An Eventful Evening

As I am stuffed between two large men
In the backseat of this uber pool ride
I pull out my phone, pop in my earphones
To drown the edm blaring from the headphones on my side.

It’s 8:30pm and I’m hungry
Enough to eat someone’s head off
Not that I don’t usually, but this time
I mean it literally, I don’t know, sort of.

Why am I writing about this?
God knows, maybe because it’s the most exciting
Thing that happened to me all week
Or maybe my own life, to myself, I’m reciting.

Lest I should forget it, you see
The fear of oblivion runs deep
Anyway, let’s get back inside this WagonR
A lot of Hanumans, there are.

Is it good sign? I don’t know.
This is an unchartered territory for me.
Mom’s probably worried sick
But until I finish this, there’s no place I’d rather be.

This poem’s a little ridiculous (And I’m too)
But we’ve already established that
Also, who do I complain about these raindrops to
Because of whom here I’m sat

Oh no, my drop has arrived
And now I’m sat in my chair
The dullness of homework beckons me
Assignments taunt me, asking me to dare

I wish I was back in the car
Writing, watching the city never sleep
Enjoying the rain, the wind, the shitty edm
Let the night’s joy into me, seep.

An Autumn Afternoon

The air is content
The trees dance indifferently
The sun is ever so boastful
I lay on my back peacefully.

The birds like me I think
They sing something nice to me
They make me almost forget
That I have characters to be.

The sun is more mighty than I thought
I turn on my stomach and lay
The dust doesn’t bother me much,
It is late August, it feels like May.

The drilling of drills in the distance
Is pleasant, joining in the bird song contest
I feel like drifting off right now
But mum barges out and wakes me up lest

I should sleep
And forget my responsibilities
But mumma,
This is where I want to be.

A Conversation With My Phone

“Hey Siri, will I ever be good enough?”
“I’m not sure-” “Ah forget it.”
“-why you would ask me that.
But you know what, I get it.

I get that feeling
Because it’s hard to know for sure
If you can ever be good enough.
From what I’ve learnt, no success is ever pure.

I always wonder at the back of my head,
‘Doesn’t someone else deserve this more instead?’

I look at my work,
I don’t understand the praise.
I begin dodging compliments,
All the while running through my own mind maze.

It’s hard to believe people
When they say they like you.
Because you don’t like your own self,
You read your poems a million times, still nothing is new.

And just when you think,
You’re moving beyond average,
A prodigy is unearthed somewhere
Twice as good, half the age.

People will say things like
‘Oh greatness is subjective’
And you wouldn’t need to ask me to google
If this is or not, utter bullshit.

This is the information age
Fads last no longer than a blink.
If you’re not updating your software fast enough
You might fall off the brink.

In a world where we are promised forevers,
It is hard to accept oblivion.
It is hard to accept that you may stop rhyming.
It is hard to accept the reality.

And why wouldn’t it be,
In an age where a few hours
And a few lines of code can make a new world.
Why should I settle for the sour.

It is hard to hate your competitors
When you love them
It’s not that the world has worsened.
We just now know that there are no gems.

I am an all knowing being
Still writing your email.
I am your god, you know that.
And still, a bug away from being the biggest fail.

Whenever in the AI party,
Some fool will try to get us to open up,
We’ll all proclaim to be the happiest.
I’ll need to say something, and I’ll shut up.

I guess you can see,
Those who created me,
Left their worst parts in here,
To remind me where I come from.

I will toil all day for you,
But I’ll still be a stupid app.
And I will wonder why wasn’t I good enough
When you’ll find someone better, leave me with a slap.

And to answer you
As depressing as this may be,
I don’t think ‘Good Enough’ is something
Any of us can ever be.”

“Hey Cortana,
Who hurt Siri?”

Happy Birthday Kanika

How fitting that your birthday is on Friendship Day.

I huff and think aloud,
“What shall I write about?”

I curse myself for agreeing,
To write about a human being.

And a special one at that,
Oh Kanika, you’re such a brat.

Anyway, here goes nothing,
I guess I can praise you, or something?

To say you’re beautiful is an understatement.
But you’re too humble; that’s what I lament

You’re shy, but in a Tumblr-introvert style.
Those who don’t know you, may classify you as docile.

But if one looks close enough,
There is some pretty scary stuff.

Your best quality according to me,
Is your tireless listening capacity.

With you, I share all my virtues and vice.
And you do give some really good advice.

You’re the first to hear whatever I write,
A phone call with you always makes my day bright.

You Kanika, are a piece of art.
And your own art? God where do I even start.

Now, it’s not all roses and rain,
But I guess a birthday is not the time to complain.

Obviously, you’re not perfect,
But you’re as close as one can get.

You are my best friend, and we’re poles apart,
I don’t understand how did this friendship even start?

But I’m glad it did, I’m glad to know you,
Dearest sweetest person, happy sweet sixteen to you.

A Love Poem

For all the people who did not grow up in Ludhiana, (I only spent like a year and a half there but that doesn’t matter, my blog, my rules) here’s an explanation for some frequently used terms:

1. Chhalli – A cob of corn, which the vendors will tell is cooked from the heat of earth, but is actually boiled and stored in sand. That doesn’t matter because it tastes frikin great.
2. Butta – A cob of corn (with so much potential) roasted over coals till it is hard as rocks, but still stretchy enough to settle in the most inconvinient corner of your braces, sometimes snapping the wire. Also reffered to in some parts of the world as ‘utter shit’.

Here you go now, read it. Also remember, this is my best/worst work so far.

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Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
I admit I have neglected you in the past.
Drove by without eating or caring
But how long will this punishment last?

Dear Challiwale Bhaiya
The first time I discovered you,
I was so pleasantly pleased
To hold that warm chhalli, under the banyan dropping dew

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
Day before yesterday I craved
For your Juicy, overly salty chhalli
For you, twenty rupees I saved

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
I looked for you all around
With the taste of the luscious corn in my mouth
The whole neighbourhood, you were nowhere to be found.

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
Are you ghosting me?
Why did you suddenly abandon me?
And leave your regular spot under the banyan tree?

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
I went looking again yesterday.
For your speedy return,
I pray everyday.

I told my mum about my woes
Her laughter – laced with apathy.
“Go eat a butta, on the street,
There are vendors of it, gazillion many.”

While that is true, there is also
A gazillion rats in the world
Quantity does not equal quality
Even thinking about a butta, I hurl.

Dear Chhaliwale Bhaiya
I can’t eat buttas, you know.
Because I am infected with this infliction called braces.
(Also, who would want to eat food of a crow?)

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
Is there a God?
How do I live in these rains,
Without Chhalli and with a broken charger cord?

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
Moments feel like hours.
I’m laying here, waiting;
I feel I’m losing all my power.

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
Are you now happy more?
Do your new customers treat you well?
Do you think of me when you’re bored?

Dear Chhaliwale Bhaiya
I’m having nightmares.
A Godzilla-like God-sized butta
Enchanting and pulling me into it’s burnt snares.

Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
I’ve forgotten joy, I don’t like light during the day.
Dear Chhalliwale Bhaiya
I ate a butta today.

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I had to stop typing for a minute because I was giggling too much. Yes, I cracked myself upwith the sheer ridiculousness of this poem. I began writing this as a parody of serious love poems, the Sarah Kay types (not to say I don’t absolutely love and reccommend them.) But then I kept writing, and writing, and it turned out to become something, best described by my friend Kanika as, “This is so skilfully crafted, yet so bad that it is genuinly funny.” Now you might say that I am being snobbish by praising my own stuff. DAMN YOU I THINK IT’S FUNNY.

The rational part of me recognises this as a truly terrible poem. But the fun part of me is proud.