Minakhi Misra

Author: Minakhi Misra

  • The Dancer on the Sill

    “Is it true that you can steal portraits from nature as well?”

    She did not immediately acknowledge the question, but continued to stare intently at the raindrops breaking off the window sill. I had the unsettling feeling that she could see something that I was clearly missing. I followed her gaze, resting my eyes on the very edge of the window. The rain was breaking into a hundred different miniscule rubies and sapphires where it touched the concrete, shining in the light borrowed from the low flame of the hurricane lamp. Indeed, there seemed to be a fatalistic beauty in it all, with just a sheen of hope to delude the unsuspecting daydreamer.

    (more…)

  • More than meets the lie

    Untruth, once said, is a burden:

    On my mind that must keep track
    Lest it should lose itself wandering
    In the wilderness of imagination;

    On my heart that must beat louder
    To drown the cry of conscience
    Till it chooses to speak no more;

    On my eyes that must keep open
    Against the weight of shame
    That pulls them to the ground;

    And on my truth that had to be hidden
    Because it was not good enough.

  • Sunrise

    You asked me today
    What I would write about you if I ever did.
    If I could paint you, you would know.
    I wish my words could paint your mind
    As the oil colours the canvas of cloth.
    I wish you could see what I see.
    I see a rising sun,
    Red with shyness,
    Trying to hold back her brightness,
    Embarrassed that the world can see her.
    I see this rising sun,
    Aware of her potential for brilliance
    When she ascends the young firmament of receding stars.
    But she is afraid of doing so. Not so early. Not now.
    She does not show that she likes
    When people appreciate her beauty.
    She enjoys it and becomes redder.
    And her redness, the innocence of her reservedness
    Spreads slowly across the wet canvas of the sky behind her;
    Clouds, dark and ominous, start getting silver linings.
    The things that were scary, are now in better light.
    She does this without knowing it.
    She feels that by lighting up the sky,
    She has somehow exposed others around her as well:
    Exposed to the eyes of people
    The eyes that criticise beauty as much as they condone it.
    But she also knows deep down that it is her destiny
    To rise one day to the zenith of this firmament
    And once there, resign herself to full brilliance.

    Resign herself is what she thinks of it.
    Pride is what she needs.
    She bows her head and hides her face,
    Hoping the darkness of her hair is cover enough.
    She does not know that when those eyes open
    And stare directly into the eyes of mortals,
    It is no less beautiful than a sunrise
    For they are too brilliant to look directly into.
    And poets, unlike painters, can only draw
    Inspiration from nature.
    They lack the vision of originality.
    And so they have to reduce a picture
    To a metaphor, an imperfect parallel. A glimpse.
    I am incapable of painting better than this.

  • “Here, drink.”

    “Can I have a look at your work?”

    For a long time now, I have dreaded that question. For me, my writing is private. It is not meant for those who do not know the context and so I choose very carefully who sees my words. And yet, if you know me well, you would know that I have tried in the past to overcome this dread, that this page that you see today is not my first blog. I have, in the past, started and abandoned three of them. Each of these blogs has a story of its own and each has quite an independent share of my writings on it. I will not migrate my work from there, though. They belong there, crystallised in the amber of time. But I will tell their stories here. (more…)

  • non omnis moriar

    I know not why she wrote it there
    In a script that no one read anymore.
    I know not why she got it there
    And still forgot what it meant to her.
    I know not why I liked that line
    And thought of the truth that lay in it.
    I know not why I read the sign
    And decided tonight to stay with it.
    “Not all of me will die” it said;
    Not all of you will live either.
    I know not why I fill the blanks
    And fear that Death will meet her,
    Not today or the day after
    But one day, the nomad will come.
    I know not why “Ozymandias”
    Is what I fear I’ll hear him hum.

  • Messy Table

    I have just read a research paper that
    Extolls the virtue of keeping messy tables.
    It said messy tables helped exercise the muscles
    That we exercise for thinking outside the box
    So that they could have the strength to push
    Against the weight of heavier lids to smaller boxes
    Made to stand the test of time, trapping young minds
    Inside the garbage bin of institutional problem solving.
    I feel vindicated, moving my eyes from over
    The brightly lit screen of my desktop
    To the slightly sick scene of my desk top.
    I see books that speak of the academic rigours,
    I see among them, my favourite action figures,
    In their full height they stand on used soda cans
    And watch over the latest novel that lies facedown,
    Marking the last page that forced me to frown
    Before I could go on with it.
    I see pens and markers, keys to lockers,
    Unwashed coffee mugs, that talk of long nights
    And longer talks with people long dead,
    Talking through the longhand letters they penned
    Despite the stronghand of their betters telling them otherwise.
    I drink some water and wink some sleep out of my eyes,
    Before I see loose paper, crumpled inside the fists of frustration,
    Waiting to be straightened out at least once
    Before the blackhole of the refuse bin consumes it forever,
    Eating away the little sparks of light that managed to escape
    From behind the edges of the writers’ block.

    Originally shared with a dorm-mate in the Summer of 2014

  • Going to America

    For a short time in my life, I thought
    Dying meant going to America.
    With every death in the family,
    They would tell me exactly that:
    Mamu has gone to America,
    Or Nani has gone to America.
    And they won’t be with us anymore.
    Of course, I also overheard people
    Talking about them being “dead”.
    In my mind, it was not a confusion:
    Dying meant going to America.


    But I also observed sometimes,
    Going to America was a sad thing.
    They did not have telephones there.
    And once you entered that place,
    You could not come back.
    Yet somehow, everyone ended up going there.
    I asked about it to my mother, who only smiled
    The way she smiles when she looks
    At her brother’s garlanded photo
    And told me I would not understand it now.

    Originally shared with a friend in the Summer of 2014

  • Walking the Line

    As the chasm of mistrust widens
    And the rope of faith is taut,
    Would you risk to walk the line
    Or hesitate in your thought?

    I know it’s easier to let things happen,
    But is it easy to let it all go?
    When the dawn breaks after the darkness,
    Will your world still be so?

    For this is the price of abandonment –
    Tossing with loneliness on your bed.
    To have to reach below for company,
    To sleep with your demons instead.

    When the heart that held her closely,
    Embraces pain and guilt and doubt,
    You might find yourself an exit,
    But would it be the way out?

  • Why I Write

    Today, you ask me why I write,
    Why set in ink those words at all?
    I can reply just by being upright
    That I only answer that treacherous Call.

    In my ear, the Call does say
    Of thoughts and other similar things,
    Murmuring incessant all through the day
    And nights full in those whisperings.

    Of men, their ambitions and their goals,
    And oft-times about me and you,
    Of joys and beauties and cheerful souls,
    Sprinkled on top with horrors too.

    Till my heart can take no more,
    Drowning all its chambers deep,
    Till into pieces my mind is torn,
    Till Sanity is difficult to keep.

    Only then, to calm the maddening storm
    Do I put black down on white,
    To restore things to their norm
    Momentarily at least to gain respite.

    Originally shared with a friend in the Summer of 2014

  • The Poet’s Prerogative

    I write not to be commended, to be noticed;
    Neither Sanction nor Approval do I seek;
    I write because I cannot reserve within
    That which my soul does speak.

    I rent out my words to vent out my thoughts,
    So please acknowledge them for what they are.
    Look not for what meaning or what motivation
    Drives me to reach those ears miles afar.

    My poetry is for you, of course,
    But live not illusioned that is of you.
    It’s neither by you, nor for you, nor from you.
    My work is not your prerogative too.

    I write, hence you read,
    I sing hence you sway.
    The music is within me,
    Only mine is the right to give away.

    Originally shared with a friend in the Summer of 2013