I Am A Walking Grave

Desi Dark Academia

Wears Chicken embroidery Kurtas with pants to give the perfect combination of modern and traditional

Long, long haired women who always wear a braid to keep it out of their way

Glasses. Simple glasses. Removing them makes you look like a different person. Fuck contact lenses, you say

Have read The Mahabharata, The Bhagvad Gita, The Ramayana multiple times and analysed it to the point you know it better than your grandmother.

The stories of Akbar Birbal are a vivid part of your childhood

STEM students with an intense knowledge of history

Historical monuments splayed in ALL cities with their own history and stories

Havelis with squatters living in them

Villages.

Being Bilingual since birth, sometimes even knowing three languages before you enter primary school.

Your mother sitting you down, oiling your hair on Saturdays and braiding it for you

Your mother's gold bangles, which she got from her mother and will eventually be yours.

Mehndi. Weddings and Festivals which leave but intricate Mehndi designs that linger on women's hands for a while. Or your mother putting Mehndi in her hair because fuck chemical colors.

Haldi. Haldi is everything.

Your family cures and recipes.

KADAAS. Bitter Kaadas with herbs and spices that your maa, amma/daadi or nani forces you to drink because they're good for your health

Chai is the first thing in the morning. Or the last one at night. The calm that washes over you when you're in the midst of a late night study session as you make yourself a cup of chai in the middle of the night. Quietly, because everyone else is asleep.

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Surgeons// Cuts

The wound bleeds.

The wound bleeds,

Gushing with everything

That was intended to be kept on the inside.

This safe of a body was not meant to be shared, sliced open,

Quite so literally.

The blood will soon clot off, sealing everything temporarily//

Body's own defense mechanism.

The surgeon will surgically remove the growth.

The local anesthetic will make your body funny;

You'll feel your ear become a fabric,

The sound of sewing of sutures

Rings in your head as the surgeon finishes.

He is impressed with how well you handled the needles.

You smile.

Being numb doesn't even feel like numbness-

A lot more like no pain

But your body turns into things

It has never been.

When you exit the operating room

He tells you to keep the dressings dry.

You text a friend,

Tell them not to hit you in the head again-

You just had surgery.

It rains on your way home.

They really be erasing parts of history which make them look bad huh?

Love Birds (but like the Love is real and pure)

When I was little, I used to stay away from matches because I was sure I would set myself on fire. What I didn't realise was that I've been burning for a long time. You know how they say you're a sum of everyone you've met; everyone you've come across? I think I'm other people, more than I am myself. I still remember the phone number of my friend from the third grade. What do I do with the memory of that? That's the problem. I remember too much. I can never forget: numbers and people. I am a walking ache, I am a fresh scar; I am open wounds: always aching. I am hurt. My happiness is pretense and my sadness is a default. I have been hurt too many times and I can never forget it. I never remember my happiness. I remember too much of what went wrong and too much of all that hurt me; that's the problem. What do I do with all this hurt? I carry a lifetime of hurt. I think I will age backwards; I already hurt so much at so little, I am sure there can be no way this gets worse so I have to hope this will get better. As the years grow, I will grow. I will be taller when others are starting to hunch. How could I not? Where do you go from this ache? I am the ache I feel and I am the thing that hurts my heart. My happiness is always a pretense. I am always sad during the happiest moments of my life. Someone called me arrogant and I laughed at their face. I think some people are always sad. I am always other people and I have never been myself and I do not know what to do with that. I am a stranger in my head and my face is always a foreign image that surprises me. I remember too much. I don't know how to not. How do you forget? I don't hate myself, I just don't know what to do with her sometimes. She is a child and she is so grown up and strong and she is always grieving the loss of some part of herself.

I wrote a poem

And you thought it was for you.

I wrote an eulogy

And you thought it was

For my funeral.

To be with someone

Who thinks of nothing

But the ending

When you both are still here

Is to say there already exist

Thousands of ends in their mind.

I just wish he has also imagined

One mellow future where

We're both here and we're both okay,

No one buries us and no one burns us.

There are things we do not talk about here.

Do not mention the lines that once

Ran along the length of your left hand,

Carved by you trying to play God

When you were barely a person//

Perhaps that was the point.

Half a year trying to make the scars disappear,

The other half spent convincing your own damn self not to.

Listen.

There are places in your head

You could disappear off to,

The ones which will make you so, so happy

And perhaps even a maniac,

But aren't maniacs just people

With enough conviction

To want to live in a world

That was their own mind's doing?

I am proud.

When the Earth tumulted and collapsed on me,

Trying to throw me off itself,

I held on with bare hands.

I dug my claws into the brown soil,

Trying to become one with the Mother,

Trying to grow myself some roots to stay.

I have already been here longer than I had imagined,

To have a place at all is magic in itself.

I have so much life left to grow roots out of.

Red is angry and loud,

Red is a rebel teenager

Who wears eyeliner

On the wrong lid

And has too many piercings.