_kavyasharma

Kavya Sharma

womanist, poet, author
Books - To Naddiyaa, The Carmine Memories
Founder - @verseofsilence_
enquiries - officialkavyasharma@gmail.com
.
Book link

7 minutes of ammi's freedom .

there's something about ammi
that makes me want to believe 
that homes are made out of 
women's exhuberent history 
of sweat and patience; 
that every morning she 
doesn't wake up only to make 
ghee ridden paranthas for you
or to polish abba's work shoes 
or to water the plants listening
to old movie tracks,
and crib about back pain; 
she doesn't wake up to wreck
the home she tidied up a day before
because ammi stays alert 
longer than the day and night 
together and every day at five 
when the sun dwindles in the 
open blue sky and abba is
probably on his way back home 
enroute chandani chowk
and i am busy writing poems 
that you read on fridays evenings
she makes overly sugared chai for
herself, because every day she
drops down her shoulders 
failing to endure anymore of 
womanhood you paint on her face; 
currently she's breathless and 
stuffed with ideaologies nobody 
warned her about so openly 
she rejects the idea of breeding 
on love for once, she turns her face 
off the moving fans and low voltage
tube lights because during the course
of the chai slightly burning down her
bitter tongue, she exhausts all her 
sources to make herself feel better 
about life and love and permanence 
knowing none of them stays longer 
than eternity- it's 5:07 and baba is 
already parking his scooter outside 
and i am angry for she's made lauki
instead of daal chawal but she says 
not a word because tomorrow there's 
another 7 miniutes she gets to herself 
to live her life a little better
.

@_kavyasharma

7 minutes of ammi's freedom . there's something about ammi that makes me want to believe that homes are made out of women's exhuberent history of sweat and patience; that every morning she doesn't wake up only to make ghee ridden paranthas for you or to polish abba's work shoes or to water the plants listening to old movie tracks, and crib about back pain; she doesn't wake up to wreck the home she tidied up a day before because ammi stays alert longer than the day and night together and every day at five when the sun dwindles in the open blue sky and abba is probably on his way back home enroute chandani chowk and i am busy writing poems that you read on fridays evenings she makes overly sugared chai for herself, because every day she drops down her shoulders failing to endure anymore of womanhood you paint on her face; currently she's breathless and stuffed with ideaologies nobody warned her about so openly she rejects the idea of breeding on love for once, she turns her face off the moving fans and low voltage tube lights because during the course of the chai slightly burning down her bitter tongue, she exhausts all her sources to make herself feel better about life and love and permanence knowing none of them stays longer than eternity- it's 5:07 and baba is already parking his scooter outside and i am angry for she's made lauki instead of daal chawal but she says not a word because tomorrow there's another 7 miniutes she gets to herself to live her life a little better . @_kavyasharma - 11 hours ago

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0
my mouth is an abyss full of home invasion stories
.

TW- Rape, Sexual Abuse
.

2001
i was six when fida
begum told me marriage 
is for those who prefer
unpaid sex and i lost my 
appetite for daal chawal 
because knowing what sex
meant, was more important
than being with a man who 
knew how to carry the moving
old bed tradition forward,
mother banned her entry home
and i lost an honest answer to
a woman of loose character .

2006
i was in mid school 
when "a boy" put his 
hand inside my shirt and pulled
my bra strap, and maa said it's 
normal for boys to do it, so i 
prayed to god and said make me
one before we go on losing out on 
too many women in our lives, before
a little too many bra straps are
pulled and god sits there ready 
to forgive .

2010
i am sixteen 
and uncle tom tells me
it's okay for young girls to have
sex at sixteen and i remember what 
fida begum said so i said
never for free and he laughs at my
face saying what a tragedy, but puts
his hands amid my thigh anyway-
so i scream but his hands are
longer than amma's midnight stor-
ies and now, i was a part of one 
at the mercy of a man 36 years 
older to me.

2012
i am eighteen 
and boys around 
look at my breasts like they are 
sunsets in bali but i know what 
honour and traditions mean
because baba told me men are 
a little too open from a young age 
and i looked at maa's pregnant face
while she oils the evening pakoras 
as a ritual sweating in the kitchen
because her mother was a much
worse teacher than mine .

2015
i am in college
and by now i have forgotten 
to count on my fingers the number
of times a man touches you 
because his hormones are more
raging than yours; now, my hands
are sea ores, my hips is a land for
crashing planes, my legs are street
lights that flicker at the sound of 
approaching dogs- 
my mouth is an abyss full of
tasteless humor and bitter home 
invasion stories .

2019
i am in love 
and madly so with a man who 
looks like god;
a man who holds my hands 
like ancient city maps, 
a man who turns around to 
kiss like a wayward storm
and even after having lost
everything
my mouth feels like 
a beautiful poem he reads 
every wednesday
.

@_kavyasharma

my mouth is an abyss full of home invasion stories . TW- Rape, Sexual Abuse . 2001 i was six when fida begum told me marriage is for those who prefer unpaid sex and i lost my appetite for daal chawal because knowing what sex meant, was more important than being with a man who knew how to carry the moving old bed tradition forward, mother banned her entry home and i lost an honest answer to a woman of loose character . 2006 i was in mid school when "a boy" put his hand inside my shirt and pulled my bra strap, and maa said it's normal for boys to do it, so i prayed to god and said make me one before we go on losing out on too many women in our lives, before a little too many bra straps are pulled and god sits there ready to forgive . 2010 i am sixteen and uncle tom tells me it's okay for young girls to have sex at sixteen and i remember what fida begum said so i said never for free and he laughs at my face saying what a tragedy, but puts his hands amid my thigh anyway- so i scream but his hands are longer than amma's midnight stor- ies and now, i was a part of one at the mercy of a man 36 years older to me. 2012 i am eighteen and boys around look at my breasts like they are sunsets in bali but i know what honour and traditions mean because baba told me men are a little too open from a young age and i looked at maa's pregnant face while she oils the evening pakoras as a ritual sweating in the kitchen because her mother was a much worse teacher than mine . 2015 i am in college and by now i have forgotten to count on my fingers the number of times a man touches you because his hormones are more raging than yours; now, my hands are sea ores, my hips is a land for crashing planes, my legs are street lights that flicker at the sound of approaching dogs- my mouth is an abyss full of tasteless humor and bitter home invasion stories . 2019 i am in love and madly so with a man who looks like god; a man who holds my hands like ancient city maps, a man who turns around to kiss like a wayward storm and even after having lost everything my mouth feels like a beautiful poem he reads every wednesday . @_kavyasharma - 2 days ago

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2
muraad stays longer than you expect .

there's something about muraad
that makes me want to believe
in the idea of a man who makes 
mistakes and still doesn't go as 
wrong, something about him makes
me want to peek out of mesh windows
and imagine him looking back at me
while the curtains constantly blow 
blurring his existence and mine - 
he sounds a lot like his mother-
his voice is tired and ambitious,
frustrated of his father's coarseness;
more metaphoric than his eyes;
they flatter everytime i tell him 
periods are painful or god is 
another reality's satan, or him and
i are two falling stars of this universe,
it's as if his stories are yours to grow on.
muraad is the kind of guy who 
takes night walks after dinner and
says look at the sky or life is about 
experiences and you'd want to listen
because it matter - 
every time he kisses me, it's 
slower than before, like he knows 
it means more love and patience 
and i can do nothing but feel every
sensation that he lashes onto me 
in the name of colony romance and 
call it a poem; muraad is a lot like
free verse and i cannot in my dreams 
structure him to smaller tokens of love
because that would mean breaking him
into discreet pieces of art, 
and he's not one
and in end when everything around him 
and you makes sense he isn't the one
leaving if you say love feels like locked
museums because muraad stays longer
than you expect him to
his hands are temple walls and i am
constantly in awe of how traditionally 
they go on holding me and
every dream that i sustain;
tonight i and muraad will walk 
till the lane end and not speak word;
because tonight's another poem i 
quietly dedicate to him
.

@_kavyasharma

muraad stays longer than you expect . there's something about muraad that makes me want to believe in the idea of a man who makes mistakes and still doesn't go as wrong, something about him makes me want to peek out of mesh windows and imagine him looking back at me while the curtains constantly blow blurring his existence and mine - he sounds a lot like his mother- his voice is tired and ambitious, frustrated of his father's coarseness; more metaphoric than his eyes; they flatter everytime i tell him periods are painful or god is another reality's satan, or him and i are two falling stars of this universe, it's as if his stories are yours to grow on. muraad is the kind of guy who takes night walks after dinner and says look at the sky or life is about experiences and you'd want to listen because it matter - every time he kisses me, it's slower than before, like he knows it means more love and patience and i can do nothing but feel every sensation that he lashes onto me in the name of colony romance and call it a poem; muraad is a lot like free verse and i cannot in my dreams structure him to smaller tokens of love because that would mean breaking him into discreet pieces of art, and he's not one and in end when everything around him and you makes sense he isn't the one leaving if you say love feels like locked museums because muraad stays longer than you expect him to his hands are temple walls and i am constantly in awe of how traditionally they go on holding me and every dream that i sustain; tonight i and muraad will walk till the lane end and not speak word; because tonight's another poem i quietly dedicate to him . @_kavyasharma - 5 days ago

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46 Comments
1
veranda stories
.

maa grows a lot of night
glowing jasmines, orchids and 
tulsi in our home- our 19 year 
old tiled veranda is a blessing in 
the cramping reality of dilli-
the orange orchids are sunkissed
almost each morning, the tulsi is 
used for morning tea- though baba 
is usually found having coffee 
at 8 a.m. on the leather sofa-
the veteran veranda 
is spacious enough for a 
fan hanging swing and a big 
money plant extending in all 
directions purposeless; 
standing on the boundary you
can witness the nearby samaaj
kalyan mandir, the temples ringing 
every now and then by a prayer
prone human, the sky can be 
witnessed changing colours; the street 
kids are seen screaming delhi slang;
you can hear the cooker whistles 
blowing and chicken curries to sooji
halwa breathing in adjacent 
home realities; the exhasuted 
mothers calling out from their 
balconies, asking their children 
to be back home for homework 
and dinner- the grandmothers 
taking slow careful strolls -
dry summer evenings in my home 
are usually spent watering the
plants- the process is slow and
endearing; and while maa is busy 
being a part of her reality, i witness 
several others sipping my camomile
tea on the veranda boundary .

@_kavyasharma

veranda stories . maa grows a lot of night glowing jasmines, orchids and tulsi in our home- our 19 year old tiled veranda is a blessing in the cramping reality of dilli- the orange orchids are sunkissed almost each morning, the tulsi is used for morning tea- though baba is usually found having coffee at 8 a.m. on the leather sofa- the veteran veranda is spacious enough for a fan hanging swing and a big money plant extending in all directions purposeless; standing on the boundary you can witness the nearby samaaj kalyan mandir, the temples ringing every now and then by a prayer prone human, the sky can be witnessed changing colours; the street kids are seen screaming delhi slang; you can hear the cooker whistles blowing and chicken curries to sooji halwa breathing in adjacent home realities; the exhasuted mothers calling out from their balconies, asking their children to be back home for homework and dinner- the grandmothers taking slow careful strolls - dry summer evenings in my home are usually spent watering the plants- the process is slow and endearing; and while maa is busy being a part of her reality, i witness several others sipping my camomile tea on the veranda boundary . @_kavyasharma - 6 days ago

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when men fail women more than love .

maa was tragic,
her eyes were wild 
summers of june, but 
baba never blinked an eye-
to love a woman who already
belongs to you is a married
man's art, to love her not 
was almost imperative
and while amma drowned
in ganga wearing silk peticote,
suhaag kangan and her gloom
he never saw her rise 
above the ashes- 
the charpai he layed on 
for the rest of his life was 
heavier than his drunk breaths
on amma's bone face;
she began stinking of deceit
and a failed relationship with 
a failed man; 
while baba began losing his
manliness to younger ammas
without enough skin and age-
i pity them too. 
and now,
amma's lips were dry banaras 
leaves, she kept on smushing
them with reds to bring baba
back, her resham sarees cried
their heritage together behind 
closed closets, her red bindi a
mute siren of defeat; her arms 
were like shiva on bhaang- they 
kept searching for nirvana in a
man who belonged not 
to one god- to one woman- 
where to women go to when 
men fail them more than love ?
where to women grow distant 
when love fails them too ?
today as i burn a decade old 
tradition with amma, i burn my
baba too
.

@_kavyasharma .

when men fail women more than love . maa was tragic, her eyes were wild summers of june, but baba never blinked an eye- to love a woman who already belongs to you is a married man's art, to love her not was almost imperative and while amma drowned in ganga wearing silk peticote, suhaag kangan and her gloom he never saw her rise above the ashes- the charpai he layed on for the rest of his life was heavier than his drunk breaths on amma's bone face; she began stinking of deceit and a failed relationship with a failed man; while baba began losing his manliness to younger ammas without enough skin and age- i pity them too. and now, amma's lips were dry banaras leaves, she kept on smushing them with reds to bring baba back, her resham sarees cried their heritage together behind closed closets, her red bindi a mute siren of defeat; her arms were like shiva on bhaang- they kept searching for nirvana in a man who belonged not to one god- to one woman- where to women go to when men fail them more than love ? where to women grow distant when love fails them too ? today as i burn a decade old tradition with amma, i burn my baba too . @_kavyasharma . - 7 days ago

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gomti romance .

madhup got his shoes from a city woman two weeks back and i haven't been happier before, he says he feels a lot taller around me and i jump a little only to reach upto his shoulders- .

gomti is calm today and i am already done making the evening chaptatis for the entire house, amma hushed me saying she will look after the sookhi sabzi, she said:
go out and live the evening gayatri, see how the birds chirp and the water flows amid your reality. Open your eyes and witness the trees, watch the buffaloes throwing water on their backs, inhale the wet mud- it rained yesterday .

i am wearing the same blue suit, the one he gifted me a year back, there are no creases yet but i am fearful the dirt on the boat might stick.

Madhup says, he was tired today, he wanted me to rub the back side of his neck, he asked that with a sly smile and i remember how a week back he held my hand for thirty two seconds. i saw a few ladies washing dirty laundry around the gomti corners; the bangles in my hands shivered and i slid back knowing i had to, my fingers are nostalgic of his touch but they remember.

i like how we don't depend on love to feed other emotions, madhup looks at me and says his weekly i love you; i can wait an entire week for the next but for now i am in love with him too, the gomti flows with us knowing we'll survive and together we head back home where he is going to sit with baba watching cricket or politics and i will sit with amma bitching about the other women.

Food will be served at 8 and then we will all sleep on the floor mats. the stars will look better because of the clear sky and i cannot wait,  i cannot wait to look into madhup's eyes and tell him i love him too.

the gomti is our secret love affair, madhup and i are just lovers stuck in our own reality
.

@_kavyasharma

gomti romance . madhup got his shoes from a city woman two weeks back and i haven't been happier before, he says he feels a lot taller around me and i jump a little only to reach upto his shoulders- . gomti is calm today and i am already done making the evening chaptatis for the entire house, amma hushed me saying she will look after the sookhi sabzi, she said: go out and live the evening gayatri, see how the birds chirp and the water flows amid your reality. Open your eyes and witness the trees, watch the buffaloes throwing water on their backs, inhale the wet mud- it rained yesterday . i am wearing the same blue suit, the one he gifted me a year back, there are no creases yet but i am fearful the dirt on the boat might stick. Madhup says, he was tired today, he wanted me to rub the back side of his neck, he asked that with a sly smile and i remember how a week back he held my hand for thirty two seconds. i saw a few ladies washing dirty laundry around the gomti corners; the bangles in my hands shivered and i slid back knowing i had to, my fingers are nostalgic of his touch but they remember. i like how we don't depend on love to feed other emotions, madhup looks at me and says his weekly i love you; i can wait an entire week for the next but for now i am in love with him too, the gomti flows with us knowing we'll survive and together we head back home where he is going to sit with baba watching cricket or politics and i will sit with amma bitching about the other women. Food will be served at 8 and then we will all sleep on the floor mats. the stars will look better because of the clear sky and i cannot wait, i cannot wait to look into madhup's eyes and tell him i love him too. the gomti is our secret love affair, madhup and i are just lovers stuck in our own reality . @_kavyasharma - 10 days ago

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2
a woman's guide to kama sutra
.

TW -  sexual misconduct/dominance .

amma always said that to reach
a man's heart a woman must:

bare at all costs

she must show him the power of
musk between her sun dried thighs 
and dense rainforests

she must at all costs still stay timid and 
lucid like rabindra sangeet.

she must not make a noise of alarm
and yet a little bent shoulders would
make do for a coy wife.

she must not extend an arm of relief until a man and his appetite is satiated like the dead souls being left in ganga .

she must let loose her breasts and let him wonder about the softeness they sustain in the years of womanhood .

she must bear in mind that a man is the power of the house and she must exhaust all her resources to stay an inch closer.

a woman must know that there can be other women in competition but none should be as delicate as the load he empties inside open jars .

a woman at all costs must let her man breathe the wildness of her brown skin and know that it is he 
who will ever realise its value .

a woman must never take any role during the intercourse, she must stay still until her man is done forming a nymph out of a woman.

a woman must always end with her head bowed and blouse buttons undone .

a woman after that must 
immediately cover in shame
.

@_kavyasharma

a woman's guide to kama sutra . TW - sexual misconduct/dominance . amma always said that to reach a man's heart a woman must: bare at all costs she must show him the power of musk between her sun dried thighs and dense rainforests she must at all costs still stay timid and lucid like rabindra sangeet. she must not make a noise of alarm and yet a little bent shoulders would make do for a coy wife. she must not extend an arm of relief until a man and his appetite is satiated like the dead souls being left in ganga . she must let loose her breasts and let him wonder about the softeness they sustain in the years of womanhood . she must bear in mind that a man is the power of the house and she must exhaust all her resources to stay an inch closer. a woman must know that there can be other women in competition but none should be as delicate as the load he empties inside open jars . a woman at all costs must let her man breathe the wildness of her brown skin and know that it is he who will ever realise its value . a woman must never take any role during the intercourse, she must stay still until her man is done forming a nymph out of a woman. a woman must always end with her head bowed and blouse buttons undone . a woman after that must immediately cover in shame . @_kavyasharma - 10 days ago

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poems without titles .

my skin on you are clustured 
poems without titles, the only 
way they lead you is by the 
sound of summer rain and 
spring blossoms crushed in
your palms- i've been told 
before that it leaks a lot of
lana del ray tapes when 
you question:
have you been healing yet? 
pastor said healing is a process
as slow as love and it's strange 
i am recovering from both, so 
the only poems i read now are 
those that do not feel heavy on 
my skin, those that don't make 
my eyes curl into thin layers of 
history that i've carefully settled 
on my moving chest, those that ring 
a thousand bells in my ears, those 
that do not remember the names of 
my past lovers, those that have
tattooed my mother's name 
and those without titles, 
you see poems without title 
feel closer to home; feel as abandoned 
as i am, with or without your arms 
around me- they choke on emotions
without any baggage and so do i,
i choke only when i know my head on 
your chest are just metaphors of
regret and you and i are together
going to drown into lucid dreams 
that are easier to break and
understand 
today,
i am going to fall back to the 
same old pattern of being lost 
in love and healing, mixing the two 
at the cost of being left untitled
.

@_kavyasharma

poems without titles . my skin on you are clustured poems without titles, the only way they lead you is by the sound of summer rain and spring blossoms crushed in your palms- i've been told before that it leaks a lot of lana del ray tapes when you question: have you been healing yet? pastor said healing is a process as slow as love and it's strange i am recovering from both, so the only poems i read now are those that do not feel heavy on my skin, those that don't make my eyes curl into thin layers of history that i've carefully settled on my moving chest, those that ring a thousand bells in my ears, those that do not remember the names of my past lovers, those that have tattooed my mother's name and those without titles, you see poems without title feel closer to home; feel as abandoned as i am, with or without your arms around me- they choke on emotions without any baggage and so do i, i choke only when i know my head on your chest are just metaphors of regret and you and i are together going to drown into lucid dreams that are easier to break and understand today, i am going to fall back to the same old pattern of being lost in love and healing, mixing the two at the cost of being left untitled . @_kavyasharma - 12 days ago

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2
Delhi, i hope you went and made your smart choice- voting is not just your right but also your chance at improving a bit of your nation and a bit of your lives. Never consider it not worthy enough- believe it or not, it matters, because you matter
.

I voted because it counts and because it makes a difference. I feel empowered, do you?

#myvote#delhivotes#loksabhaelection2019 #myrights#itmatters#kavyasharma

Delhi, i hope you went and made your smart choice- voting is not just your right but also your chance at improving a bit of your nation and a bit of your lives. Never consider it not worthy enough- believe it or not, it matters, because you matter . I voted because it counts and because it makes a difference. I feel empowered, do you? #myvote #delhivotes #loksabhaelection2019 #myrights #itmatters #kavyasharma - 13 days ago

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those who fail at love .

it's
00:01 and 
i am already 
witnessing the 
sky break into 
a million mes.

they are shallow
and brown.

what holds me 
back then is the 
voice that rings 
in my head like a
prayer- .

it has no language,
no religion, no caste
and yet it has many
more friends than 
i'll ever have

so my hands 
shiver in rebellion 
and freedom is written
in a colour i cannot
read.

mother begs me to
let go and i look
back at her with 
blood shot eyes;
why ?

she thinks i've 
committed a grave 
sin, so she asks god 
to punish me while 
she's being punished .

by baba
on the cot amma slept
on, on the cot i peed on,
on the cot god made our 
reality, on the cot i made 
a god of.

so now, 
if you ask me- 
i'd say religion is 
for those who fail at love .

@_kavyasharma

those who fail at love . it's 00:01 and i am already witnessing the sky break into a million mes. they are shallow and brown. what holds me back then is the voice that rings in my head like a prayer- . it has no language, no religion, no caste and yet it has many more friends than i'll ever have so my hands shiver in rebellion and freedom is written in a colour i cannot read. mother begs me to let go and i look back at her with blood shot eyes; why ? she thinks i've committed a grave sin, so she asks god to punish me while she's being punished . by baba on the cot amma slept on, on the cot i peed on, on the cot god made our reality, on the cot i made a god of. so now, if you ask me- i'd say religion is for those who fail at love . @_kavyasharma - 14 days ago

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one prayer rug for another .

the ministers on the screen scream our religion is under threat, and somewhere in the kitchen amma is preparing kadhi pakoda and poori for nausheen bibi and family-  it's ramazan. She knows they like it spicy so she asks baba to bring masala from khan chacha across the street; baba brings some chamcham along too, he says muraad likes it and i know he does too.

i hear scrambled voices of people with orange flags and faces shouting hindutva and amma shuts my ears shouting raam, that's my name-  we are brahmins from Uttar Pradesh, and that's all i know about my identity now but baba says we are humans first so i leave two extra cham chams -  one for baba and one for muraad.

the list is stuck on the fridge, everyday amma makes a separate vegetarian dish for nausheen bibi and family- they are muslim and indian or vice versa but that's all i know about their identity so baba says they are humans first and muraad serves me his extra sheer khorma and fruit chaat,  he shows me his prayer rug which looks a lot like my aasan only it is green in colour and has many moons on it, while mine is orange and plain.

it's been 13 years that we've been following this food tradition and now when i ask baba what's the difference
really ?

He smiles and looks up in the sky, then looking back at me he says : people who sleep under the same stars have no difference and i am fearful of those screaming voices and orange faces because they are one of us and i will not let them burn one prayer rug for another. 
@_kavyasharma

Picture Credits - @life.around.india

one prayer rug for another . the ministers on the screen scream our religion is under threat, and somewhere in the kitchen amma is preparing kadhi pakoda and poori for nausheen bibi and family- it's ramazan. She knows they like it spicy so she asks baba to bring masala from khan chacha across the street; baba brings some chamcham along too, he says muraad likes it and i know he does too. i hear scrambled voices of people with orange flags and faces shouting hindutva and amma shuts my ears shouting raam, that's my name- we are brahmins from Uttar Pradesh, and that's all i know about my identity now but baba says we are humans first so i leave two extra cham chams - one for baba and one for muraad. the list is stuck on the fridge, everyday amma makes a separate vegetarian dish for nausheen bibi and family- they are muslim and indian or vice versa but that's all i know about their identity so baba says they are humans first and muraad serves me his extra sheer khorma and fruit chaat, he shows me his prayer rug which looks a lot like my aasan only it is green in colour and has many moons on it, while mine is orange and plain. it's been 13 years that we've been following this food tradition and now when i ask baba what's the difference really ? He smiles and looks up in the sky, then looking back at me he says : people who sleep under the same stars have no difference and i am fearful of those screaming voices and orange faces because they are one of us and i will not let them burn one prayer rug for another. @_kavyasharma Picture Credits - @life.around.india - 16 days ago

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your suffering is a lot like you .

you know,
people who suffer a lot 
have a very endearing relationship
with their own suffering; so much so 
that after a point of time things 
get uncomfortable if they are not
in company of each other- i mean 
it, the suffering becomes an un-
bearable yet mundane and drab 
part of their reality and it sticks 
to the sufferer's skin like some 
stubborn soap foam or baba's 
stick marks or amma's invariable
kisses and then there's just no 
point trying to rub it off because 
the more you touch it, the more it
tries to grasp you into its selfish 
lechery. you know, people who suffer 
are a lot like people who don't, only 
there's a constant nag in the back of the
mind and it sounds a lot like prayers 
you've heard as a child, they constantly
remind you of the power of fear and 
now you are not just suffering out of 
your own pain you are fearful of it and 
there's nothing worse than being
wrapped in your own arms- 
because now, they are 
weak
and 
feeble 
and 
claustrophobic 
and 
unfriendly
and 
strange 
and 
scary 
and just 
a lot like 
you
.

@_kavyasharma

your suffering is a lot like you . you know, people who suffer a lot have a very endearing relationship with their own suffering; so much so that after a point of time things get uncomfortable if they are not in company of each other- i mean it, the suffering becomes an un- bearable yet mundane and drab part of their reality and it sticks to the sufferer's skin like some stubborn soap foam or baba's stick marks or amma's invariable kisses and then there's just no point trying to rub it off because the more you touch it, the more it tries to grasp you into its selfish lechery. you know, people who suffer are a lot like people who don't, only there's a constant nag in the back of the mind and it sounds a lot like prayers you've heard as a child, they constantly remind you of the power of fear and now you are not just suffering out of your own pain you are fearful of it and there's nothing worse than being wrapped in your own arms- because now, they are weak and feeble and claustrophobic and unfriendly and strange and scary and just a lot like you . @_kavyasharma - 19 days ago

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things my widowed father wouldn't know .

1. baba wouldn't know that i dust every corner of the house to relieve it off amma's memories .

2. baba wouldn't know i laid hands on her pahadi silk sarees .

3. baba wouldn't know that amma's blouse are too big for my tombstones .

4. baba wouldn't know she had four packets of suhaag bindis left in her almirah .

5. baba wouldn't know i poured my tea in a katori just like her .

6. baba wouldn't know i blew thrice taking raam's name .

7. baba wouldn't know her petticoat now smells of gili mitti .

8. baba wouldn't know i slept six days a month on chatai .

9. baba wouldn't know my voice had broken into temple bells .

10.  baba wouldn't know i knew a word or two of english from the milkman .

11. baba wouldn't know i gave him an extra serving of desi ghee and shakkar .

12. baba wouldn't know i don't keep my hands to myself anymore.

13. baba wouldn't know amma not only left behind a vaccum but also a man i weep for each night.

14. baba wouldn't know i was slowly turning into amma.

15. baba wouldn't know he was going to sacrifice one woman for another .

16. baba wouldn't know i wrote all this about him.

@_kavyasharma .

Such a beautiful muse for my poems @battatawada has become. Absolutely love her expressions and pictures. They give so much meaning to my words :)

things my widowed father wouldn't know . 1. baba wouldn't know that i dust every corner of the house to relieve it off amma's memories . 2. baba wouldn't know i laid hands on her pahadi silk sarees . 3. baba wouldn't know that amma's blouse are too big for my tombstones . 4. baba wouldn't know she had four packets of suhaag bindis left in her almirah . 5. baba wouldn't know i poured my tea in a katori just like her . 6. baba wouldn't know i blew thrice taking raam's name . 7. baba wouldn't know her petticoat now smells of gili mitti . 8. baba wouldn't know i slept six days a month on chatai . 9. baba wouldn't know my voice had broken into temple bells . 10. baba wouldn't know i knew a word or two of english from the milkman . 11. baba wouldn't know i gave him an extra serving of desi ghee and shakkar . 12. baba wouldn't know i don't keep my hands to myself anymore. 13. baba wouldn't know amma not only left behind a vaccum but also a man i weep for each night. 14. baba wouldn't know i was slowly turning into amma. 15. baba wouldn't know he was going to sacrifice one woman for another . 16. baba wouldn't know i wrote all this about him. @_kavyasharma . Such a beautiful muse for my poems @battatawada has become. Absolutely love her expressions and pictures. They give so much meaning to my words :) - 20 days ago

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i grieve for women of the past
.

often in the path of women silently 
bearing the tragedies of history, 
they were considered weak comrades 
of men with guns and beard-
and while the great left thick books
to salivate on, women survived many 
a attacks on the inside of their skin,
so much so that they began rising 
only to retaliate and scream horrors
that until now were tearing their hearts 
apart; while some women began falling
into a pattern of life that deemed
obedience larger than freewill, some 
began walking on roads with boards 
and slogans of azaadi;

today, privileged, as i raise my voice
against anything that seems off-putting
in the name of cloaned equal rights, i am 
the woman you regret encountering and 
even though with time the pain has
subsided, as has the conjecture of
gender roles i still stand half convinced 
that we've come a long long way .

only now, the history seems a lot more
accomodating, women have voices and 
not just burning skins, but don't you still
end up finding men with feeble
misogynist undertones, i wonder if it is 
the internalised history that acts on them 
or is it the fact they never realised that 
women were the part of the same history 
they fought and survived in .

so today as i bear the rant of being the
privilged one, for being the kind of
woman capable of putting innocent 
men behind the bars, i grieve, i grieve 
for women who were and will always 
stay anonymous regardless of the brunt 
that killed both men and women alike
.

@_kavyasharma

i grieve for women of the past . often in the path of women silently bearing the tragedies of history, they were considered weak comrades of men with guns and beard- and while the great left thick books to salivate on, women survived many a attacks on the inside of their skin, so much so that they began rising only to retaliate and scream horrors that until now were tearing their hearts apart; while some women began falling into a pattern of life that deemed obedience larger than freewill, some began walking on roads with boards and slogans of azaadi; today, privileged, as i raise my voice against anything that seems off-putting in the name of cloaned equal rights, i am the woman you regret encountering and even though with time the pain has subsided, as has the conjecture of gender roles i still stand half convinced that we've come a long long way . only now, the history seems a lot more accomodating, women have voices and not just burning skins, but don't you still end up finding men with feeble misogynist undertones, i wonder if it is the internalised history that acts on them or is it the fact they never realised that women were the part of the same history they fought and survived in . so today as i bear the rant of being the privilged one, for being the kind of woman capable of putting innocent men behind the bars, i grieve, i grieve for women who were and will always stay anonymous regardless of the brunt that killed both men and women alike . @_kavyasharma - 21 days ago

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men in love are metaphors .

i asked him one summer evening,
when the trees in heat stood still
and homes from outside looked
like abandoned cities, what's so
soft about  love and i 
remember him brushing past
his fingers through mine as if 
they were satin curtains on loose;
and dirty linen in watered bathtubs
he said:  there's nothing soft about 
love, except when you are in love 
everything around seems to be a 
romantic fling and i knew he was right,
i knew because everytime we kissed 
i felt the church bells ringing in my 
ears and god himself cursing a generation 
full of lovers; walking on roads felt like 
crossing borders in the 1860s and 
being in his arms was no less than 
being a tragic colossal wreck and 
the flowers on side walks appeared
like neruda just painted them few hours 
ago and feet on open seas were like woolf 
going back to literature; his hands cupping 
my face were mother's sleepless warnings; 
women in love are forever ruined she cried 
and yet each day my father was a bigger 
god than the day before- 
how do you be in love and not grow 
terrible each passing day ? 
my dear dear boy;
he smiled and said :
that's not possible unless you open 
your eyes and wake up from dreams
but here i was kissing his sinful history; 
making it my own, letting it breed on my 
skin and letting it speak for me.

mother was right, men in love are
metaphors you'll never understand
.

@_kavyasharma

men in love are metaphors . i asked him one summer evening, when the trees in heat stood still and homes from outside looked like abandoned cities, what's so soft about love and i remember him brushing past his fingers through mine as if they were satin curtains on loose; and dirty linen in watered bathtubs he said: there's nothing soft about love, except when you are in love everything around seems to be a romantic fling and i knew he was right, i knew because everytime we kissed i felt the church bells ringing in my ears and god himself cursing a generation full of lovers; walking on roads felt like crossing borders in the 1860s and being in his arms was no less than being a tragic colossal wreck and the flowers on side walks appeared like neruda just painted them few hours ago and feet on open seas were like woolf going back to literature; his hands cupping my face were mother's sleepless warnings; women in love are forever ruined she cried and yet each day my father was a bigger god than the day before- how do you be in love and not grow terrible each passing day ? my dear dear boy; he smiled and said : that's not possible unless you open your eyes and wake up from dreams but here i was kissing his sinful history; making it my own, letting it breed on my skin and letting it speak for me. mother was right, men in love are metaphors you'll never understand . @_kavyasharma - 23 days ago

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feminist as fuck .

my hands wrap my bleeding 
cities once a month, it's a scam
women use to convince themselves
that they are women enough and
yet god has always been the sexual
offender here; tonight I'll grow my 
arms an inch more and call myself 
a feminist; mother warned me against
the curse it presses along women's 
chests and makes it beat faster but 
the burden of being a woman
without being a feminist was hard to 
endure so i hide my cries behind
deafening screams till they shaked the
oppressor to realize i breathe under the 
same sky, that my god was a man too-
my friends call me hard on men; 
my father calls me devi but who
cares for my arms keep growing to kill
anyone who intends to kill my mocking bird - 
it's a delicate load now that i keep 
admist my bulky thighs. 
if it wasn't for the pressure of being
taken as one of the seven deadly sins 
maybe women would have been lighter 
on themselves; maybe women wouldn't 
have bred the guilt of brearing for so
long, maybe women wouldn't have been
so emotionally wrecked, maybe women 
wouldn't have despised god once every
few days, maybe women would have felt
that feminism was a thing of the past. 
maybe, i wouldn't have written this poem
but for now, i am feminist as fuck
.

@_kavyasharma

feminist as fuck . my hands wrap my bleeding cities once a month, it's a scam women use to convince themselves that they are women enough and yet god has always been the sexual offender here; tonight I'll grow my arms an inch more and call myself a feminist; mother warned me against the curse it presses along women's chests and makes it beat faster but the burden of being a woman without being a feminist was hard to endure so i hide my cries behind deafening screams till they shaked the oppressor to realize i breathe under the same sky, that my god was a man too- my friends call me hard on men; my father calls me devi but who cares for my arms keep growing to kill anyone who intends to kill my mocking bird - it's a delicate load now that i keep admist my bulky thighs. if it wasn't for the pressure of being taken as one of the seven deadly sins maybe women would have been lighter on themselves; maybe women wouldn't have bred the guilt of brearing for so long, maybe women wouldn't have been so emotionally wrecked, maybe women wouldn't have despised god once every few days, maybe women would have felt that feminism was a thing of the past. maybe, i wouldn't have written this poem but for now, i am feminist as fuck . @_kavyasharma - 25 days ago

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mehmood was kind .

it's exhausting 
to be lonely some days
and feel the blood rushing 
through your body the way 
it did especially when Mehmood 
wrapped his arms around me
after prying sunsets 
he gently squeezed out 
winter nights from my 
sobbing skin-  and every 
time he rubbed it, a star fell 
in deceit, and a wish into a 
pyrrhic universe - it was almost
always that he prayed Allah 
would make me a happier 
person but the last time i 
prayed i was seven- and
god hasn't been very kind to
me every since but mehmood
was kinder. i wonder why 
people don't talk about people
being nice to them and i felt 
mehmood cutting my hair ends 
because he knew they itched;
he then dabbed my open hours
with hurting past sentiments;
they felt a lot like people you 
love turning into black holes-
how do you deal with loss ?
mehmood held my wrists 
making them change colours 
from blue to green; and said : 
the sea is bigger than your 
abandonment and i felt content
knowing there is something 
deeper than my own void -
i've never been lonlier before,
and even with mehmood putting 
timely tablets on my purple tongue 
i shivered losing out on him; 
it weighs me down, i mean the
fact that not everyone who feels
lonely has a mehmood in life
.

@_kavyasharma

mehmood was kind . it's exhausting to be lonely some days and feel the blood rushing through your body the way it did especially when Mehmood wrapped his arms around me after prying sunsets he gently squeezed out winter nights from my sobbing skin- and every time he rubbed it, a star fell in deceit, and a wish into a pyrrhic universe - it was almost always that he prayed Allah would make me a happier person but the last time i prayed i was seven- and god hasn't been very kind to me every since but mehmood was kinder. i wonder why people don't talk about people being nice to them and i felt mehmood cutting my hair ends because he knew they itched; he then dabbed my open hours with hurting past sentiments; they felt a lot like people you love turning into black holes- how do you deal with loss ? mehmood held my wrists making them change colours from blue to green; and said : the sea is bigger than your abandonment and i felt content knowing there is something deeper than my own void - i've never been lonlier before, and even with mehmood putting timely tablets on my purple tongue i shivered losing out on him; it weighs me down, i mean the fact that not everyone who feels lonely has a mehmood in life . @_kavyasharma - 26 days ago

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lessons on love
.

you see,
the thing about lovers is 
that they don't die down 
like sunsets each day, 
they live enduring an insane
sense of togetherness that
binds them and frees them 
at the same time.

lovers are fools and bigger
fools are people in love for
their hopelessness is in 
perfect sync with each other
if not anything else; they are
scratchy poems on your bed,
only you did not write them.

and everytime you feel you're 
there, near the destination, love
my dear feels farther and farther 
away from you because unlike 
lovers waiting on love, love doesn't 
wait on lovers like you and i .

so the next time your partner 
smiles at you unasked, or kisses
right above your nose or looks at
you without saying a word or just
holds your hand loose yet firm
remember that he/she has been 
engulfed in foul play- and the only
thing that can save them is you 
being a part of it .

call it love 
or
call it love. 
it's one and the same thing.

@_kavyasharma

lessons on love . you see, the thing about lovers is that they don't die down like sunsets each day, they live enduring an insane sense of togetherness that binds them and frees them at the same time. lovers are fools and bigger fools are people in love for their hopelessness is in perfect sync with each other if not anything else; they are scratchy poems on your bed, only you did not write them. and everytime you feel you're there, near the destination, love my dear feels farther and farther away from you because unlike lovers waiting on love, love doesn't wait on lovers like you and i . so the next time your partner smiles at you unasked, or kisses right above your nose or looks at you without saying a word or just holds your hand loose yet firm remember that he/she has been engulfed in foul play- and the only thing that can save them is you being a part of it . call it love or call it love. it's one and the same thing. @_kavyasharma - 29 days ago

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