Saudade: Living with the ache, loving through one's absence

If you have ever stood alone in your kitchen at midnight, hearing a certain song and feeling a wave of memory crash over you, you've felt it: saudade. This Portuguese word, impossible to translate exactly, wraps up that heart-deep ache for something or someone, just out of reach. Not simply missing, but aching for what isn't there, and perhaps never will be again. 

I think of saudade often on rainy days, when the city feels quieter, and the past knocks softly. Maybe it's hearing your loved ones' laughter in your head while making their favorite recipes, or scrolling through photos of a friend who's drifted out of your life. Suddenly, what's missing is alive again—full of presence and longing. 

But saudade's close companion is loneliness, a feeling we all know, even in a crowd. It can be overwhelming—coming home after a trip and realizing the silence in your apartment is physical, heavy. Or maybe you're at a table with friends, laughter bouncing around, but you feel like an outsider peeking through frosted glass. 

Sometimes, we guard ourselves, refusing to love or reach out, because the pain of possibly losing—even the joy of simply having—feels too big to bear. In fact, loneliness is now recognized as one of the top reasons people die earlier, right up there with smoking or obesity. We stop ourselves from building deep attachments, haunted by the fear that loss and absence might hurt too much. So, too many of us live with only surface connections, denying ourselves the warmth of real belonging. 

Think of the movies that linger because they reflect us back to ourselves. In Inside Out, when Joy finally lets Sadness take over, Riley connects with her parents again—because sharing heartbreak is often what brings us closest. Or in the movie Her, Theodore's slow walk through the city after losing his AI love stings because most of us have wandered our own city, grappling with missing someone impossible to call back. 

Songs do it, too. Listen to Adele's "Someone Like You" after heartbreak, and suddenly every lyric is about you. Coldplay's "The Scientist" is for someone, anyone who's ever replayed arguments in their head, wishing for a do-over that will never come. Music reminds us, painfully and beautifully, that longing is proof of how deeply we've lived and loved. 

Most of our saudade isn't cinematic—it's everyday. It's the way parents ache for kids who've grown up and moved out, leaving rooms full of echoes. It's nursing homes full of stories untold, and teenagers moving across the world for college, missing the smell of home-cooked hot Idlis and spicy chutneys. It's the child who lost a pet, the sibling estranged, the friend you no longer speak to. 

The longing goes both ways. Sometimes, we stop showing up for people because the fear of being left, of another loss, is too much. A quote often attributed to a philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, comes to mind: “The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly one you’ll never have.” That tension—between hope and fear—shapes how we open or close ourselves to love. 

No one escapes this. Marcel Proust, dipping his madeleine into tea, recalls a world lost to time: "Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were." And Clarice Lispector, the Brazilian writer, notes, "Saudade is not a feeling of absence, but a presence that moves in one's soul."

We may call it saudade, the Japanese mono no aware (a gentle sadness at the passing of things), or the Welsh hiraeth (a homesickness for something lost). These words remind us, "We're part of a timeless human club—those who ache, who hope, who risk attachment. 

So, what do we do with these feelings? First, we accept how common they are. Loneliness doesn’t mean we’re broken. It simply means we’re human.

But it also means that losing ourselves to the fear of loss—choosing not to love for fear of pain—can be just as dangerous as missing someone we once loved. “Loneliness is one of the top reasons people die, or refrain from making attachments and connections for fear of losing it, and never having it again.” That’s not just philosophy; it’s fact. Our bodies, minds, and hearts need connection, even knowing it can end.

What helps? Sometimes, it’s as simple as reaching out to a friend with an honest message: “I miss you. Can we talk?” Or sitting with an old photo—not to wallow, but to remember how loved we once were, how rich and real those moments were.

As Rainer Maria Rilke said, “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” Being brave enough to miss, to yearn, to try again—that’s the most human thing we can do. 

If you’re reading this and feeling the sting of saudade, or drowning in loneliness, know this: You are not alone. Your feelings are shared across time and space by all of us who risked loving and losing, and dared to hope for more. Loneliness may be common, but so is the courage to try again.

As Leonard Cohen reminds us, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” May your longing be not just an emptiness, but an opening—a doorway to connection, to gratitude for what you’ve had, and hope for what you might still find.

So, let’s learn to live with our saudade, not as proof of emptiness, but as a sign we loved, and were loved, deeply. That is the beauty of being human, even with all its aches.

The Sound of Pressure Cookers: How Sensory Cues from Childhood Shape Memories

A particular sound that transports me back to my childhood home in Kolkata without fail? It's not the gentle melody of a lullaby or the distinctive voice of a loved one - it's the rhythmic hissing and whistling of a pressure cooker on a busy morning. That metallic symphony, punctuated by the occasional clatter of the weight dancing on top of the valve, somehow captures the essence of an Indian household preparing for the day ahead. 

I am not alone in this sensory time travel. For millions of Indians, the pressure cooker's unique soundtrack serves as a musical anchor to our earliest memories. But why do these seemingly mundane sounds hold such power over our emotions and memories? The answer is in the interesting combination of neuroscience, psychology, and cultural context. 

Our brains process and store memories in complex ways. While visual memories often dominate our conscious recollection, auditory memories can trigger emotional responses that feel almost deep-rooted. Research has shown that sounds bypass many of the brain's analytical filters, creating direct pathways to the amygdala - our emotional processing centre - and the hippocampus, which helps form and retrieve memories. 

This explains why the whistle of a pressure cooker might not just remind you of your mother's kitchen but can actually recreate the feeling of being there - the safety, the anticipation of a scrumptious meal, the morning rush before school. These aren't just associations; they are emotional imprints that have literally shaped our neural pathways. 

In many Indian households, the pressure cooker serves more than just a cooking vessel - it's the heartbeat of the kitchen and a timekeeper for daily routines. The typical whistles don't just indicate cooking progress; they often mark the rhythm of family life. 

For me, the first whistle in the morning meant it was time to finish my morning preparations. By the third whistle, I knew breakfast would be ready in exactly ten minutes, which meant I had to hurry or skip my bus. 

This auditory scheduling system creates powerful temporal associations that remain with us long after we have left our childhood homes. When those sounds become interconnected with daily rituals over the years, they transform into something more significant than mere noise - they become the soundtrack of security and belonging. 

What makes the pressure cooker sound particularly potent for Indians is its cultural ubiquity. Unlike more individualized childhood memories, this is a shared sensory experience that crosses regional, linguistic, and economic boundaries across the country. 

Beyond mere recollection, these kitchen soundscapes often provide emotional comfort. In a rapidly changing India where traditional family structures and living arrangements are evolving, these auditory connections to childhood can serve as emotional anchors. Many young Indians living abroad or in different cities often recreate these kitchen sounds in their own homes which helps them combat homesickness and anxiety. Some, like me, even admit to occasionally using pressure cookers for simple dishes that don't require them, simply to recreate the comforting ambience of their childhood kitchens. 

The transformation from noisy kitchen appliances to induction cooktops, electric rice cookers, add instant pots - that offer convenience but lack the characteristic acoustics that once defined Indian kitchens -  Perhaps, there's value in consciously preserving some of these sensory experiences, not out of nostalgia or resistance to progress, but because they serve important psychological functions.  The rich sensory landscape of a traditional Indian kitchen—its sounds, smells, and rhythms—provides developmental benefits that extend beyond the practical function of food preparation. These sensory cues help children develop rich, multilayered memory systems and emotional regulation tools that serve them throughout life. They create a sense of predictability and security that contributes to healthy psychological development. 

Understanding the power of these sensory memories can help us be more intentional about creating meaningful sensory environments for ourselves and future generations. It's not about clinging to the past but recognising how our sensory biographies shape our present and future.

The next time you hear the whistle of a pressure cooker and find yourself momentarily transported to another time and place, take a moment to appreciate the remarkable capacity of your brain to store these sensory experiences. That whistle carries more than the announcement of a meal—it carries the story of who you are and where you came from.

Too Much Freedom Feels Like Prison

We all want freedom, yet ironically, unrestricted freedom may also be a type of prison. In the well-known song by the band Rush, "If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice." Selecting a single course or path becomes paralysing when all options are available. 

Recall the sequence in "The Matrix" where the Architect tells Neo that previous iterations of the Matrix failed due to their excessive perfection? Because we lose our sense of purpose when there are no restrictions. Humans rejected heaven because we have an innate tendency to push against things. 

I spent 45 minutes last Tuesday looking at my Netflix queue and continuously browsing through the available alternatives. I was unable to choose just one program out of the many that were offered. In the end, I watched reruns of a show that I had previously seen three times. People, choice paralysis is real. 

It is comparable to feeling hungry in a food court that has thirty eateries. You keep going around in circles, questioning every choice until you are exhausted and enraged. Your friend, who barely had time to grab the first thing they saw, is now full and content after finishing their meal. 

We see this pattern everywhere. College graduates with endless career possibilities often feel more anxious than those with clear paths. Dating apps provide endless potential matches, yet studies show higher rates of loneliness. The average Indian spends roughly one year of their life deciding what to watch on TV. Okay, I made that statistic up, but it feels true, no? 

As David Foster Wallace put it, "The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline." True freedom isn't about having infinite choices but about having meaningful ones. 

I have noticed in my own life that my most productive periods come with self-imposed constraints. When I limit my options - working with deadlines, following routines, or setting boundaries - I paradoxically feel more liberated. 

Children understand this instinctively. Give a kid a blank page and say "draw anything," and they will freeze. Give them a coloring book with lines to fill in, and their creativity flourishes. The constraints provide directions. 

Perhaps this is why religious practices often involve restrictions - fasting, meditation, prayer times. These boundaries don't limit spiritual experience; they deepen it by providing structure. Even in prison, as Johnny Cash sang, "time keeps dragging on", but the confined space forces introspection impossible in the chaos of unlimited freedom. 

So maybe the answer isn't more freedom but better freedom. Freedom with purpose. Freedom with direction. Freedom within meaningful constraints that push us to depth rather than endless breadth. 

Next time you feel overwhelmed by choices, try creating some boundaries. Delete some apps. Set a timer. Create artificial deadlines. Narrow your options deliberately. You might find that the cage of too much freedom opens into something that feels a lot more like... well, actual freedom. 

After all, as the American singer-songwriter and actor, Kris Kristofferson wrote, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Sometimes having something to lose - having skin in the game - is exactly what makes freedom meaningful. 

What's Meant for You Will Not Pass You By

                                          

Have you ever watched someone you love walk away? Or felt the quiet ache of a friendship slowly drifting apart? In our hyper-connected world of seven billion souls, why do we sometimes feel so alone? Perhaps, it is time to explore an age-old wisdom that has comforted hearts through generations: "What's meant for you, will not pass you by". 

Remember that scene from "500 Days of Summer" where Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) finally understands why things didn't work out with Summer (Zooey Deschanel)? "I was sitting in a deli and reading Dorian Gray and a person walks in and sits down next to me. And I realized it wasn't Summer... it was Autumn. And I felt relief." Sometimes, the wrong person has to leave to make room for the right one. 

A close friend shared her story over coffee one day: "I spent six years in a relationship that felt like forcing a puzzle piece to fit. When it ended, I was devastated. Two years later, I met my current husband at a cooking class I would never have taken if I was still in my previous relationship. We connected over burnt pasta and bad jokes. With him, nothing feels forced. Everything just... fits." 

Think of friendships like stars in the night sky. Some are shooting stars - brilliant but brief. Others are constant constellations, guiding you home no matter where you wander. The beauty lies in understanding that not every friendship is meant to last forever, and that's okay. 

As Maya Angelou wisely wrote: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." Some friends are meant to be chapter-long characters in your story, while others are meant to be there until the final page. 

In our social media age, we're constantly bombarded with images of perfect relationships and #SquadGoals. It's easy to feel like we're missing out or that life is passing us by. But here's a secret: authentic connections don't follow a timeline or template. Some people find their soulmate at 20, others at 50; some have a tight-knit group of friends, others have meaningful one-on-one friendships; some maintain childhood friendships, and others build their chosen family later in life. 

The Art of Letting Go 

Remember the iconic scene from "Casablanca" where Rick tells Ilsa, "We'll always have Paris"? Sometimes, loving someone means letting them go. This applies not just to romantic relationships but to friendships too. 

A colleague I used to work with, once told me: "My best friend moved across the country fifteen years ago. We promised to stay in touch daily, but life happened. Now we talk maybe twice a year, but when we do, it's like no time has passed. I've learned that true friendship isn't measured in minutes of conversation but in moments of connection." 

The Bridge of Second Chances 

Life has a funny way of bringing people back when the timing is right. Like the lyrics from The Civil Wars' Poison and Wine: "I don't love you, but I always will." Sometimes, relationships need time and space to evolve, heal, or transform. 

Take Atlas and Lily's story from It Ends with Us. Once upon a time sweethearts, who broke up over getting caught in their secret relationship, lived separate lives for many years, and then reconnected at Atlas' restaurant. I guess even the characters would say that they needed those years apart because they had to become the right people for each other. 

--

Think of your relationships like a garden: some plants bloom naturally, others need constant tending. A few might wither despite your best efforts; sometimes, the most beautiful flowers grow wild and unexpected. 

Instead of anxiously searching for "the one" or the perfect friend group, try cultivating self-love and understanding, staying open to unexpected connections, nurturing existing relationships without suffocating them, and trusting that meaningful connections will find you when you are ready. 

Sometimes, we are so busy looking for love in a certain package that we miss it arriving in another form. Like the song "The Call" by Regina Spektor suggests: "Love, you didn't do nothing at all...you just stood there watching me fall, and then some angel lifted me up."

In our modern world, connection can come in unexpected ways. I found my best friend through the shared horrors of adolescent ninth-graders. My friend met his partner and the love of his life through a random Bumble match. The universe has infinite ways of bringing the right people into your life, exactly at the right time. 

As you meander through the complex web of human connections, it becomes important to remember that what's meant for you will find its way. Like ships in the vast ocean that always return to the harbor. The right people will too dock in your harbor at the perfect moment. Your task isn't to chase every passing sail but to keep your lighthouse burning. 

When a relationship ends or a friendship fades, it's not always failure - sometimes it's just completion. Trust that new connections are already making their way to you, carried on the winds of perfect timing. 

After all, in a world of seven billion souls, the ones meant for you will find their way to your heart. Keep it open, keep it kind, and trust in the beautiful mystery of divine timing. 

forɛlskəd - тнє єυρнσяια єχρєяιєη¢є∂ αѕ уσυ вєgιη тσ ƒαℓℓ ιη ℓσνє

Very recently, I came across a Danish word that, for some, might sound very silly. But to me, it was like someone had invented the very language that would be able to give me the very word I would be looking for. Something that gives a name to the feeling that I haven't been successful in explaining in so many clear words. The very feeling, the emotion that swells within me every time I look at you. 

"Forɛlskəd" - the word for when you start to fall in love; the beginning of love. That indescribable feeling, that sense of the warmth of someone's embrace, the rush of euphoric excitement that makes the world look brighter and more beautiful than ever, especially when you look at someone who makes your heart feel full? Yes, that is Forɛlskəd for you. A word so small, yet so powerful, that it captures the blissful state of being in love. 

As humans, we are hardwired to seek connections in everything we do, and in every being that we interact with. Companionship and falling in love are the most profound ways to experience that. For a girl who has had her heart broken before, with an iron-clad determination to never let herself allow the liberty to feel such things, you came into my life like a wrecking ball. Within seconds, you shattered, what I would call my shield, my walls, layers and layers of stone around my core. And the most astonishing part? I let you. 

I let you swagger in with the kindness in your eyes, the softness of your words, the consideration in your actions, and the honesty in your smile, something that you don't give out so easily to everyone. The most lethal combination that could create a complete mess of a girl's heart. 

And, now what, you might wonder? It's like, even the most mundane activities have taken on new meanings and significance. A mere look is now enough to make my heart skip a beat. A shared plate of food fills my stomach more than a buffet ever could. An hour spent in your company seems enough to last me a lifetime, but it also keeps me wanting more. More of your time, more of your attention, more of your smiles, and definitely a lot more of your heart. 

Forɛlskəd has made me experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Frankly, I am so elated one moment, and so down in the dumps the next. Constantly swinging between wanting to text and see you and also keeping you at a distance to protect whatever is left of my heart. It is a roller coaster ride that makes me want to go on forever and jump off of it at the same time. 

It is something that is constantly pushing me to become the best version of myself, and also drives me half insane. 

And yet, 

it is all worth it, 

if it's You. 

~You return like autumn and I fall all the time~

~You return like autumn and I fall all the time~

Some days -                                                                                                                                                              I remember you giving me a ride around on your bike - Me riding pillion, with the wind in my hair and laughter escaping my lips, Holding onto you a little bit tighter every time you'd attempt to curve a particularly tricky bend,                                                                                                                          Braking hard just to hear me half-laugh, half-squeal and feel my hold on your shirt tight - some of those days when everything around us would feel right.

Now when I look at you through the phone screen, I wish things were as easy as they had been. Me - right across, laughing, smiling, giggling like the young girl in love that you make me feel. You - gazing at me from the other side of the table of your favourite café, with the same twinkle in your eye like you were admiring your favourite view. 

I think of you when I'm sipping your favourite coffee, or when I'm listening to a song you sang along to when we were out prancing about when the night was still young. 

I remember the way you smelled that day, every time I come across a fair on my way back home - fresh from your shower, all male, warm and sweet. I can recall that moment in a jiffy as if it were just yesterday. 

Everything and everywhere we've been, has always felt like something that takes place every day. It doesn't feel like a moment or a day that has happened in the past.

I suppose I could say that you're my only gift for all five of my senses. Your presence has embedded itself in all the parts of my being - for as long as I live.

Garden of Eden

"...As June turns into warm July, I think of little else but you..." ~Wendy Cope

Remember that winter?

Our cottage teeming with a redolent aroma

of old books and coffee. 

Remember our schedule?

Of how we were up all night, discussing 

Magic fairytales,

science and religion,

and the days 

in the farm, building our lives. 

Remember our dream?

Of us flying with angels to meet our maker, 

and him welcoming us

by saying, 

"Welcome back home, you crazy idiots!"

Remember that time?

When we wrote stories 

hoping it would become real. 

Some day. One day. 

Remember that night?

When you promised me an eternity

of fights, love, and craziness. 

And how I teased you by exclaiming, 

"How will I live with you for another second?"

Remember your last words?

"I got the early bird ticket, you idiot. 

And now I will be waiting for you in the garden of Eden. 

Come home soon."

And you left after winking at me. 

Of course, you remember everything. 

For who can love anyone like you love me?

I know you are waiting. 

Just keep waiting. 

And know, that I am on my way to you.  

The Rain Had Stopped, But The Pain Was Still There ~

 

"Well, the rain had stopped, but the pain was still there..." ~ Charles Bukowski

Those who know me know that I dwell in a world guided by music, rain, love, coffee, and books. All these things bring with them something that stays with you forever. It might not permanently reside in your conscious, but it will run through your mind in a fleeting second when you are reminded of something, or someone, who has made you feel things as close as to what music, rain, love, coffee, and books could do for you. 

Music makes me feel alive as if every part of my body could dance to a tune that no one else could ever hear or understand. Droplets of rain bring me a sense of peace so profound, that it could forever be raining and I would always be drenched, wishing to wash away everything that hurts my heart. My need to be loved comes from a place within myself that needs strength and faith from someone who loves me deeply, while to love someone as deeply as I am loved if not more, seeks the feeling of courage and hope in this otherwise dead world. Call me a caffeine addict, but there is nothing more relaxing than a strong, warm cup of coffee that warms your palms and makes you feel safe and content at the moment. As for books and the magic they carry, call it an escapist’s fantasy or whatever you want, there is nothing in the world greater than the feeling where you can’t seem to put down a book, no matter what, not willing to give up. 

At a place almost like home, a place of power and control, I miraculously stumbled upon someone who immediately felt like warmth, sunshine, and home. Someone, so far more knowledgeable than me, so much more powerful and in control of their emotions, that it baffled me to no extent. Someone young and free and sweet, holding back an entire universe within himself. A man so kind, so inspirational, and well-read, it just felt like it was too good to be true (well, maybe it was). 

He was a magician. He had the power of making hours seem like mere minutes and seconds in his presence. His words, were as if he was personally knitting a honey-laced trap for you to just fall into. I could have listened to him talk all day about what plagues his mind when he’s driving his car back home from work, or while he’s in the shower washing away his stress, or when he is cooking himself an elaborate meal at the pace of a man who believes he has all the time in the entire world. 

His observation was beyond my understanding. So much so, he made me realize that he was truly a people’s person, in all senses of the term. He complimented me in all the ways every woman craves - complimenting and encouraging what I knew about myself and noticing things I thought no one ever cared enough to observe. Caring for me was like second nature for him. His need to make me feel safe and comfortable overpowered all sense of right and wrong, making me realize how his actions always seemed to put others before himself, even though his words were a complete contrast. 

I remember distinctly, him telling me about how shitty a hand he was dealt by his life, in all his growing years, and how he has sustained himself to be the man he is now. I remember, how I cried, when he told me of all the things that have hurt his heart, mind, and soul, and how he repeatedly told me to not shed tears for something that has gone past him. I remember, him telling me that he doesn’t want anyone’s pity. I wish I had told him then. I wish I could have told him then. How my tears weren’t those of pity. How I felt anything but pity for him. The tears that I shed, were those of strength and courage, for the kid that lost his childhood, the teen that struggled in his teenage years, but more so, for the man that has survived everything and yet, remained the man he was supposed to be. Warm, caring, and kind. Someone with that great of a mind. The tears that escaped, were my way of expressing how much I respected him, how my heart went out to him so that it could share his burden somehow, some more. 

A man so cute, with so many aspirations and dreams and travel plans, I could just take it all in and store it within me for an eternity, without ever running out of space for someone larger than life itself. I wish I could make his pain mine. Take whatever he has survived alone, and share with him his life. To make him see, all that he is to be. To make him understand, that not everyone wants to leave. A month is too short a time, too short to make everything count, but more than enough to understand the concept of “right person, wrong time”. He is the right person, but probably we met at the wrong time. A time where he cannot give me the parts of himself I need, and a time where I won’t be around long enough to be patient from near. But I could have been patient from afar, had he given me a sign. 

He was like the music, his sweet smile and chocolate-brown eyes making me feel alive in every moment that I spent in his embrace. He was like the rain that washes over you, making you accept things that would have broken and crumbled you in the past. The him that I know has a lot of love to give, if he chooses to, and the me that I know, would give him everything all over again. Because we both know that we needed it. My hands in his, fingers entwined, made me feel the same warmth I would receive from a hot mug of coffee on a chilly, winter morning. And his words? They knit the perfect honey-laced trap for me, patiently waiting for me to fall into them. He is someone who made me think of all the things I love, all at once, at the same time. Because he is larger than life itself, for himself and those around him. 

But this entire memory will have to be left in the past tense, as is this story. Why, you wonder? Because my rain has come to an end, the memory will linger on, like the pain that never goes away. The rain has stopped, but the pain remains. Forever. 

Seasons

Scintillating Summer: 

Nurturing warmth strolling with breeze,

blooming the meadows with lilies and sunflowers

tantalizing heat fading the coldness away,

urging the marigolds to smile brighter,

Radiant mountains high, shine

Ebulliently welcoming the scintillating summer.

Alluring Autumn: 

Naive golden and red ready to depart

About to lose themselves to the ground,

The end that leaves behind a new beginning.

Ubiquitous smell of the fall 

Reverberating in the trees and valleys

Ecstatic winds taking with them the resulting souvenirs.

Wondrous Winter:

Nebulous mornings flavored with fog bringing, 

Angelic comfort, cooling the anxious hearts.

The cherry blossoms dance with 

utmost glee in the chilly winds.

Rollicking snow flakes kiss the ground

effulgent white sun-kissed grounds greet the footprints.

Spry Spring:

Numb unadorned grounds stir

and stir to life in the patter of downpour.

Tulips, daffodils and bluebells laugh,

Unabashed in the meadows and valleys,

Reviving lost hope in the oceans,

Eager to fall with the magical raindrops. 

The Poet in Me

I'm not a poet of love songs or heartbreaks,

my pen does not sing of cigarette smoke,

and red wine stains.

The poet in me was born under the summer blooms

of a Gulmohar tree.

She is fluent only in the language of 

green earth and brown seeds.

She always trips and falls over 

popular 'lingo';

The language of the masses has never been her friend.

The poet in me will tell you about 

the beautiful intricacy of the Rubaiyats.

She will invite you over with poems about 

Meghmalhar, Khamaj and Kalyani.

She spends her time writing odes to

Madhubani and Warli,

to Indian summers, Bengal tigers,

temples, minarets and stained glass cathedrals.

The poet in me will write about cash crops and greed.

She will sing songs that bleed Indigo blood;

Songs of the coloniser's fields.

The poet in me prefers faded gramophone melodies

to colorful pulsating tunes.

She'd rather write haikus about the moments

that disappear like butterflies,

than write epics about bustling cities that

cry of performances.

I'm not a poet of love songs and heartbreak.

I'm not a poet of the masses.

The poet in me is more old, browning book

than a glossy bestseller.

She is more subtlety than flamboyance.