Newspaper

Tissue thin tilling of tidings

bought for a few rupees
stories travel against the speed of light
reaching to us

with the morning tea

burning our tongues,

anger stirred with a steel spoon

dissects the people who have been named
after tales, most sewn with a tailor's precision.

We become messengers
when we point our fingers

for the culprits sparing

the victim's vowels
most being women
who have burnt like candles
to keep the flame alive.

After a few days

it palls the carcass

of a baby diaper or sanitary pad

disposing it into the corner dustbin

one that reposes

in the backyard of the house
or is carried away
as a dead body
awaiting cremation.

First published in the Copperfield Review here.

It Could Have Been Me Or You

Yes it could have been me when I think of that fateful day on a dithery December morning in my second year of graduation.

Back then the blue line buses plied on Delhi's roads and they were known to be notoriously accidental. Even then many of us had no viable options at our disposal and we took such buses to go to college. In the cold winter days, dad was my messiah for the lifts he gave me to the bus stop saved my day and energy.