I have a hero,
protects me from dying.
I call it my “w(qu)ill”.
A disguised red flag?
I’m a walking white flag covered in blood. So, if you don’t mind some chronic wounds and bruises, I am pretty much what you always asked for.
How are we not talking about the hands anymore? Loudly?
You know when I sit beside you I, purposely look at your hands, leisurely rolling on the table. Half of your expressions are conveyed before the eyes or lips move. Like those hands hold the unasked love of the entire world or the description of your last vacation you try to tell in boomerang finger movements. Long, slender, enchanting fingers that melts me in the wall.
It mesmerises me madly how every body-part dances in some subtle excitement but then there are hands to show how far one can go from north pole to another through the extended arms giving everyone a giant hug. You make me believe I stand on the balcony of a fancy hotel overlooking Eiffel or getting ready to snowboard in alps and you there to catch me in your competent, certain hands if ever I fall.
They way your warmth-caked palms bang the table at a joke, the way those fingers brush against the glass you are holding, the way the tips caress water droplets, sliding your thumb up and down like its you who’s quenching its thirst not the other way round. It’s a revolution against boredom.
I’d love to get lost in those hands for hours, days or at 3am in the morning. Those arms, wordless and pouring of love. And the hug, warm countryside cottage on a chilly winter night. I’d love to give myself in in your fireplace.
©kanikachugh
Hello November
A timeless tale it is.
November went out to buy some flowers for his little brothers. The waterfalls had started to freeze. The untimely rain had begun to pour. Sky went dim and alleys dark.
But November knew where to march to. He was bewitched by the sound of his brothers’s joy. He walked and walked wearing his utopian smile with an innocent bucket.
Leaves, he all could see. Fallen, crushed, wilted, dying. Leaves asked November to take them with him. He shrugged. ‘My brothers only deserve beautiful flowers’, he said. He made leaves fly along the breeze as ‘Wind Monath’ (wind month) he was called.
He marched forward. Pass the graveyards, pass the deep wells. All the bad signs he thought. ‘Never should I look at the omens while in search of the flowers’, he thought. The Deep Well heard and cursed him.
‘Fool you are to ignore your end. But mind it, you’d never find an end yourself.’ November grunted again and disregarded the words. He moved ahead but then halted. The Death was in front dancing. He saw a typhoon of dried leaves crushing all the flowers and a rage of red, orangish disaster with their emotions speaking volumes. Leaves demanded of November
‘You could have accepted us for we are beautiful too. Not a flower, not a pollen but we are broken too’. A destructive outburst swirled around and caught November in its bosom.
November stayed there in the cyclone of their anger forever, never meeting his end.
It’s November. Always an inch away from the end while the last leaves settle on the ground.
Because the last leaves fall down in November.
©kanikachugh
Welcome to my Layer 3
I’m telling you, knowing yourself is the most typical and a complicated shit.
One day I wish add a particular dress into my wardrobe and the other day, just seeing my wardrobe stacked, makes me wanna puke.
The malls, the stores are filled with so much of stuff. Things that we don’t even need.
There is so much junk that it leaves me gasping for air. Then I think what is it this for? For whom?
A few days pass and an urge shoots up ‘oh I want this’. Instantly regretting about what I said.
It’s not easy being honest with yourself. There are so many levels. Humans are no less than onions. Layer after layer. Masks after masks.
And I am scared going to a level to comprehend my verified needs and wants. What if I want to withdraw from this world I’ve barely been connected to.
I dream of romanticizing with this life and own things, fame that makes me feel happy. And the other time I consider myself a hypocrite for wanting it. There is so much happening in the world. There are people who have nothing and I have so so so much. Beyond my need. I’m grateful but this imbalance upsets me. More, when I wish for sometime new.
The world is tilted because of an imbalanced proportion and I struggle to keep everything inside that I’ve ever used.
And I keep looking for the ways to give it back. Not because of someone else or it could be a good deed but because I want it. {Sigh} Here comes the wants again.
©kanikachugh
- Micro Poetry
- ...
The extremes one goes to…
Get me a thinnest stick,
So, I’d keep breaking my crutches
to show you I can be helpless.
I have set up a wrong example
by holding myself pretty well.
That you got to use your favourite
phrase again, slapping me right where it hurts,
“You are strong! You will handle!”
Time to ponder
Normalise other people’s choices and opinions. The world is already suffering because of non-acceptability.
Birthday and Diwali
When it’s your birthday and Diwali in a foreign land and you try to make the most of it