Age

All his shirts were the same colour –

Black.
“Why Black?” I would ask.
He would smile and say nothing.

It wasn't a rhetorical question.
I really wanted to know.

Was it the calming inactivity that attracted him?

Was it a representation of his past?
The colour of his mother’s favourite sari?
Perhaps his sister’s hair clip that he would steal and tease her with?

Did the colour stir his mind?
His soul?

Was it good?
Was it the opposite?

Was he holding on?
Or was – were we, looking forward?

Was it that he couldn't tell?
We had known each other for just twelve years.
We had created life together, yes,
But, is twice enough?
We had fallen and risen together so long that the folds of skin
on our foreheads
under our eyes
near our lips
had begun to seem the same.

So, why was it that he couldn't tell?
Or, was it that he didn't want to?

His silence held the mysteries of the highlands and the seas.

I had innumerable questions
My eyes screamed them at him.

He just smiled and said nothing.
But, so did I.

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This was written as part of a competition. We had a few different themes that we had to build into our writing and them perform it. The theme I chose was the "mysteries of the highlands and the seas"

Whole

Even at its worst,

When it drowns my lungs

When it burns my skin like ice

When it tears my heart into shards of misery

When it systematically obliterates me with its very intensity

When the weight of it threatens to crumble my being

When I’m methodically broken into tiny fragments

When all that’s left of me are tatters

Even then,

Even at its worst,

With you,

I am more whole than I have ever been.

It’s just that

You’re not here

And I miss you.

Mend

Here's the back story. My aunt Shivakamy Iyer died while I was competing my Masters in another city. She lived with my grandparents who moved in with us after her demise. This was written about my first few days of moving back home.
Extra info you need to understand this: My mom's name is Lakshmy Iyer, the only Iyer in my house until my grandfather Dr. S. S. Iyer moved in.

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I didn't know what I was coming home to.

My brother and my mom had sent me pictures and long, detailed letters of all that had changed.

They told me what was kept where

They told me who slept where

They told me how they now felt

They even told me how I would feel

“It’s different but good”

They said.

I still wondered what I was coming home to.

My family structure had changed –

I had never lived in a joint family before

I had never lived away from that family before

I had never seen the still, lifeless body of someone with whom I had had such vivid, lively memories before

Memories of playing rummy, of painting napkins, of story-telling in the dead of the night

Of singing.

I had never done a lot of things before –

Until I had done them.

It took a while to readjust.

But they HAD prepared me. It was OK.

So, when the postman said “Iyer” – I knew that it’s not just my mom, this letter could be for my grandfather too.

I didn’t know what I was coming home to

“Shivakamy Iyer” the letter said.

Burnt Umber

Year after year of pruning and growth
Formidable burnt umber from lanky sienna youth
There comes a time, each year, when they
turn over a new leaf - forge a new way.
Beliefs remain but ideas are born
Between the two, they're perennially torn
Still, year after year, they give it another try
And as they shed, so do I.

The Battles I lose

As inevitable as I knew this would be,
the strength doesn't come easily.
As I lick the fresh wounds on my ego,
I know that this is a sign of things to come.

You talk of the choices you make to shield
as I recognize that my calling has finally called.

Perseverance and patience,
I dust them off to perform their service.

And finally as one riot reaches its close
the one that breeds in the privacy of my head
turns to sublimation
And finds a sole solace in the unpleasant path ahead -
The battles I lose
I choose.

Blissful Ignorance

When the mind is enslaved

By a new kind of master

One that does not separate from its mule

Then Thought falters

Deceitful, it shows

Images and ideas that are not its own

But, in the dark, this is peace

Held onto for dear life

It is when the light shines through

And illuminates this existence

Reveals this horror

That Trust falters

Stumbles and stammers

Until it is lost

Just like the mind

In a maze of uncertainty and chaos 

Turmoil

They might not like it

Their eyes hold disdain

They may think it irrational

Or simply call it insane

I don’t understand it either

It drives on a different lane

But I can’t help what I feel

And the feeling doesn’t wane

I envy misery

I am jealous of pain