Tuesday, April 4, 2017


Prompt: The rain.

My very first poem
Was about the rain

The words poured out
Just like the storm 
That had just ended

The poem was sad
Dramatic, depressing and childish

But I still remember 
How the writing itself
Felt like a cleanse

After that first one
The words kept coming

I wrote much more
Not very good and 
Full of teenage angst

That first was like 
Rain watering my mind

I don't romanticize it
But I am thankful
For what it started. 

(Four words a line for April 4. Not the best. But I tried.)

Monday, April 3, 2017


Prompt: Write a letter to your 12-year-old self.

Hello Ayesha,

Since you're reading this, it probably means there is a horrible fracture in the time-space continuum and universes are collapsing on themselves because of the paradox this future-past communication has caused. You'll understand that reference in a few years time. Then you'll pat yourself on the back for being clever and making the joke in the first place.

So here's the thing. I'm 25 right now, and no your fascination with round numbers doesn't end. I'm NOT writing to tell you that things get better, the world fixes itself, you will have friends who are good to you, your loneliness and anger are temporary, etc etc. 

I will not say these things to you because without all the angst you will go through now and in the next few years, you wouldn't grow to become me. Your anger, loneliness, attempts at writing, self-righteousness, stubbornness and belief that you know everything about everything, made me. 

All that pain that you've been hoarding, it crystallizes. But I do wonderful things with it. 

You'll grow up really quickly, you know. Wise beyond your years, everyone will say. It's not always a compliment. That feeling you have of being older inside your head? It'll never go away, but it makes me pretty amazing. 

You're gonna see some pretty terrible things in the future. You're seeing some pretty terrible things already. You're allowed to hate them. None of them are okay and they'll change you in ways I don't understand even now. 

You're gonna see and feel some pretty amazing things in the future too. I don't want to be all doom and gloom. 

Here's some advice. Be nicer to Zeina. She deserves it and needs it. 
Be nice to Srishti. She deserves it and needs it even more. 

I'm gonna end this letter now. You're me and so you'll understand why I'm trying not to ramble.


P.S. - I promised I wouldn't tell you to do something that'll change the future, but on the evening that you're with the beautiful boy outside your house chatting to fill an awkward silence, please fucking (oh yeah I curse a lot) kiss him. You definitely definitely will want to, so just do it.


Sunday, April 2, 2017


I watched you. 
For a long time
Your brow all furrowed
You were angry

All I wanted to do was reach out 
Smooth those worry lines out
Rub them away with my fingers

But it's only screens between us
And countries
And distance
And helplessness.

You did fall asleep 
Crawled into bed with your phone
As I curled around my laptop

You asked for music
So I made us a playlist
Of songs we love
Of quiet words
Of lullabies I wish I could sing

So I watched you fall asleep
An experience the time difference
Has stolen from me

I listened to your breath even out
That furrow finally smoothed
Before I fell asleep myself.

This is as close as I can come
To having you beside me
To a feeling of nearness
It is a depressing facsimile
Not even close to enough
But at this point
I take what I can get

And hope that soon
I won't be sleeping with a screen anymore. 


Saturday, April 1, 2017


To begin. A list. Not a poem. 

Offered with a fist of salt and a pinch of humour, with just a dash of bitterness combined with the slimmest hope of empathy.

Built from experiences gathered over the lSt few years.
To remember and remind of a hierarchy of suffering.
A pyramid of people one can complain to.
Who will care and who is mentally cursing you for complaining while having it "so good."

Here's the advice: If you are looking for a sympathetic ear, stick to your level.

Intercontinental or time difference LDRs - The top. No one gets to complain to us except for others in the same situation. No one else gets it. No one else has it as hard. We barely ever meet and they go sleep when I wake up and have you even checked the prices of flight tickets nowadays?

Intra-continental or accessible or less time difference LDRs - None of the benefits of being single. None of the benefits of being in a same place relationship. All the problems of both. Sure we get to meet once in three months, but do you know how horrible it is to fall asleep alone everyday?

Live-in or married relationships - Yeah we live together, but damn I miss having my own space sometimes. Do you know how annoying it is to clean up after two people and have to do the dishes and have to remind them of the bills all the time? Also, know how annoying the have a kid questions are? 

Dating but not living together - Sure we live in the same city, but with our schedules it gets so difficult to meet what with traffic and all. And god, all the when are you getting married questions every time anyone sees us together!

Single, all kinds - Everyone and everything sucks. No one gets to complain to us. At least you have someone. You've escaped the drudgery of dating and the nonsense that comes with trying to find a good person. And the jumping through hoops and the emotional highs and lows. Know how annoying Tinder can be? And those unsolicited dick pics!

I know I'm missing layers and tiers.
And I know the list will grow.
People with babies will get in there as more of my friends circle starts having them.
For now, stick to your level. 


National Poetry Month 2017

I have been pretty horrible over the last year or so at maintaining this lovely repository of thought and writing. I've stopped calling myself a writer because I don't deserve it, since I've been so bad even at keeping up my two blog posts per month minimum. Anyway, enough self bashing. It's a month of poetry and while I have never actually considered myself a poet, it's an excuse to try writing something every single day. Whether with a prompt or just building out the countless notes and drafts I keep abandoning, I'll try to make this a month where you, dear blog, will get updated every day. I might delay the posts. And I might upload many together. But I promise to try and have thirty pieces of writing on here at the end of this month. 

Here's to an attempt at reclaiming something I allowed myself to lose. 


Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Yes, it's another friendship post

I've written before (here and here) about friendships, in an attempt to work through changes. Those words were effective and honest. They still ring true, more than I would like to admit. 

But this is different. 
This time it isn't just about long distance friendships. 
And it isn't just about long gaps between conversations so that it's difficult to figure out if there is common ground. 

This time, it is the slow knife-twist of seeing actual events prove one of your worst fears - the best friendships can die.  It is the knowledge that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to understand or be happy for the people you claim to love. 
It is the guilt that comes with that knowledge and inability. 
It is the imagined feelings of being left out that you struggled with as a child and worked hard at leaving behind, turning into the reality of actually being left behind. 
It is being on a road you thought you had company on and then looking around to see that you are on a different road altogether.
It is believing a friendship would last a lifetime only to realise it lasted just a season.
It is trying to reach out across the chasm only you seem to see and finding that there is no one on the other side. 
It is wanting to tell your stories to the important people to then understand that they do not care to hear. 
It is the excitement of discovery dissipating into the ether because those you thought would feel joy, don't even want to know. 

It is parallel lines that will never meet. 
Or even worse, lines that intersected once, never to meet again. 

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Some posts need updating

I wrote this post four years ago. I think it's time it was updated. 

I can look at my hands again. Now, when I see them, I don't think of broken dreams and ruined sandcastles. I don't think of the things I let go.

Now, I see how I built myself a life far away from everything familiar. The opportunities I have grasped even though things were difficult. The home I set up and maintain, a space all mine. The new things I learn every day, the job I am learning to become better at. The meals I make for myself both simple and fancy. The support I offer to those most important to me. The freedom to sometimes indulge in the luxuries I always denied myself.

My hands remind me of how I still build sandcastles, but that they are meant to be washed away for bigger ones. That dreams are always changing and expanding, that they NEED to be destroyed sometimes when they turn into nightmares. 

The spaces between my fingers still remind me of my loneliness, but also of long walks in new cities where two bodies moved not as one, but together. They remind me of messages I type and letters I write; gifts I create and photographs I collect to nurture something that is beautiful, even if I might have to let it go one day.

When I look at my hands now, I see growth and strength. An independence tinged with loss, but fortified with acceptance. 

The veins on the back of my hand don't stick out any more because I don't have to hold on to something that was always running away from me.

I look at my hands everyday and love what they signify. They remind me that I am enough.