While baking my heart
with your bundled warmth,
pouring you into
the willing contours of my body
and smelling your night’s mouth
I began consisting of you
and let fatherhood
seep in slowly
like a summer evening’s smell.
When I kissed your knuckle’s folds,
sipped your cold toes,
tossed promises into the fire of your cries
or turned ugly
to earn your expensive smiles,
I made you into a tiny bit of myself,
to the craving, expansionist borders
of my body.
While the world was busy
celebrating the mothers
I made you my crown,
(This poem is written by my thirteen year old son Aekansh on the Mother’s Day)
The things that I haven’t told you till today
About how I felt along the way
For the love you gave me and for the hard work you’ve done,
Here’s appreciation from your son.
My sweet mom, you are the best in the world
I will always love you, I give you my word
You took care of me since I was born
For you, fame and respect I will earn.
I have given you months of pain
But my cries you have always…
I often think about him at night.
In its magical silence, when you hear the sound of your own breath and feel its warmth on your arm, when you are intimately aware of your beating heart, your blood vessels throbbing in your temple or the subtle movement of hair on your skin, you think about things you don’t do ordinarily. The blob of silence cuts you off from the world outside so that you are all by yourself, more aware of your own presence than you ever have been.
In these moments, sometimes, I find it difficult to believe that…
As I sit in my cool cabin under a puddle of light from a meek table lamp, a few early gifts by my side, outside a predicted rain merrily jumps off a white corrugated roofing sheet, needlessly smoking and clearing my window pane, its hiss offering background score to the constant Whatsapp-Facebook beeps. I check out a few messages, but quickly lose track, lost in the complex Zuckerbergian world of taggings, comments, replies, timeline posts and individual messages.
It’s the Teachers’ Day, they remind me again on a distracting day of tense US Open. It’s the day to appear in…
I wish to keep this post short and no-nonsense so that you quickly get to know what you need to know. Please note that this is not a generic how-to-run-Instagram-page type post. It’s specific about promoting your page, which you eventually might have to do if you wish get a lot of followers.
However, the question is for how much? How do I reduce spending?
Last Diwali, I and my wife found ourselves vigorously arguing about whether or not to ‘upgrade’ a particular thing in the house.
The grinder should have been the most qualified. It’s the only surviving appliance from our marriage days, its white plastic body drunk on all manner of pastes and fumes, now a dirty shade of ivory. However, we didn’t have to replace it because an unusually generous Reliance retail gifted us a new one for buying three shirts and a few womanly stuff from their store.
Nopes, it’s not the TV either, because I already have the cheapest 55-inch…
Years back, at a hill station in India, my maternal uncle who was then a military doctor, mildly chided a girl, asking her to stick to the queue instead. People gaped at him, shocked, thinking what hole this plump, mustachioed gentleman just emerged from. Because the girl — if age isn’t messing up my memory — was Juhi Chawla, the effervescent, curly-haired actress, then a rising Bollywood star, who had given runway hits like the Quayamat se Quayamat tak (even though with a gut-sickening climax) and Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke. She was the darling of millions, with a baby-like…
Every time I watch a Hollywood movie, I am reminded of how necessary it is for the makers to drop in a few black people. Doesn’t matter if the insertion of the characters looks deliberate or even forced — sometimes there is just one character whose only purpose is to maintain a semblance of ‘diversity’. If the lead actors aren’t black, let’s find a black jailer, a black policewoman, a black lawyer, a black-somebody!
America is predominantly white (more than 72% of the population), and it should have been okay with run a series or a movie entirely with white…
On the first floor of my parents house is a locked room, beige on the outside and yellow-ochre inside. It’s unlocked only when we visit — Ma says she never lets anyone use the room, or its attached bath, even when the house is overflowing with guests.
The room, however, is unattached to our lives. No one has really lived in it, not even the kids. So it doesn’t lend itself to nostalgia, nor has any memory to pine for. The only exception is the air conditioner’s stabilizer that makes weird drumming sounds at night, which I am often reminded…
Medium is a game, I am sure you know that. Life isn’t fair and so is Medium. Sometimes, I am angry and frustrated by the fact that no one reads my better posts. I feel as if good, serious writing has no value.
This has begun to exasperate me. It makes me wonder if I have failed to crack some untold Medium code when hundreds of click-bait articles that are zilch on content gobble up hundreds, if not thousands, of claps. …