is clumsy
    So is her cry
    And I like that about her
    It gives me a space where I can be myself.
    She then takes the drooping petals of a flower in her hands
    And sighs out loud
    "I believe flowers are like humans.they thrive more in love", she laughs sadly
    I wonder if saying it out loud
    Helps her accept that some children are never coming back home
    She then turns around
    And wind blows through her hair
    The mountains are standing brown and barren
    The crops already cut
    But she shows me the red chillies
    growing on dry plants
    A contrast so striking
    She screams in joy," isn't it looking like me"
    And I wonder if fall has secrets
    She keeps burried in her chest
    Like all of us
    If she pretends to be someone else to fit in
    If she was once a thriving summer
    Who lost in love
    If her lover was a young man who promised her future
    And then left for a foreign land
    While she, dressed in red, with henna on her hands
    Kept waiting
    If this is why I was born in her lap
    To tell her that some of us intend to stay
    Even when its dark
    Even when the rustling of the yellow leaves put us to sleep
    Fall is an old lady now
    Her wrinkled hands are sewing a sweater for her son
    "Winters are out there,I can feel it" she speaks warmly
    And I nod along like I have nothing to say
    Her drooped back and bony figure tells me she isn't eating well
    "Who takes medicines at this age?" She laughs
    And I witness pain taking shape behind her hooded eyes
    I take her hand in mine
    And says something in a hope to sound wise
    But who can preach her
    The lady who has seen monsoons pass by
    I will come back, I promise her
    And she smiles
    She knows I won't
    But I pretend like any other person does
    When he hears a lot about someone's misery
    We bid each other goodbye
    She goes inside her wooden house
    And I see her disappear for the final time.

  • fallen_42 5w


    There is a wall between me and my heart. I can feel it. I can even locate it with my fingers. Something is going terribly wrong inside me. Maybe it's the antipsychotic or antidepressants. It has to be the medicine, I keep telling myself. But I am drifting, away from the shore. I didn't even know I was sailing and now that I have realised it, I look around, see my mother talking, my lover crying and all I can hear is fog of voices. Is that even a real word? They are laughing sometimes, screaming, sighing and all I feel are breaths of their mouth. My shrink says it is common, normal to feel detached but when does a disease come with normalcy? I am on a lifeguard boat but it has burst open and now I am drowning. Feeling my lungs fill with water. I keep mumbling how I am not me. But nobody has noticed. I am getting better, they say. Somedays I feel like a monster feeding on my skin, on my lover's skin and call it therapy, active listening, says my therapist. But she has no interest in listening what I have to say. I am looking behind her at the window where two trees stand tall and proud, unlike me. I avoid any eye contact with my therapist because I know she has better things to do after this session ends. She says I am living a decent life, others have it worse. And I suddenly look at her, see her looking at my hands and I start moving them more. I know she will write it on her notepad. "Excessive usage of hands". But I know it's a pretence. It's all a pretence. There is a sea so deep between me and myself, the none is able to move past it. I think this is how detachment works. An unfathomable sea, and a drowning boat I am stranded on. I don't know how to reach me. Fog dons over my sinking self and a melancholic song starts playing in the backdrop. It will get better soon, it sings and I know it's a lie. But aren't all lullabies just mere lies, to put someone to sleep? There are no mornings to look forward to. But night has arrived again like a teacher on duty who I detest. I know something doesn't feel right. I can tell. The humdrum of my heart is silenced by the noise of nothingness. Yet I remind myself," I am alive, I am alive, I am alive".

  • fallen_42 5w


    The days are turning into sunflower yellow
    And people are running/living/thriving
    But when the sunrays strike my windows
    I see the glass turning into ashened paper
    Here sun doesn't mean light
    In my land, people ask each other when do we feel okay
    And the only answer that echoes is soon enough.
    I turn towards God to ask answers
    But when misery present itself as a question
    God asks us to strive
    As if the only men who get to taste happiness are those
    Who haven't wondered long enough about the truth of this word.
    I keep praying to a voiceless God
    Ask him to send signs
    But when God is a lonely child
    Would it give away its favourite toys?
    In our land, it is forever night
    And moon doesn't borrow light
    Because self respect is still a notion here,
    I turn towards anything without a shadow
    But you don't see one here.
    I am hopelessly running towards a door less visible
    From a distance called superstition
    Colors are myth
    Does that make blindness the only way to look at things?
    I donot ask such questions
    But I still pray
    For my lover
    For he is stranded in our land
    Where every song is a pitch high
    Where every word sounds more like a vagabond's plea for directions
    My lover is a flower no more seen.
    His petals lie drooped
    And the only way to hold him is to avoid wind
    By wind I mean breaths
    My lover has fallen down the rabbithole
    In an attempt to rescue me
    Does that make him brave
    Or me selfish?
    I still see him in my dreams though.
    Burried under the iceberg
    Cracked open only at my touch
    Does that make my embrace warm?
    I have no answers
    In our land nobody seeks one
    So I ask him to keep his eyes open
    Slowly one becomes adapted to loss of light, I say
    But he keeps his eyes closed
    And that's how he hopes in a land
    Where everyone walks without falling
    Talks without missing a vowel "I"
    And lays dormant to the world around
    In our land, lovers don't survive
    So I push him away
    And tell how world witnessed through darkness is still a world with colors
    He believes me
    And I keep believing in God
    Who sleeps an eternal sleep on a street nearby.

  • fallen_42 6w

    I don't know if y'all know me. I am not active here a lot. But if you guys read me, please go and watch this movie asap.

    Read More

    The portrait of lady on fire (a review)

    There are some beginnings so silent, candle lit lights and nothing but a bed to sleep on, I wonder if poetry could be changed into a cinema, would it look like this. The story of love between painter and her muse. Afterall aren't all poets giving their muse a body they could look from afar and see themselves like how we see them?
    The sullen color tone of the entire movie makes me want to go and read Wuthering Heights again. There is drama to this silent yet loud piece of art. A love story. I say story because it has an end and the lovers know it very well. But what's the takeaway, I still can't find the courage to find.
    It starts slow, just like a calm breeze on a summer evening before turning into storm. But it's not unusual, the storm, for both the protagonists know of it. It doesn't take us to a fairyland but is rooted so deep in reality, it makes me question about romance and love and hope altogether.

    The painter is a woman who isn't afraid, who draws men in secrecy because women afterall can draw women in open. As if seeing men, they will know that nothing about them is glorious, that they are as human as women are. The girl, whose sister probably killed herself, now is asked to marry because what else?
    Their relationship develops slowly, into a friendship first, by telling each other things they can't confess to themselves even. "Do you think your sister wanted to die?" A question so straightforward yet asked only from a grieving friend because courage there takes a backseat and transparency follows.

    The story then develops into a budding flower slowly opening its petals, when the painter and her muse begin to bond over their need for freedom. They turn into lovers not in a blink of an eye, but like henna that leaves its color overnight and slowly the color deepens. "Turn around" says the muse to her painter on the day of their parting like Orpheus was asked by his wife perhaps because the muse thinks so.
    The portrait of lady on fire comes to life twice when the painter sees incomplete portrait of her muse and the candle burns it all. What an irony. The second time it does so when the muse herself stands near a bonfire and the dress catches fire. From material to living, it transcends as if telling its viewers that sometimes simple situations can talk too, we just need to listen more.

    The movie then progresses to the last conversation, where the muse and the painter talk about how they will remember each other. How they will remember the love they felt, the romance that unfolded and the friendship that developed between the two. I don't use the word "lovers" for them because even though they loved each other, they were looking for breaking the cage around. The muse asks the painter,"how will I remember you?" And the painter draws herself with mirror kept between the thighs of the muse onto the page of the book. They both need something less abstract and more materialistic to remember each other. How human that need is.

    The final day arrives and the painter finally sees the muse in white dress that her mother gifted, the same dress she would see the ghost of many times. "Turn around" the muse asks the painter and she does. She does because she knows no other way to say final goodbye. But fate has it otherwise. Painter sees her in an art gallery where her muse is painted again with her child and a book with the same page the painter drew on. As if speaking through the portrait," I remember you!"

    There are some dialogues that speak volume to me. "Being free is being alone". The moment when the painter tells her muse of the orchestra and how after parting ways she goes exactly to the same place in Milan to hear how it ends, as she cries with happiness, pain, closure and the movies fades into a black screen. The credits roll and the leave the viewers to wonder what just happened...a trailing sentence that has no end...just this one...