feminism, i guess.
as the statues break
Periyaar and Lenin sneer
from their comfortable graves.
there are a great many sad things in this forsaken world but nothing i believe is sadder than a writer waiting for people to recognize his words to admire his works secretly hoping to wallow in their awe of how he doesn’t care
how does it feel like to write a poem?
the unuttered poem of the streets of chandni chowk, delhi.
just for a few hours i found an alternate reality
a writer is holy, unholy. sacred and the profane.