Few days back I was deeply disturbed and hurt by some people on sns invalidating my Indian culture, my people, our skin color, and Country in general. It still is shocking for me as to how some people can so easily spread hatred and despise a part of humanity for no reason at all. I am sharing few screenshots that mostly triggered me emotionally.. and all of the hurt led to me writing few lines. Hope you all read it and share your opinions .

Few Screenshots of those disturbing tweets..


My Melanin, I wear it with pride
All the fairness, dark patches, pigmentations, and everything in between
I wear them with pride.

The world is not black and white,
Neither some fifty shades of grey.
The world I see, is like refracting rainbows and peacock feathers… My Indianness, a part of that.
Uprooted from my ancestors,
Pushed on from generation to generation, And I wear it all with pride.

Writing Suicide Notes In Black Ink

Is there something wrong inside my head?
I keep on wishing I were dead
Will writing about it help?
I think I am broken…
Threatening existence – testing faith –
Despair and depression comes
knocking on my door, Often…

I don’t ask for help
For I don’t know what I would say.
I just know deep inside
Something is killing me –
My mind is willing me –
To death, yes that’s the way.

Sometimes I question,
Was a Bertha always in me?
And I unleashed her now – Right?
Because this madness inside – I can’t fight.

And the thoughts – oh the beautiful thoughts
Of red wrists – hanging heads –
Of cutting myself up with a dull multi-tool ,
Seeing the blood ooze out, a pool !

Those feelings – oh how I want to feel
The numbness as a blunt blade skates through my skin
The struggle in breathing as I hang myself and a rough rope slits my throat out and in.

Why can’t I stop thinking of Self-harm ?
They say, It’s a sin.
Doxepin – Zoloft – Prozac – Will you keep me firm ?
Because they say, Pharmaceuticals will one day help me win.

Now it’s been more than a year.
Drowning still seems near,
No sky looks pink,
And I am still writing suicide notes in Black ink.

I hope I am not Forgotten…

I have been writing out my thoughts here since long. But since 2018 I have been undergoing Depression and while battling it I couldn’t be available here much. I missed writing . I wanted to let out my thoughts but never could have the strength to get up from my bed , sit , think , and write something.

Being in Depression isn’t nice. It sent me down a black hole. I went through a whole self-harming phase… And the gist of it was, I felt like I deserved to be in pain. And people and their questions , Oh God. Firstly I would like to state that Depression is a disease. It’s not a phase , it’s a disease that needs to be cured and you need a doctor not some people who advise you to Stay happy or Watch TV or Travel. Those are complete misconceptions.

No matter how good someone’s life seems like it should be from the outside, mental health factors can still surface. That’s why people who experience anxiety and depression get frustrated when people say things like “what do you have to be sad about?” or “but you’re doing so well in this part of your life, why not just focus on that?” Those questions aren’t helpful because mental health doesn’t always depend on career success or an exciting advancement in your personal life. Someone can still experience a dark time while it seems good things are happening to them….

So things kept pilling up, my anxiety , my panic attacks , the Doctor yes , did supply me with medicines but still my emptiness still existed . It took me one whole year or may be more to come out of it , if not fully but now I am strong enough to not harm myself and atleast may be smile at life , Sometimes

I have been wanting to.share my experience here on WordPress and today I thought I should write something. I wrote some poetry , will Publish soon. I hope people read.

Thank You.

“HER TRADITIONAL NIGHT” (A poem against Female Genital Mutilation.)

Note: This poem is based on the practice of FGM, a practice that most societies consider holy. But FGM is a sin, a sin against humanity. We must know that not only does it break the strength of women, it also breaks their souls. Please, if you are in a society where FGM is practiced then please do not sit and watch or read about it on newspapers and mourn the loss of women who go through it. Instead, educate the people on the need to leave souls untouched, in order for them to help the bodies grow.

I want to give a voice to all the unheard cries of women  who had to go through FGM so that people understand their plight. And so I dedicate this poem to all the women who had to suffer because of this insanity carried out in the name of religion and tradition.


Illegal Female Genital Mutilation Cutters Show Off Their Tools



Alone but far from alone
she bloomed like a delicate flower.
A beautiful child
she grew in sun and shower.
Then soon came that night – that long painful night.
The night when she saw her mother weep bitter tears.
‘What is it mother? Should I weep too?’ she asked.
Just a child, she knew not of the predestined fears.
Putting her hand upon the little girl’s head, the mother caressed her.
Showed her the bed.
Said, ‘it is your traditional night love, lay down here.’

Her traditional night.
The night when several women held her hands and feet – holy act or a sin?
She could see the blade like shape approaching.
Wondered what was in between her legs – such a wrong thing?
And then began the slaughtering.. Passing a blunt and cruised blade, they   rubbed through her clit.
Stuffing a cloth into her mouth,
muffled her screams and continued with the slit.
The cutting – not done yet.
The blade –  not sharp, shit..
And the blood ?                               Flowing like piss – warm and fresh.
The little girl kept groaning in vain.
Oh ! Felt as if in front of a butcher..
And she, a pig of only ten brought in for the slaughter.

Million painful moments passed.
One woman then whispered into her ears..
‘You are now pure. You are now circumcised.’
Slowly, her screams subdued.
Her womanhood, mutilated.
And no one cared.
After all, it was all a holy sight.
After all, it was her traditional night.

An open letter to all Vaginas


Feminism: The advocacy of woman’s rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.

Now that’s the dictionary definition of the word. But how can anyone advocate about ‘equality of the sexes’? A woman has a vagina, the door to life. It has the power to procure ‘life’, which no man, however hard he tries, can ever do. The question of equality is settled there, once and for all.

There are some film-makers, artists, actors who feel they are the torch-bearers of ‘feminism’ in the new-age cinema.

So here is what the ‘true’ & ‘real’ depiction of feminism in recent films – A woman, betrayed by the lover/groom picks up a bottle of alcohol and walks the streets while an old ‘hindi’ song plays in the background…she managed to something that men have been doing when betrayed. So that’s equality. Men – 10 women – 1 (the films have…

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Yes, I love him like pastel,
my pastel blue bucket bag.
Carry his heart on the edge of my sleeve
as though it is a childhood locket,
still holding my picture naked.

But there have been days,
dark, sinful days..
Days when sweet memories would fade out,
leaving behind the ghost of a man
haunting, dancing
on the delicate tight rope
between what was meant to be
and what should truly be.

Yes, I still love him like pastel,
my pastel blue bucket bag.
But nothing remains now,
So finally I pray…
“Oh Lord
when you
give me
my due,
Will you paint
my soul
in  pastel blue…. ?”

“Hoping to taste Marlboros someday, she smiles.”


Smoke drifts up and up,
As cigarettes sweep into her lungs
perfectly in sync with her heavy breathing…
From the end of the slim white stick
Residual ashes fall, cold and powdered.
She can hear it singe- the paper burning;
She can feel the thing- a beautiful sadness inside her soothing;
Almost done now.
The empty filter of tar burns and comforts her life’s lies….
Hoping to taste Marlboros someday, she smiles.


“When She Fell in Love with His Lavani Dance.. “


Note: This piece is inspired from Lavani. Lavani means “beauty” and is a folk dance of India performed by Women, on the beats of “Dholki”. It is mostly performed in the states of Maharashtra, North Karnataka, and southern Madhya Pradesh. In our society it is believed that Men should not perform Lavani and those who do, are judged and insulted by the society or are considered effeminate. But here I want to question that what if someone is effeminate..? Who are you to judge..? Also, I feel art is beyond all these binaries created by our society. Therefore I wrote this piece as a form of awareness for humanity and also to portray the sad picture of our society..


She often saw him dance.
Away from the world,
Under the gulmohars..
Felt as if he was in a beautiful trance..
And in that divine moment
She fell in love with his Lavani dance..

She was scared..
But that day she dared,
“You stole my heart and never gave it back.
Now can you give me a forever..?
We will be together,
And I will watch you dance..”

He kissed her hard.
And like the blooms of a scorching Indian summer
Their hearts bloomed with love.
That scorching Indian summer – a tale of their desires so pure and naive.

The aftermath was a fairytale.
They walked hand in hand
But their love was not “normal”
People would tell.

She told him to shed his insecurities and reveal himself more…
But people had their own judgements and they were sore.
“Stop your effeminate dancing, its queer.
Wash that red off your feet before you come near..”

He payed no heed,
Danced to the rythm of her heartbeat.
But then the line got crossed
And she was the one who was cursed the most..
“He will never be a husband, will offer nothing much,
Better leave this society with your shameless trans..”

Her insult finally ceased his alta clad feet.
His smile grew dimmer,
Her sorrow sang its own woeful bit.

But soon he extinguished the final flame.
And she could only scream holding his dead frame,
“You took your life like sometimes lovers do
But I want to tell you my love,
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you…”

Now this is the story, Dear Straight people.
She dared to love unconditionally
And she was one of you.
And there was a time….
A time when they walked hand in hand,
When she fell in love with his Lavani dance.

“What if I am another Shikhandi?”

Note : I wanted to write something on LGBTQ and therefore thought would take inspiration from India’s greatest Epic Mahabharata. But in order to make sure that everyone understands this piece it is important to know about ‘Shikhandi’.

Decades have crossed, but the winds still whisper the name of Shikhandi. In Mahabharata, Shikhandi was not a glorious character like Pitamaha Bheeshma who was a symbol of sacrifice, Warrior Karna who always was a tragic hero, third Pandava Arjuna, the devotee of lord Krishna and the ultimate winner. But if the success means proving identity; then it can go through various ways and Shikhandi was one of the successful endemics in Mahabharata. Shikhandi was born a woman. But the Rishis told King Draupada, who was the father of Shikhandi, that she would one day become a man and aquire a male body. Though born a female, Shikhandi was raised as a son and was taught warfare and statecraft. She was even given a wife. And it is believed that finally Shikhandi met a Yaksha called Sthunakarna and was able to aquire his manhood. So there has always been a doubt about Shikhandi’s true identity and hence has been considered a transgender.. My today’s piece is inspired by this story of Shikhandi.

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What if I am another Shikhandi….?”

End this discrimination, it hurts.
I too am Lord’s creation,
made of flesh, blood and a heart.
A disgrace to humanity ; some say I am cursed.
I think they forgot,
The same female womb- source of my birth.

Mindless youngsters mock and laugh
and play their guessing games as I walk.
“Lumps or balls? or none of the two?”
I want to ask, “what if both? what would you do?”

A form I want to fill,
But which box do I tick?
Grown sick of all these,
wish my mother had taken a pill.

Existing without any identity I lost my Self,
Woolf’s Sublime Meditation on Gender did no help.
Now to all the wise men I tell;
“Look in-between the binaries,
and go back on history.
What if I am another Shikhandi….?”