The time turner

Mr. Remus Lupin

Boys Dormitory

Gryffindor Tower

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft &  Wizardry

Letters from your older self:

1. There’ll be people who’ll ridicule you for being who you are.

Don’t let them get onto your skin. You’re an exceptional wizard

and more importantly an exceptional human being.

2. You’ll encounter prejudice. Loads of it. Don’t fall prey to it.

Neither fall among those who’re prejudiced. Vow to remove to.

3. You will meet good people. They will love you for who you are.

Those people will be who you can call friends. Keep them close.

4. Some people will cheat you. Big time. They will walk in,

disguised as your friends. Beware of them.

5. When you scratch and bite yourself, make sure you clean up

and bandage your wounds.

6. You may lose friends, probably one, probably all of them. You

will find yourself in a rut. But believe me, you’ll emerge out.

Stronger. Protect with your life, the legacy your friends leave


7. Make peace with your inner demons. Some scars may never

fade and that’s okay. Appreciate the beauty that is a full moon.

Do not be afraid of it.

8. And remember,”To a well organised mind, death is but the next

great adventure.”

Please write my obituary, will you?

My life has always been full of almosts,

Failed potential as they call it,

I will not tell you about the attempt I made last month,

That my mother thanked God for my ‘narrow escape’;

I would have been almost gone

Had I not thrown up.

But I will call you at odd times, 3 in the morning

When I’ll be sure you won’t pick up the phone,

Later i’ll have another atrocity to blame on;

I’ll break your DIY cloud maker and paint the sky in grey scale,

My life is a gift I want to return;

You will not forgive me and we will not part on good terms;

But you will compel people to confuse your pen with my tombstone,

Please write my obituary, will you?



When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut;
Had always been fascinated by the night sky, the stars, the moon and the purple.
I imagined myself among the stars, in a white spacesuit, living in a capsule, getting out of it,
Whenever I desired. Floating among the stars, just being.
But then I grew up and saw a lot more to the night sky than little dots of light.
I saw smoke rise up from forests, skin cancer, pious waters turning opaque,
I imagined myself, with a small group of volunteers, wearing yellow gloves,
Picking garbage from hill slopes.
I grew up more and my father took me to a blind home.
I saw a lot more to the world than what I knew;
Tears, tobacco, children;
When I was little, my mom read me to bed, every story ended with, “.. and they lived happily ever after.”
She read me the ‘The Match Girl.’. The match Girl dies in the end;
The Match Girl taught me that a story is never finished, just abandoned.
Everything I wanted to do and everything I wanted to be, I could, there was only a matter of time,
New dreams, acquired, dreamt, abandoned.

I’m a ‘spatterer’

I’ve always wanted to be to able to draw,
I’ve always felt envious of artists;
I can never tie the perfect braid,
my winged eyeliner is a a straight line and my nails,
are gooey gobs of colour.
I, once made chocolates from scratch,
he refused to eat them, he said they looked “unappealing”
(They were delicious, Trust me, I know,
I was the only one who ate them)
Slicing an apple, taking clay out of a mold,
You name it, I mar it.
I’ve never iced a cake but if I do,
it’ll be nothing but a big sugary blob;
My mom calls it having a neat hand, Precision,
Anything I do is all but neat,
I am more of what I say a “spatterer”
Let it flow,
get up.

Masquerade and Misfortune

My brain is  a minefield,

My brow is anything but proud,

My eyes are a prison, the tears are the prisoners,

Cracked lips and straight lines;

My throat is filled with desperate pleas,

My lungs starve for breath,

My heart is a haunted house;

My wrist is a battlefield,

My nails dig nothing but the past;

My stomach is a black slug,

My legs are clanking silver spoons,

My feet, bruised and clumsy;

My hands hold onto mishandled conjunctions,

My pen is a throbbing heartbeat,

My journal, is a graveyard.

A morose charity?

When I die, give my eyes to my father,
For once, let him look at the world I do;
My knuckles, give them to my mom,
Ask her to use them. Well.
Give my nose to a “professional perfume tester”
I’ve always believed I’ve had a flair for fragrance ;
Don’t give away my journal though,
Pencils, stick notes, fountain pens;
I’d always wanted to save them for my daughter.
Do not donate my hair either,
Instead, burn it
I’ve always wanted to know what burnt hair looks like;
Now that I’ll be dead, I might as well satisfy my whim.
Nails and weapons to a victim
My collar bone to an anorexic;
My heart,
Crush it already.

Important-ish facts?


I’m 21,

I love my little brother,

I always write in first person;

I’m 5 feet 7 inches full of insecurity, I’ve always felt huge until I met a 5 footed 11 inched epitome of grace and poise;

Since then, I’ve been feeling too small.

I fall in love too easily, I don’t fall out of it;

I pretend to not like love poetry.

I walk with darkness dripping from my shoulders, you’ll see ghosts brighter than my soul.

I hate my body, so much I turn all the mirrors around. I wish I had the discipline of an anorexic but I feel a lot;

And by feel I mean eat.

I have a driver’s licence but I don’t know how to drive,

My faith in God died with my grandpa.

I’m the daughter of a man who believes a woman’s place

Is in the kitchen,

My mother is a victim, she chooses to be.

Like every girl on the planet, I hate shaving my legs,

I only paint the nails of my left hand because that’s convenient,

I make bad decisions.

I write a lot of suicide notes, never committing one;

I have too many fears,

I don’t want to end up in a psych ward.

I avoid social events unless I have company,

Somedays I skip brushing my teeth at night,

Some mornings, I have breakfast before I brush my teeth because I just brushed last night.

I find shampoo to be a funny word.

I have 32 teeth, my mom is 45 and has 29;

I take pride in the fact.

A lot of my poetry is a reflection of what I read,

I love collecting postcards,

I’m desperate to be understood.

I like to think I have pretty hands. I tell people that people tell me I have pretty hands;

I don’t tell them that by people I mean my grandma.

My grandma told me, “You are raised to be a good girl.”

I try hard to contain the rebel inside me,

I try hard to hide my blood smeared knuckles.

I like to believe, “Gender is something you choose to identify yourself with.”

I call myself a feminist and by that I mean I believe in equal rights for all.

I go to movies for popcorn,

I am my villain,

I am my hero.



The weather’s been working overtime these days,

as if trying to melt of the ice from my shoulders;

It’s not easy, is it? Melting off the glaciers,

I’ve been hauling for years.

They say it’s time to use your hands, sweep up my hurt,

I’d thrown around like confetti, dig out the harsh words,

stuck in between the withering planks of the floor board.

I’m not someone who forgives,

grace and acceptance have never been my forte;

I feel too much and remember even more,

I fumble for words,

stumbling, falling, giving up;

I feel too fat on the first day of work,

constantly sucking my stomach in;

I keep my head up,

I don’t want them to notice the double chin.

My father thinks, talking to me

is like treading on eggshells;

He doesn’t, therefore, talk to me,


I’m too much of a risk.

I feel disgustingly smug when they ask me about my sleeves,

I know a secret they’ll never know.

The reality transcending into dreams,

I sleep too much, makes it easy to deny,

waking up, I shrug it off

“It was just a dream.”

My tryst with Bombay

The spider usually stays on his side of the wall,

As roommates, we quite like each other. We don’t speak; just go on dealing with our webs.

It’s never dark at night. City lights piercing through the drapes, I bask in the orange glow all night long.

Past midnight, a dog howls below my window stirring up the ghosts of my memory. When I was little, my mom told me, “Everytime a dog barks, a new star is born in the heavens.”

The city has 15 hours of dawn. Buildings coming up every minute. Development, they call it.

The night has no intention of settling. Aadam chacha is busy making chai. A man of 83, he crossed to the other side of the line 68 years ago.

I see the valley in his eyes and the world in the lines of his forehead. Kashmir smells like the sea; salt and water, sweat, tears, blood.

The world, like chai and tobacco.

Not so tiny tails.


The mist has vanished,

The hopes revived “Peace restored,

We’ll taste the lovely essence of equality”,

For  these turban clad men

peaceful and incorruptible,

Have come to our rescue;

A lull before another storm,

Oppression, I sensed danger,

Oppression against men, oppression against women,

Lives were wrecked and protesters checked

And quieted forever;

Everywhere was jihad, misinterpretation of the holy book,

Hatred and violence were preached

In the name of religion and god,

Expression and thought, lost

And freedom, a thing of the past;

Schools shut down,

Paintings  ripped from the walls

And shredded with knives of brutality

Books were burnt, screens kicked in,

Poetry, music, prose

All went up in smoke,

Rubab and harmoniums trampled upon;

Murderers were let free in the street

And murderers had become the preachers of law;

Graves were opened

And embedded with bullets

Stirring up the inflicted wounds with pain,

Wasn’t dying once enough?

Why is it necessary to die again?

Sick and tired of all this misery,

I decided to end it all,

To end it all, I raised my voice,

I raised my voice to end it all;

I stand on a pedestal high above,

Down below are gathered all folks

To watch the spectacle of evil cowardice,

Before the end I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath,

With a smile, I end it all..;

Continue reading “Not so tiny tails.”