monsoon is when

the blue sky fades into a shade of grey and clouds foregather and let down a fierce shower, quenching the thirst of starving farmers and summer dried trees; the local tea stall crowded with tired people seeking fleeting comfort, sipping chai with too much milk and elaichi specially for the damp weather; children soaking and drenching themselves in these monsoon showers, splashing in puddles and getting scolded by their grandmother for doing so though she tries to hide the nostalgia she feels as she watches a reflection of her own childhood in blood and skin; road trips to the mountain which has a blanket of bright green, almost as if one must've spilled watercolours over it, waterfalls pouring from the curves, the smell of fresh earth everywhere and saplings awaiting to sprout; some sitting by the window listening to the clouds sob, ink soaking on the notebook filled with musings, thoughts threaded into words, inspired by none other than this beautiful weather itself.

i make up stories

sometimes i make up stories of people a life i crave for. happiness in endless amounts, getting drunk with joy and grasping hope in my hands, that's want i crave in reality. i put pieces of myself in those people who don't exist and make them a better version of my self because it's easy to do so, fighting demons and defending them is easier by simply threading words, because the demons aren't like the ones of the real world. reality is harsh, it strikes you like the rays of the sun on a day during mid-summer, wanting you to sink inside your own being, curling up in a cocoon instead of facing it.


once there was a boy whose father beat him up
but he never understood why
his mamma said that he was grey
and no one really liked that colour.

he asked the fat man who smoked a lot,
'what is grey?'
the fat man who smoked a lot said
'two colours merged.'

he sighed and the asked the churchman
and the churchman said
'someone very different'
and he prayed to god and said may He help him.

he sighed and asked the boy next door
who spat at him and said
'your mamma is black and poppa is white'
and that's why no one liked him.


ps poem inspired by to kill a mockingbird by harper lee.