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.

Love

Is it easy… to find Love?
Or is it just a dream we dress up in fairy lights,
a Word – we chase –
in movies, songs and stories
that end before real life begins?

Who is the worthy one?
Do we find them by chance or choice?
A friend who knows all your awkward silences?
A cousin who grew up under the same sky?
That stranger you pass every day but never speak to?

Or is it…
the one your parents pick,
folded inside a photograph and a biodata?
Will they be the one?
The chosen one?

The one fate whispered your name to —
before either of you even learned to spell love?
They call it a Soulmate –
a half that fits your missing whole.
A destined match – a cosmic bond, written in stars.

But for me?
I don’t know, I really doubt it.
I doubt there’s someone out there,
already shaped to fit the cracks in me.

I doubt – that I’ll find someone,
whose love doesn’t end –
in lawyers and loneliness
and silent dinners with louder silences.

Because – as we age,
Our checklist grows longer.
Our patience gets shorter.
Our hearts grow cautious.
Not colder — but careful.

And love?

It’s no longer just butterflies.
It’s building a home without breaking yourself.
It’s staying when leaving looks easier.
It’s effort. It's honesty.

It’s someone willing to try —
even on days when they fail.
So maybe…
love isn’t about finding the one.

Maybe love is not to find,
but made, unmade, and made again.
Maybe love isn’t about fate.
Maybe it’s about showing up.

Maybe it’s about choosing someone —
again, and again, and again —
even when the magic wears off
and all that’s left is truth.

We seek not just a pretty face—
but one who stays through storms and years.
Not flawless, but forgiving
Not perfect — but human.

First published by Kashmir Pen in Samovar Songs