Cruising Alone

  So, you say you have a sister, and now you have to take care of another? That you want to live up to your father's name, and you can't read about my pain, and nothing's the same? Did you forget that your father saw his own daughter in me... when we didn't even know if we were supposed to be? And I couldn't even look in my father's eyes... because I trusted a coward's lies... while you went about building his incomplete legacy... My father's head hung low because of your discrepancy. He saw his daughter cry for years... and aren't you the one who said you hated my tears? So go on, take your glass of whiskey and say cheers... because you only made me stronger than my fears. You might have broken me and left me for dead— but always remember: I am a father's daughter. What you broke, he built every day. Blamed himself for my crooked ways. He tried to shield me when no one was around... and you thought you could laugh at me while I was on the ground...

  So, you thought I would simply burn in rage While you quenched your passion with another... And when I spoke up against your ridiculous behavior, You dared to say— If it were not for your own sin, I’d have to deal with your brother. So, you could threaten me as much as you like, But when I matched you word for word, You dared to say I belong in a mental ward. Did you honestly think you can clip my wings, And I will vanish, extinct, like a flightless bird? You can't even handle your own dirty work, Always need one henchman or another To hide that smirk. Do you really believe you are a good guy ? Even Hiranyakashipu and Raavan Sent their sisters first, to burn and humiliate— And you can burn me all you want... Not every coal becomes a diamond in the rough. But honey, I was never just coal to begin with.

  Baby, I am no Snow White, I am hardly fairest of them all. You can try your best to take my kingdom, And have me take a fall. I am not afraid to crawl through a sewage pipe, Give and take 500 yards— And still rise to the top, No matter how much you fumble up with my dealt cards. You can drench that tasty treat, And act as if you had me beat. But if you try to poison me, I will spit it right back on your face— Because I walk my own road, Not a rat like you, Who tried to play me and then said I am stuck in a maze. You are no one's charming prince, Let everyone see you wince. The fact you said you'd rather be with a dumb one, That you are happy you dodged an effing c*nt... That you would rather climb someone tall, And that I am only a runt... If that's true, Go ahead and do a witch hunt. Because you can try— But I rise from ashes, No matter how much I am burnt.

  Wandering through orchards, tasting the sun, Searching for the ripest berry—just for fun. You stroll alone in this earthly Eden, Yet blame every Eve for what was forbidden. Can you even find the way to that cherry, Hidden deep in the fruit of the loom? Or do you still believe only the serpent Knows the routes to diabolical bloom? Not every Eve is misguided by the deceitful viper, She dances to the tunes of her inner piper. She goes on her own quest, no need to impress, Finding the cherry to savor from that sacred chest.

  To the first woman I ever knew, Who carried me close, whose love stays true— My mother, my courage, my guiding star, Her strength and wisdom have brought me far. Then came a sister, a healer so bright, Her hands mend wounds, and her heart gives light. Through every struggle, through every win, She stands beside me—my closest kin. To the teachers who shaped my youthful mind, Urging my light to shine, unconfined. Aunts, cousins, friends and sisters-in-law, Each leaving wisdom that filled me with awe. NishaMadhulika, a culinary queen, Once unseen, now on every screen. Before the internet sang her praise, She ruled the kitchen in the golden days. To women of history, fierce and grand— Kiran Bedi’s courage, Jhansi’s stand. To heroines drawn from ink and lore, Wonder Woman, Hawkwoman, and many more. And Lily Singh, with humor and grace, Breaking barriers, carving space. Nidhi, Jaclyn, Seema Anand, too, Voices that teach, inspire, and renew. Pop stars who sing my spirit alive, Through t...

  You might crave your new woman’s touch, long for her embrace like a cherished clutch— but I have wanted to self-immolate because of your touch. Run around, claim you’ve won a jackpot , but it’s not rejection I fear— it’s your filthy gaze, your uninvited touch . You said you were being cruel to be kind? I’d love to press rewind. You begged for my love first, but now you chase another— just hunger, no soul. I know how it feels to be touched without permission . Yet, you—relentless—pressed me to submit, to erase my no as if it never existed. While you laughed, busy painting me as a rejected soul, I spent nights undoing every single touch . So go ahead, call me vile— but even after all that, I was good to you.

  A boy came to me, asking— "Can you help me improve?" A boy who spent his drunken nights in the arms of a mistress, now claims he was always a good man. He asked me— "Why won’t you play my mother?" Why? Because your parents failed you and your brother? Because you need a woman to mop up your shame while you parade your masculinity and pretend you’ve changed? Well, people are filing FIRs for words filthier than yours. But what about you— the one who left my body wrecked and laughed as I fell? And now you say— "Let it be. Otherwise, who will buy you a lightsaber? Which man will claim you now?" Did that laughter and power disappear from your face now? When you said, "Get lost." When you hid behind your brother’s strength. When you ran, sneering— "Ah, is that why you’re causing trouble? Because you’re not getting money?" Wow. But sure. You are such an amazing man.

  You bow down to a woman, only to do her dirty, Preaching freedom while drowning in hypocrisy. You treat her right when your throat runs dry, Lust-driven hands, masked with a lover’s lie. Did you think she breathes for your vanity? You break her down, then mock her insanity. Does it thrill you, watching her question humanity, While you revel in the comfort of your profanity? You wear your sins like a crown of pride, Hiding behind walls where your cowardice resides. But doesn’t it burn when a woman plays you? Lucky for you, she’s not wielding swords— Or you’d beg for mercy before she slays you. Even Shiva had to bow to still Kali’s wrath— What makes you think you could do a woman dirty And she would go down easy? Me? I could inflict all the pain on you, Be it the trigger's pull or the dagger's kiss, But for now, I hope you die with a thousand cuts, And my words will be forever here— No ointment can heal the stings.

  Dancing under the moonlight, silky rose petals caressing my skin, seeing the reflection of sculpted form in the silver-glazed quartz. Engulfed in lavender smoke, there is only room for moans— not ugly cries. Who says I deserve love? I am Love. Fingers tracing all my curves, as if just learning to ride waves and surf. My lips, matching the shades of a rose, my eyes beaming bright— like pearly sea shells under the starry night. Who says I deserve love? I am Love. The silky tresses fall over my face, dew drops linger on my chin and lips, my torso covered in sacred oils, like a sculptor working hard to make his muse stand out. Who says I deserve love? I am Love.

  Where were these so-called boundaries when I was uncomfortable? When I mirrored your behaviour, suddenly I wasn’t normal? Oh no—seems like I "can't handle rejection"? Yeah, yeah, sure… Or maybe I stayed quiet so I wouldn’t create a scene? Tell me then, MR. GOOD CATCH — Why did you think it was alright to stalk my online profile, Inspecting who commented what? Were you not being a creepy little lurker ? But tell me—did you like the taste of your own medicine ? I guess not. When you can’t tolerate seeing your mother and sister suppressed, When you despise the toxic masculinity in a woman— Then why do you violate her vulnerability in the first place? Where did your laughter disappear when I jested, yaar? Why did you suddenly get so serious? Can’t take a simple joke? How sensitive of you. Maybe you’re overreacting… Maybe you should get a therapist yourself. Geez, have some control over your emotions, man. C’mon, give me a smile… You have such a pretty smile… I really liked ...

  You teach us the divinity of temple grounds, The sacredness past the mortal bounds. You explain how "Pran Pratishta" is done in those stone moulds, And how it feels closer to the divine home. Yet you often forget this body is my temple too, My soul lives between these skin and bones too. You go to war if they disintegrate or ruin it, And energy released is painful. Then why do you say I am dramatic? Who will fight my war? I never said I am God, But am I not a creation of that divine thought? Then why can't I weep for how they touched me with their lust? Why am I called names for my rightful outbursts? You teach me in detail about the sacred grounds, But forget that I am as much a part of it. You love adorning them with flowers and jewels, When I put on makeup and adorn myself with silver and gold, Why must it be seen as vanity, not a reflection of my soul? You bow down in temples and ask for abundance, But hurt my very soul. The others might have looted this land and ma...

  When you have his baby, Always remember how he paraded your "sexy" body, Like you were his goddamn property. But I stood up for you, Even without knowing your story. Because that man has no spine, He’d brag about how he made me whine, How he dimmed my shine, Puffed up with pride, Claiming he’s the only one touched by the divine. He’d mock my belief in something deeper, Sneer at my refusal to measure worth in the shallow, Calling me irrational, Just because I wouldn’t rate people along the hollow. But I see you, Caught in his games, A pawn for his claims, And I hope one day you’ll know— That I spoke for you, Because I saw what he’d do. Not for pity, not for revenge, But because I’ve learned to stand tall in this storm. And while he’ll claim divine favour, The truth is simple— He never even deserved a glimpse of your form. So when you cradle that baby, Knowing this truth I softly hum: You were meant for love, But maybe, Not with this one.

  Born the elder of two girls, I thought, "Be strong, be wise, for who else would take care of them?" So I studied hard, played sports to build muscle, Not for joy, but survival. Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman. I ignored the indecent touch, Kept my skirts in the drawer and wore cargo pants instead, Silent, because I couldn’t risk losing my freedom— The freedom to complete a school project. So I collected A’s, never rants, But someone's son says I was always an insane woman. I became a shield, a safe haven, Protecting those who sang in their innocence. Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman. I befriended men others scorned, Thought kindness could mend wounds— But instead, I was wounded. Sexually assaulted by one I tried to defend. Still, someone's son says I was always an insane woman. At 25, exhaustion clung to me like a shadow. Couldn’t even learn the violin without That middle-aged man stealing my dignity. Yet someone's ...

  I wish I could be the picture-perfect feminine woman they seek, But I hated every inch of my skin and thought water might make me feel clean. That was when I was only a child, And now they whisper that I'm untamed and wild. Some men might lust over this chest, While puberty left me tired, never at rest. A time when I should have been happy to enter girlhood, But I am still healing wounds way into my adulthood. These kind of guys would tell you, And say, "Tumko uthwa lunga." Yeah, because casual humor about violence against women is the best, And I should smile, right? Or else I’m uptight, humourless, or simply unblessed. They wield their arguments like spears of God, Twisting faith to justify only their plot. Lusting for bodies while fearing the soul, Never adoring the beauty that makes us whole. These so-called "intellectual men," so progressive in mind, Forget their own roots, and leave empathy behind. For they were within a woman to begin, Only when they se...

I always have a target on my back, Asked to shrink, to dim, to turn the lack. When I shine, I see the frown — it’s clear, "Can you hold back your victories, my dear?" "Hey, don’t talk to him, please, I get so jealous, When you laugh with the one who caught my eye, he’s precious." Yeah, I’m not the one trying to steal anyone’s man, I crave deeper talks, in truth, that’s my plan. Behind my back, the plots will unfold, I once thought they were real, but their hearts turned cold. I compliment those who shine, with no agenda, just praise, I believe in lifting others, not in petty games or praise. Why would I take what belongs to another? What’s theirs is theirs, I have no need to smother. I was never trying to be "great"—you can quote me on that, I’ve always wondered if maybe you’re better at that. Still, you think I’d ever envy what you hold, The boy who crushed my ego, yet I remain bold. Please, stay with her, she’s lovely, I know, Does she know you paraded h...

I die every day to live a little, In ways I’d never imagined before. Death is not always loss or an end; Sometimes, it’s the shedding of masks, The breaking of beliefs that tethered me tight, The crumbling of identities I thought were mine. Perhaps, a bit of innocence fades Each time life demands I confront the unknown— The darkness, the vast, unyielding abyss. Yet, within that void, my soul reignites, Moment by moment, piece by piece. I tried hiding in my cocoon, But I still transform into something raw, Something true, Something new. I die every day to live a little, When I see the scars on another’s soul, Deeper than my own— And yet, they carry on. Their resilience becomes my quiet hymn, Their pain whispers to my own: “Be still, and rise again.” And so, I learn to live a little, Not in spite of the breaking, But because of it. For every death births a seed of life, And in every shadow, I find a glimmer of light. I die every day to live a little. Then I learn to live some more. I die...

  Now you are a better man, Because you found spirituality in a foreign land. But aren’t you the one who shamed me once, Claiming I was “old enough” and should have watched porn? Why? Because being a woman who made food with love wasn’t enough? Do you think I needed to be “cool” to have a man? That after every objectifying glance, I had to shape myself—quirky tees, muted dreams, Just to be a shadow of what you demand? You labelled me a gold digger—way to go, divine coder. Was I afraid to ask or learn because I wasn’t a nine-pointer? Shy, not assertive—was that my crime? When I wasn’t sure if I could speak my mind? You enjoyed more freedom and independence than me, But can you even relate to that disparity? I dreamed of strength, of standing tall, Long before I understood these walls. Now you felt violated when someone touched you without consent, But I’ve carried that burden since I was a child— Do you really think I’m fragile? Weak? Do you know what goes on in the back of a woman’...

When I was quieter, more reserved, and unable to communicate the depths of my pain, they called me calm, motherly, and nurturing. They admired what they saw as my gentleness, unaware of the storm I kept buried inside. But when I finally began to stand up for myself—to voice the ways I had been hurt, the pain I had endured, and the things I had dealt with—I became a “psychopath,” a “nutjob,” someone to be pitied. Suddenly, I had “no self-esteem,” and my assertiveness was too much for them to handle. Isn’t it ironic? The very person who said I needed to stand up for myself tried to snuff out my voice the moment it became inconvenient for them. They talked about being a “good person,” about respecting women because they had a mother and a sister. But where was that respect when they mocked my pain, dismissed my struggles, and invalidated my truth? This poem is my response to their hypocrisy—a voice they couldn’t silence. So, when I tried to confront you with all the ways you hurt me, With...

This poem is my way of confronting a chapter of my life that was both agonizing and transformative. It’s not just about heartbreak—it’s about the lies, the power dynamics, and the twisted emotions that left me questioning myself. The Corpse Bride isn’t just a metaphor; it’s how I felt—like someone stuck between the death of who I was and the birth of who I’m meant to be. Writing this isn’t about revenge; it’s about reclaiming my voice, my story, and the parts of me I thought I’d lost. A boy who tried to find pleasure in someone else's lap, Told me I should rise up from my nap. I would have left this alone if you did not try to bring me down, And then said Indian girls make you frown. A boy who acted as if he was superior, As if everyone he came across should kiss his posterior. I am not the girl you thought I was, Well, who told you that you were my boss? Oh, I was in insurmountable pain, But you talked about your "fayada" and what you can gain. You called me crazy, a wh...

This poem reflects my journey of breaking free from suppressed emotions and societal expectations. It’s a glimpse into the struggles I’ve faced—fighting to be heard, understood, and respected while navigating a world that often judged me, or perhaps a world I judged myself too harshly in. Through this piece, I reclaim my voice and my truth, shedding the weight of past hurts and embracing a lighter, freer self. I never knew the rules of the game, You believed I was playing. What was the point of praying, When you kept laughing at everything I was saying? You thought it was simply abhorrent prattle, When in reality, I was fighting a different battle. It was easy for you to name all your emotions, While I suppressed mine to avoid causing any more commotion. While you were perhaps reaping the benefits of your preparation, I was furious about the trending "grab 'em by the pussy" declaration. Did you not joke, saying you hit below the belt? Oh, I’ve been grabbed when I was just...