Wrong Mould

She used to walk to school.

Some boys began to follow.

She stopped walking.

Mom bought her a cycle.

Boys started whistling at her.

She gave up the cycle too.

Dad arranged a rickshaw ride.

But knocks and taunts still grew.

She took the school bus next.

The staff began to leer.

She stopped going to school.

Her silence became clear.

“Why didn’t you react?” they asked.

She looked them in the eye:

"You never allowed me to react—

You only taught me to tolerate.

If I knocked those boys,

You'd call me arrogant.

If I raised my voice,

You’d say I’m defiant.

If I punched those boys,

You’d make me apologise.

If I named the driver,

You’d find fault in me. 

So I stopped reacting—

Not because I didn’t feel.

But so that maybe one day,

You'd learn: children aren't clay to kneel.

We are not to be tuned

To your fears or shame.

You silence our voices,

Then ask why we didn't react."

Masked Days

 Life is not the same as old

Changes came in a single day

World has turned to black and cold

Someone tried the man to slay

Is that easy to make grip hold

In the place where heroes stay?

We made earth into a super mould

Where millions live with hope and pray

Staying apart to fight this foe

And staying along in doing so.

A Final Goodbye

The place that shaped who I am today.

The place that made me feel at home. 

The place that stood by me through every high and low — witnessing 

my successes and my breakdowns.

This is the place that defined me as a Trivian. 

Here, I was never an outsider, never a stranger. 

For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged.

I lived most of my life here.

Ten years is not at all small.

The people, the culture, the language—

Every part of it seeped into me and became a part of who I am.

Leaving this place feels like leaving a piece of myself behind. 

But sometimes, to grow, we must move forward—even if it hurts.

And so, with a heavy heart, I say goodbye. 

Not forever—because no matter where I go, 

this place will always live within me.

The Wish

 A man,

working far from home,

returns on leave

to the warmth of his parents’ waiting arms.

His parents greet him

With love wrapped in complaints—

how the house feels hollow,

how their bones are tired of waiting.

how the walls echo with chores undone.

no one to stir their favourite dishes,

no one to walk beside them to the market,

No one to sit quietly in hospital queues.

The son listens and he speaks gently,

“I cannot stay. My work is away.

If you wish, you can come with me”.

They scoff softly—

“Who asked you to stay?

And we are not leaving our home”.

We just need someone… Someone…

to look after us…to manage the home.

You know… someone like—”

And they left the sentence unfinished.

But it hangs in the air,

heavy and familiar.

He smiled and said, “I understood.”

“Before I go, I’ll fulfil your wish.”

“The one who may stay will come tomorrow”

He said while serving the dish.

“If your heart says no, please don’t hesitate—

A wrong choice leaves a deep scar.”

The couple dreamt of wedding bells,

bangles in the kitchen, anklets on the staircase

a new voice filling the gaps that

Their son’s absence leaves.

They woke up early, swept the yard,

Lay fresh flowers at the door,

prepare sweets, and wait —

for welcoming the bride.

A knock. They opened the door—

Stand still. Their smiles fade.

Not because of the stranger,

But because of their shattered expectation.

Their expectation met reality in the

quiet space between tradition and time.

She was not their bride, draped in customs,

but a caregiver, hired, trained and paid.

She’s not a daughter-in-law.

Not a replacement for the one they imagined.

And she won’t bend under the weight

of generations of unpaid labour.

She’s just a person — doing a job,

no man was ever asked to do.

First published in Muse India

इन्द्रधनुष

आ गई आसमान उसकी हथेली चूमने,
सबने देखा — आँखों के सामने।
फिर भी सिर्फ़ उसी को मिली वो रौशनी,
क्योंकि वो थी मेहनत की असली कमाई।

पहुंचा वो सागर की गहराइयों तक,
अकेला था — मगर हिम्मत नहीं छोड़ी।
मिल गए मोती — जलपरियों की गोद से,
बुन ली उसने खुशियों की मोतियों वाली माला।

धरती को उसने स्वर्गराज्य बना डाला,
इस बार वो अकेला नहीं था।
सबने थामा हाथ — बनी एक नई बात,
साथ हो तो सात समंदर भी कम पड़ जाएं।

Slap

How can you raise a hand —

Against the person you claim to love the most?

Is that act justified because you’re a man?

Or because anger took over, 

momentarily blinding your conscience?

Is anger a good enough reason –

To disrespect another human?

To forget what it means to be humane?

To toss compassion out the window

and let your temper do the talking?

Because if we all did that —

if we all acted on every flash of fury,

Where would we end up?

What kind of world would that be?

Or…

Is that rage just a Masculine Privilege?

Reserved for men, like some inherited Crown of Fire?

Does your strength begin and end with your fists?

Is that what makes you a man?

The bruises she hides?

The silence she keeps?

You say it’s love.

But — Since when does love come with wounds?

They called you Kalippan — 

short-tempered, a little rough around the edges.

They called her your Kanthari —

sharp-tongued, fiery, a perfect match.

They said,

“You two fight, but oh, how much you love each other.”

“She’s the only one who can handle him.”

“It’s just the way he is.”

“And he has a Heart of Gold.”

But here’s the truth:

That Kalippan-Kanthari fire was fun…

Until it burned her skin.

Until her spark started dimming under the weight of his rage.

Until she couldn’t tell if he was holding her hand or about to hit again.

What happens –

When the passion turns to punishment?

When Kalippan stops loving and starts breaking?

When Kanthari starts hiding in corners,

counting his moods like landmines?

And still—

He brings flowers,

mumbles “sorry,”

says “I didn’t mean it.”

And she wants to believe him.

But tell me —

How many apologies can cover up a scar?

How many times can “I love you”

Follow a raised hand?

But the cycle repeats 

And the apology sounds like insult,

And love tastes like fear.

Still they ask her –

To stay.

To adjust.

To forgive.

For the sake of marriage.

For the sake of children.

For the sake of peace.

But Peace – is not built on fear.

Not on broken bones and silenced screams.

And Love — Real Love —

Doesn’t come with a side of Violence.

It’s Time –

To stop Romanticizing Rage.

To stop calling Temper “Cute.”

To stop saying, “that’s just how he is.”

It’s Time –

To stop asking Kanthari to keep burning quietly,

while the Kalippan throws fire like he owns it.

Because –

She is not his matchstick.

She is not his punching bag.

She is not here to absorb his storms.

She is fire too.

But hers —

hers is the kind that Glows,

not the kind that Scars.

First published in Madras Courier

Merlin

Our first meeting was awkward and weird 

At the district veterinary hospital— 

Seeing you playing inside the Bolero, 

I was more excited to see you than my brother. 

Each time I came to your home, 

I looked forward to meeting and playing with you. 

I think you were more excited than me— 

Lonely, perhaps, and waiting for someone like me. 

I felt sad when you couldn’t play during your estrus cycle, 

And I was shattered when they said you had kidney stones. 

The last time I met you, 

You looked so tired—aged, and weary. 

My heart broke the day I heard you were no more. 

It’s been a long time, and no one’s replaced you. 

You were my first love, 

The one I always wished for but couldn’t keep. 

Maybe that’s why I see you in my neighbour’s pet— 

And sneak onto the terrace each evening, 

Just to watch them play the way we used to. 

Maybe that’s because I still miss you.