go through with it, then-
what did you actually mean to say?
you keep digressing, jumping from one platter to the other
moving around the party, with your head up,
three more wines than what you purport –
you, you make a liar of everyone.

but we’re in this together,
your father’s last name means nothing here
in these woods; dark and cruel, these trees do not care for you
no one does, truly.

so what? you still have a task at hand,
keep walking until you’re out
look for blue skies in flashes of daylight
hold your head up high as you jump from one
to another.
and please do remember me fondly, and incorrectly
create memories around me, tales of happiness that never existed.

(why am I like this?)


Maato #4

For my fourth instalment of Maato, my multilingual, multimedia project on Identity, I had a conversation with my good friend Anna about creative detours. I talk to her about creative detours and her love for the flute, the depth of which was a revelation to me too. Even though the sound quality is all over the place, and recording near the gorgeous, dazzling Danube proved to be a little disturbing at times, I hope you enjoy listening to our lovely conversation.

Listen Here.

Icarus of New: I

It’s such a shame, Icarus

that you live alone-

if only the portmanteaus made sense to you.

only if you actually had flight

It’s such a waste, Icarus

you cut away that part of you that had wings,

closed it up and locked it

somewhere deep in the heart of the sun.


You finally made it Icarus,

but it is a shame that you lose grips with reality

Your course is way off mark


It’s such a shame, Icarus

That we go around in circles like this-

We have had this conversation before,

Remember a century or so ago, I sat you down beside Zelda F.

And told you, only fools fall in love with versions of themselves

Only fools look for cards that don’t exist.

What about your own hand?

Do your opposable thumbs not treat you well?



I wish I could write better, but my words aren’t god’s.

They will not flow out of the mirth to become fables of hope,

No, my words are for you Icarus, for you, my love

– the apple of the apples, my favourite poem,

Icarus, my love for you is not conditional.


Go find another star

And like rotating bodies, 

I will grit at my fists,

but go round with you until it all ends.

a song of belief and blue rivers

I am becoming different. I tell you this,

believe me, I will show you.

Watch me lay down and expand, high on the ripest of mangoes

my hair is wet with river-water. No, I am serious- I am a mermaid

only engaged in the terrestrial world because the seasons pass by so beautifully.

who would’ve thought I would be so quick. You would have never guessed.


it’s like lights that turn off and on uncontrollably, as if they be strobes

but I tell you this, my sleep is lighter,

my bones are softer. I am like cotton, believe me, I tell you this, I am becoming cotton. This symphony of banging lights are a precarious way of saying happiness.


And it is so easy to lie, but why would I?

when this world has so much to offer, look at the seasons pass by, look at my hair drink the river, I am a mermaid become human by choice. Believe me.


as if low tides could stop me from plunging

myself into a space of breathless solitude.

Trust me, I am unstoppable like a wall cracked,

I end up falling apart, my knees praying under the blue sky.


sometimes I fall apart in my sleep too,

my cotton body is interrupted with cement thoughts

the space between my lungs become breathless solitude, until it feels like loneliness.

But that’s a lie- believe me, in the morning it’s all chugging of water,

sweet liquid on my tongue, my hair become drenched in life, in the passing of seasons

I am a mermaid, flapping my limbs across the seas and rivers,

I am so quick, you would’ve never guessed.

My Best Friend (f) hates Metaphors

I could have been
a flower bulging away at the darkness
growing out of the pavement into a drunkard’s legs
or a quiet painting hung on the white walls
of a gallery collecting dust

Either way, I would’ve been a chasm of meaning,

but instead, I am an inconsolible proof-reader, going through my own work
over and over again- till the poetry in me dies from all the red scrawling
you see, my work always has too many commas, and not enough fullstops.

Bitte halt-

and I tell myself over and over again, I am a chasm of meaning
either way- no matter the stature of my spine or the curvature of my dentures
I would always be a red penned, no good text.

like a snail calling her shell an armour, my fists above my guts
are my guns, drawn out at all times. But who would I be without this
editor inside me?

who would I be if I loved commas,

Notes on a non-sunny evening in the park.

Only in the heat of the sun, do I ripe like a mango. Otherwise, it’s a silent existent spent inside, looking out of the window, waiting for snow. There is the slow rise of the tulips out of its grave, professing its existence but then there is it’s return back the dirt it belongs to. That is how I gauge spring. For all it’s follies, it is the season that suits me most.

There is a gentleness to the soft, dewy grass under bare feet that I cannot even find in the first snow of the year.

There is a bravery in submerging yourself in still cold freshwater, only to go back to the heat to dry. There is a simple joy of strawberries making its back way into my vocabulary.

I was born in the winter, but it was to live through spring. I bet my first spring was spent in wonderment and awe, I bet I thought the flowers in my backyard would last forever.

I am as close to the soul of the mud as I can get, yet I don’t hear much other than complaining.

I am as little and as big as I can be at this point, yet I will never be friends with the ladybug or be able to look the tree in its eyes.

And still, I declare, I am alive as water. I am ecstatic and never satisfied. I may glisten in the sun but I harbour life through the years. 

This is the joy in me, the might of all my lives combined to create this one moment of pure bliss. I am here, I exist. Now, let’s check the weather-report.

पार्कमा घमैलो दिनकोबारेमा नोट्स 

घाँमको तापमा मात्रै आँप झै पाक्छु अन्यथा, यो मौन अस्तित्व, झ्याल बाहिर हिउँलाई कुर्दै बस्छ यसरी ट्युलिपहरुको  आफ्नो चिहानबाट  एउटा ढिलो उदय, आफ्नो अस्तित्वको स्पष्टिकरण गराइकन, आफ्नो माटोको भुइमन्डलामा फर्किजान्छ बसन्त त्यसरि नाप्छु, त्यस्को खोठरु धेरै होलन्, तर मलाई सुहाउने ऋतु बसन्त हो

खाली खुट्टाको तल शितले पोतिएको नरम घाँसमा एउटा कुलिनता हुन्छ जुन सालको पहिलो हिउँमा पनि पाइन सकिन्दैन 

आफुलाई अझै चिसो पानी मुनी डुबाउन एउटा वीरता हुन्छ, त्यो सबै गर्मिको तापमा सुकाइकन भुलिन्छ   ऐंसेलु व्यक्तिगत शब्दावलीमा फर्किएकोमा एउटा सरल हर्ष हुन्छ

हिउँदमा जन्मिएकी  थिए, तर त्यो बसन्तधरी भरी बाच्नकोलागी थियो बाजी लगाउँछु, मेरो पहिलो बसन्त हैरतता   विस्मयित भैकन बित्यो होला, बाजी लगाउँछु कि मैले मेरो  बारिमा भएका फूलहरु सधैकोलागी रहन्छ भनेर सोचेकी थिए होला माटोको आत्मको नजिक छु, यो भन्दा दूरी कम हुँदैन, तापनि  गुनासो गनगन बाहेक केहि सुनिन्दैन

ठ्याकै त्यती नै सानी ठुली छु जत्ती यो समयमा हुन सक्छु, तेहीपनि लेडिबर्डसँग साथी हुन सक्छु, रुखसँग आँखामा आँखा जुदाउन सक्छु   यद्यपि घोष्ना गर्छु, पानी झै जीवित छु मग्मगाउँछु कहिल्यै सन्तुष्ठ हुन्दिन   शायद घाँममा टल्किन्छु होला तर भित्र सधै, कतियो वर्ष देखी जीवन

यो मेरो हर्ष हो, मेरो पुर्व जन्महरुको उग्र मेलले एउटा क्षणलाई निर्वाणतमा लेराइदिन्छ, यहाँ छु ,   पूर्ण रुपमा छु   अब, मौसम रेपोर्ट तिर लागुम    

11th April 2018: For Mary Oliver


In the tub, I become a conjoined

twin, seeing my soul on another,

more playful body-

her fingers lather my face with dishwashing foam-

Outside, I hear birds cut through the


with their chirps but my ears

linger on the cars- would

the birds follow the passengers home safe?