hurt

drip
drip
drip
blotches of red
on white canvas
mars the picture perfect world
that i have drawn within
my mind.

Hurt.
Stark, deep,
when it invades the idealism
i hold so dear
the lofty principles that i sadly cling to
believing that the world will one day see
beyond me
beyond what makes me.

it is now that i see
reality.
money is perhaps everything.
and because it means nought to me
i will have to live through it –
a blotch of red
permanently etched
on my stark white canvas.




there are people sizing you up wherever you go. your shoes, your clothes, your bag, your social standing. you mean nothing if you don't belong. you cease to become a luxury of acquaintance. you become a necessity that one must live with, when one wants to. society and its ways!

untitled

Love me like the way i love you,
With an intensity that suffocates
the rational,
Drives away fear,
Disrupts everyday mundaneness
Blurs the boundaries between heart and soul
Until
Until all that is left is pure passion
Passion that i will pour into your pages
Until your blankness fills,
Page after page
Note after note
Until i can write no more.
Love me like the way i love you


there can be nothing more cruel than when writing escapes me and i desperately want to write. a million words and thoughts run through my head but evade the hands when a blank white page stares at me.

hero. villain. anything but human.

man. sometimes woman. many a time, a child. searching, discovering, learning, unlearning all the time. about who i am.

and here you are, making a mockery of all that makes me. displaying my hidden organs that bear no resemblance to the turmoil that i undergo within. teasing my urges, decreed by the very nature that makes me, me. the very nature that unearths the villain in you. so that you may make a hero of yourself, by making me a sacrifice.

i cry. you call me woman.
i rage. you call me a man.
i stammer, stumble, pick my broken remains. you call me transgender.

and people read, watch, discuss me.

because it is easier to vilify me. than unveil your own hypocrisy.




pinky pramanik. what matters who she is? when all we care is what she brings?

...and you

A handwritten letter,
A new year card,
The voice of an old friend,
A childhood party dress,
The smell of home made cookies,
The colour of an unadulterated blue sky
A baby’s babble,
The hugs of happy, happy children,
The warmth of their quilts,
The smell of grandma’s talcum powder
The feel of my pillow
The dogears of my favourite book
The appeal of a blank white page,
And you.
You, dishevelled, sweaty,
tired or fresh from the shower,
Just some of the things that
Tug my heart.
And all the things that i live for.