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

What's in a Name!

A name is born before a child,
long ago in a guardian’s mind.

Names carry choices —
some personal, some imposed,
yet they become burdens, they become chains,
echoing the owner's dislike and despair.

Burdened by childhood nicknames, 

hidden in shame and disgust,
never to be revealed in public.

Dislike deepens in a pool of names —
some too common, others too rare,
leaving one to wonder:
"Did my parents search hard enough?"

Some stand alone, others hold bold initials, 
some stretch long with surnames trailing behind.
A few are short, easy to call and recall,
while others demand a breath to pronounce.

Only a few escape the clutches of clichés.
Most carry caste, creed, religion, or gender,
marking identities before one arrives.

Before one is heard, before one is seen,
their name comes first —
dragging along prejudices, biases, assumptions, and expectations.

A name is a blueprint one carries everywhere,
used by others to define, dissect, and judge.

Yet, we ask - "What's in a Name?"

To my Rohitian

I entered a class where bonds were already formed,

Friends and gangs, their lives entwined.

The first bench near the door stood bare,

So I claimed a seat, without much care.

You came, surprised, to see me there,

A stranger occupying your usual lair.

Yet, with no complaints, you broke the ice, 

Introduced yourself with your usual smile.

I jotted down your name, on the back of my rough note,

As I was terrible with remembering new names.

Little did I know then that, 

Your name would be etched into my heart forever.

I still recall the games we played,

Just the two of us, in between the classes.

The long list of players we penned,

Still lies before me, as a timeless memory.

Even after college, the random meets and hangouts,

Your unexpected calls, texts, and those random pics, 

And everything that reminds me of you,

Fill my world with immense joy.

I dream of a day when we’ll stand side by side,

Cheering our team with unshaken pride.

While the Paltan roars and the Wankhede turns blue,

I’ll be there with you, my Rohitian.

Calangute

In a distant land 600 miles from home,

We wandered through the market squares seeking souvenirs.

Tasting the cool Serradura dessert,

Googling nervously to check if it was laced with alcohol - 

A tradition Portugese used to follow.

The photographer in you came alive again,

Capturing every promising view the place had to offer.

You never grew tired of my endless demands - 

Photo after photo, your phone gallery brimming with moments.

Listening to the songs of Calangute’s waves,

We strolled across the wet sands, 

Barefoot - holding chappals in our hands,

Sharing millions and trillions of stories,

And never once did my ceaseless chatter annoy you.

As the sun sank into the sea,

We turned back, trusting the landmark I’d set in my mind.

But who knew that "I Love Goa" was a recurring sign, dotting every corner?

That’s when I realized - we were hopelessly lost,

Adrift in a place unfamiliar and strange.

You stepped up without hesitation,

Google Maps in hand, guiding - calm and composed.

While I was exhausted from the two hour stride through the sand,

And seamlessly dragging and nagging you back.

Through the abandoned streets we walked,

Haunted by the silence, imagining shadows of Goan dons

And drug mafias lurking with modern machine guns.

Yet, irony weaved its charm,

Getting lost in Goa became my greatest adventure.

From that day onwards, you’ve stood by my side,

Through thick and thin, my guardian angel,

Scolding and consoling me whenever it was necessary,  

Solving life’s riddles with quiet strength,

That only a best friend can do.

To the Guardian of Wild

You were such a weaver of tales,

Your stories spread beyond our classes.

I first heard of those awkward moments,

You experienced near the mangrove roots.

Whenever you shared your journeys wide,

With that enthusiastic enigma inside.

Through your words, I heard the waves roar,

And glimpse the tiger behind that rock.

You took me along on each vivid trip,

Through simple narratives, I'd eagerly sip.

Please don't post those underwater picture of yours,

As those Lakshadweep snaps lives in the dreams I reap.

Now you walk from our classroom walls to nature’s heart, 

Where the wild calls you to keep its secrets,  

But I’m pretty sure they’ll fly off through Tripura’s winds,

To make a legend in Fortune’s lore.

You leave behind millions of thoughts,

Memories woven and lessons taught.

Each growing tree I pass near,

Will echo your voice of carbon sinks.

The Sennas, Lantanas and the Society we live in,

Will forever remind me of your legacy left behind.

A heartfelt farewell to you as you embrace,

A new chapter in your life with strength and grace.