A Life in Three Movements

 

I. What Remains

My head—

God knows what it holds.

Rotten memories, perhaps,

of bygone days.

Where are those days

of my younger self?

My torrid affairs,

my haughty being?

I was a beauty once, you know—

no one could ignore me.

My tongue was sharp,

my temper short.

I could dance, sing,

control it all.

Today—

I am not even a reflection

of that self.

My memory is locked.

I keep forgetting.

II. The Day I Walked Out

That day came.

I took the plunge

and walked out of my door,

never to return.

I wanted my life back.

To be able to

freely board the bus,

go shopping,

visit neighbours,

and do whatever

I wanted.

I had forgotten it was Sunday.

I just wanted to go out.

In a hurry,

I took my bag

and my bank papers.

I even forgot

my favourite—

my phone.

Listlessly,

I continued to walk,

traversing

the tricky pavement

and the shuttered shops

till I reached the crossing.

Something had shifted.

The careful me was gone.

The light was red.

They say

someone called out,

tried to stop me,

the police waved frantically.

I don’t remember.

Only a sound.

a car,

too fast,

too close,

and then-

air,

impact,

the hard edge of the curb.

When I woke,

I was in a hospital bed.

Outside,

the world continued—

I never stepped back into it.

III.  Something is  Missing 

My head—

God knows what it holds.

Something is always missing.

Faces slip away.

Names don’t stay.

I was a beauty once…

wasn’t I?

With blank stares,

I sit all day,

looking at walls.

I have stories

I cannot tell.

No one calls—

not even

to say “hi.”

I wait

with cloudy eyes.

No one knows

what goes on in my mind.

I have lost control

of my being.

Eat, sleep, TV.

TV, eat, sleep.

That’s what my life

has  turned out to be.

Reduced to Nothing.

Mask

 Mask

Human face.

No eyes.

No ears.

No nose.

No mouth to speak.

Just a mask

in a gallery.

Holes

where something should have been.

Who will wear it?

Will you give it

your eyes—

your ears—

your breath?

Will you lend it

a voice?

If it is yours,

you will feel it—

a pulse

rising in the chest,

something pressing

toward speech.

The mouth waits.

The nose trembles.

The ears open.

The eyes begin to shine.

Or else—

it remains

what it was:

a mask

in a gallery.

Unbecoming

 23.03.2026

The unborn child,

conceived with love,

kept from becoming.

A decision.

Practicality.

You return

in dreams—

a tiny head,

glistening with amniotic fluid,

cradled within the womb,

whispers—

“Why did you knock me out?”

I wish I had

let those tiny hands

curl around my finger.

But—

I was not the mother then.

I was a woman

trying to create my life,

to fulfil my dreams.

You would have altered everything.

Today—

no guilt.

Only tenderness

fills.

You remain.

Still, 

I wonder—

is it sorrow

or something stronger

that asks again—

“Why?”

Grave stories

 Cemeteries abound in memories.

Dust to dust, bodies vanish.

Headstones inscribed with love

Keep the dead alive—

In names and dates,

In loving memory.

Cemeteries abound in stories,

Stories of the dead—once alive.

Stories of love, sickness, or crime.

Headstones tell different tales:

Some of love,

Some with just names,

Or marked by a single cross.

Cemeteries abound in stories.

Rich, engraved marble mausoleums

Hold histories long gone.

Dates speak of lives cut short

Or lived too long.

Cemeteries abound in stories.

Some tombstones, sparkling clean,

Others lost under overgrown grass,

Speak of love—and its absence.

Flowers on some tell of visits,

by loved ones

Others lie forgotten, covered in dust.

Even in death,

Our stories endure.

My grave lies empty,

Waiting to tell my story.

Half a Life

 17.03.2026

I am half alive

Because I have yet to find

Who I am.

I am half alive,

Unaware of

My true calling.

I am half alive

Because I cannot speak

All that fills my mind.

I am half alive

Torn between

Myself and my family.

I am half alive,

Searching for

The treasures within me.

I am half alive—

Yet I know,

One day I shall find

What is truly mine.

Tree

 03.03.2026

Most mornings
I wake up and see this tree-
What peace it brings to me!
Swaying gently in the breeze
against the blue sky,
Bringing pleasure to my eyes.

A home to birds, squirrels and insects
This tree is the best.
Dogs rest under its shade
On hot, sunny days.
Men lean against its trunk
To smoke a cigarette .

This tree outside my window
is the best.

Passersby gather around
Its branches,
engaged in small talk.
This tree outside my window
is a blessing from God.

Standing tall and firm,
Yet gently swaying ,rustling,
Braving cold winters,
Hot sun, and monsoon storms,
this tree outside my window-
Is what  God wants to tell us all-
Be gentle, kind and firm‐-
whatever  storms may come.

ACROSTIC

 SRISHTI

So you came into our lives,
Raising new hopes,
Instantly  bringing happiness,
Soothing woes.

Held close to my heart,
Tiny and trembling in my arms
In you,  I found true love.

HEIGHT 

Height is deceiving. 

Erases cracks and crooked edges

Inlaid within perfect grids and ordered lines .

Google maps smooth the scars,

Hiding peeling paint and dirt

Till you touch the earth 

AJANTA CHAKRABORTY 

Practice with Arcostic poetry form.

The first alphabets of each line spell Ajanta Chakraborty 

 

And I watch the sun

Just peeping from behind a lumpy white cloud

As another day breaks.

Noise of the waking city

Thaws my sleepy mind

And I jump out of bed.

Churning through my daily chores

Hurriedly I get ready—

After all, I must live this day

Kindly, simply being me.

Remembering my duties to myself

Amassing all my strength

Braving my innate laziness,

Obediently I sit.

Retracing my thoughts,

Thinking what I should write,

Yesterday’s memories return.

MOTHER

Most nights

Our days of togetherness,

Tender moments ,

Hover into my sleep

Erasing pain.

Restored, refreshed, I wake again. 

SRISHTI

So you came into our lives,
Raising new hopes,
Instantly  bringing happiness,
Soothing woes.

Held close to my heart,
Tiny and trembling in my arms
In you,  I found true love.

Faith is my biggest healer

Finding my core
Amidst the chaos in life
Is the quiet courage
That keeps me rising ,
Holding me steady as I dare new heights 

FATHER 27.02.2026 

For six years now you are gone.

Amidst life's chaos

Timeless memories come alive

Helping us to live on.

Everlasting in your gentle charm,

Remembered always, with much love.

DEEP. 02.03.2026

Down memory  lane

Eternal bliss remains.

Emerging thoughts

Pave the way.

12.12.2025

Festive mood in the -

air, here and there, everywhere .

Chritmas is coming .

The banjaras sit

With their mortars and grinders.

Few buy, few pass by.

13.12.2026

The pavement their home.

With blankets and stoves, waiting -

For their wares to sell.

14.12.2025.

In the festive air

I see despair  in their eyes.

No one buys their wares.

15.12.2025 

Husband, wife and child,

Standing together, urging

People to buy toys.

No one looks at them.

Sometimes a balloon is bought

And sometimes a ball.

16.12.2025

The Banjara kids

Tug at other kids to buy

Streamers and balloon

17.12.2025

The fair is over

Bricks, burst balloons  lie scattered.

The banjaras  gone.

MALINI

I

Malini, I am so sorry.
I didn't know you were dying.

When the news of your death reached me,
grief throttled me.

My body rattled,
my chest pounded.
My voice quivered,
my hands trembled.

I didn't know what to do.

I was stunned
by this unknown grief.
I only wished
I had been there for you.

That burden of guilt
was too much for you to bear.

I remember you telling me that one line:

“Never ever leave your children behind.”

I asked you,
“Why don't you work?”

Your reply:

“Will I then be free
to go to my children
whenever they want?”

No matter what people may say,
I understood your pain right away.

Malini, I am so sorry.
I wasn't there
when you were dying.

---

II

Your chiseled face still shines bright.

Your throaty voice,
your rolling laughter,
your twinkling eyes—
I still see and hear them within me.

No, I do not remember that bloated you,
lying lifeless, cold, and gone.

You were brought back
to that home
That you had once dreamt of.

Your lifeless body
came out of the box
and was laid out
where you truly belonged—

where you had once come as a bride,
young and bright.

Your first husband's home.

Your two ex-husbands looked on
as your sons dressed you like a bride.

Look at the irony of it all.

You went in full regalia like a queen—
with sindoor, red flowers,
and draped in a red Benarasi.

You looked the royal
you had always wanted to be.

Your sons made sure
to send you off
with love.

I touched you
and kissed you one last time.

The four men you loved—
your two ex-husbands
and your two sons—

stood lost,
forever entwined
in your love.

If only you had not loved so fiercely,
they might have been free.

---

III

Malini, I still don't understand
why your memory
fills me with grief.

I know you destroyed yourself,
drinking yourself to death,
scarring people forever.

Your children need your bosom to rest on,
your hands to caress them
as they grapple with their losses.

Losing their father 
two years after you were gone.

You told me
never to leave my children behind—

but you did just that.

Your vulnerability and pride
were mismatched.

Your love misunderstood,
your pride scoffed at.

You were displaced
from where you were meant to be.

You were held together
by your children
with a fragile string.

But that string was pulled
as they grew—

stretching longer,
growing thinner,
pushing you farther 
making you lonelier.

Married and divorced twice,
caught within the web
of the same family,

I know it was not easy.

If only you had learned
to be a woman first
before being a mother and a wife.

You broke.
You fell.
You hurt.

You only wanted
to be dead.

And one day death came,
took you  away

helped along
by the bottle
you had embraced.

Your seeds scattered

Blown away by pain.

Malini,
I am sorry.

I didn't know you were dying.

I would have met you once,
held your hands,
kissed your forehead,
and said goodbye.

Malini, I am so sorry.
I didn't know you were dying. 

Aging

 

A Poem by joita shah

 

Reflective

 

I look at myself ,
There are wrinkles on my neck ,
And a sagging cheek.

My eyes still khol rimmed
Are big on my thinning face,
My hair needs dyeing

I often wonder
At the transient body's
Magical power.

I still dress with style.
Blue ,green , black khol rim my eyes,
Earrings still mark me.

Underneath the garb,
My not so rounded body
Shouts,"Look after me".

Homebound

---

Homebound

Legs trudge.
Hands carry bags.
Tired faces look forward
To that one place called home.

Thousands on highways,
Leaving behind dreams,
Facing the odds and the summer sun
To reach that one place called home.

Some walking as whole families.
Some alone.
Some with neighbours and brethren,
Moving together
Towards that one place called home.

Some riding in concrete mixers.
Many crammed into trucks.
A few pulling pregnant wives
In handmade carts
To reach that one place called home.

Some without money.
Many without food.
With sparse belongings
And broken dreams,
Braving every hardship,
Trudging mile upon mile
To reach that one place called home.

Women delivering babies on highways.
Men dying on railway tracks.
Buses colliding.
Trucks overturning.

Exhaustion killing.
States disowning.

So many unable
To reach
That one place called home.

India is moving.
India is crying.
India is dying.

India is shouting—

Home

 The story of She and He.

He: barged into her life  and changed her forever.

She:  Was looking for  adventure.

She:Had never been told how beautiful she was.
He: Happened to use that line to make her guards fall.

He: Made all the rules of no marriage and no love.
She: Just accepted it all.

He : Told her  it would have to be sex.
She:  Without  hesitation  stepped into his woven  mesh.

He: Gave her wisdom, taught her to understand men, pushed her to  use her wit and challenge his intelligence.
She: Young and unformed at first, learnt the ways of the world, read Krishnamurti and
V S Naipaul.

He: Taught her  to be subtle, to pray, to understand sex simply as a nourishment for the body, and a thirst to quench.

She: At times demeaned, and pushed, but learnt all she could, mostly about  simplicity, creativity and, to just be.

Together: They made Conversations and Sex. Sometimes boring , sometimes   exhilarating.  Sometimes the rides were bumpy, sometimes smooth letting the years  run into three. 

She:Holding his hand stepped into womanhood.
He: Was always there to see her through .

She : Didn't know whether it was love that bound.
He: Gradually started to wean her out.

Together: it had become a  habit.  They just weren't  able to break it.

He: For him it was easy sex.

She: For her it was a heady  dose of intellectual  shake.

Together: They  knew they  had to bring it to an end.

He: Saw girls that his parents chose.
She: Felt rudderless and  lost. Met  men who, mostly meant nothing  at all. 

He : One day said that he had met a suitable girl.

She:  Thankfully  by then,  had been led to  a man she could love. .

Together: One day,  a week apart they  married  . First she and then he. Putting an end to their story..

She: had used his mind.
He: Had used her body. 

Together: Today, 34 years apart, leading  different lives, He and She remain cocooned 

somewhere in each other's subconscious  minds.