Minakhi Misra

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.

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

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.

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?

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

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

While I am gone away and cannot be reached,
While this distance stands as a wall unbreached,
While I walk free in the whiteness of the snow,
Painting them in hues that only I may know,
While I stride along unknown roads and paths
While I shrivel away at the thought of baths
While I shiver for want of warmth in the cold,
Burdened though under woolens new and old,
While I discover the depths of friends’ loves,
Crowding together around the heat of stoves,
While I sing and shout and crack laudy jokes,
And drink from the plenty of adventure hopes,
While again next morning I venture forth,
In hopes of adding to my life’s full worth,
While I swerve with the car at every turning,
While I feel celebration whetting my yearning,
While I ape and mirror the smiles unafraid,
But inside gape at and fear the miles ahead,
While so aware that with you I cannot be,
Know that in my hearts I carry you with me.

Originally shared with a friend in the Spring of 2013

If Truth fails to serve your cause,
Lie, Lie till you hear applause,
Till Victory chooses to bed you,
Till Indecision chooses to shed you,
Till the day your Conscience dies forever,
Speaks back to you, not now not ever.

Originally shared with a friend in the Spring of 2013

Opening my wardrobe, I found awaiting
A furious face with its two circular eyes,
Where there ought to have been four,
Relating the tragic history of its partial demise.
With nothing but its crescent shape
It painted, so picturesque,a scene of hurt
Of how the Dhobi in his infinite wisdom
Beat the rock with the weapon of my shirt,
Either to punish me for my tight fist
Of which he never fails to complain,
Or to vent out his sorry disposition on
Having ventured into the angry domain
Of his hardened wife who suffers his moods,
Only occasionally daring to remonstrate
For the sake of the children who go unfed:
A result of their father’s drunken trait.

Whatever ailed my washerman aside,
I had for myself troubles of my own.
Having never heeded my mother’s advice,
I did not know how a button was sewn.
Innocent I was of this arcane craft,
Of replacing crescent with full moon,
And hence to ameliorate the status quo,
I decided to acquire the skill by noon.
Fishing out from my multi-purpose kit,
A needle and a length of coloured thread,
I applied myself to the labouring task,
Each passing moment augmenting my dread.
It was not before long that I could pass
The string through that miniature eye
Of the needle with my trembling hands,
Each time evading the orifice and passing by.

Broken Button’s patience had run its course,
From its earthly confines it wanted severance .
So, to expedite his journey to the other world,
I cut the old string to herald his deliverance.
It found its peace in the dusty corner,
Where I sent it flying to its open grave.
To the one that adorned my shirt so long
Such was the dismal farewell I gave.
I dropped my instruments before I could
Somehow cause the situation to worsen,
Overwhelmed by the sorrow of separation
From such a loyal guard of my person.
I declared that no Button shall replace
It that closed my clothing against dirt.
I proceeded hence, in silent remembrance
To pick from my closet another shirt.

Originally published on Quora on January 27, 2013