actually, a worse thing is to be entirely indifferent.



i take copious notes but
poetry is pith.

i'm not sure if 'pith'
is a real word, but if i am
to understand what poetry does
real words fail me.

they failed me the day
i stepped into her home
just after sunset
and all she had was a
single kerosene lamp she
used sparsely because
she might run out before
the end of the month.

she rummaged around a
tiny trunk in a home smaller
than a king size bed
looking for a badly photoshopped
picture of a daughter
who died in an earthquake.
i never asked and she never told me
about the day she dressed her up
in pink and white and slathered
talcum powder all over her face
and did her hair in two neat plaits
then haggled with the studio owner
who made sure she smiled in
the right proportion, with the right angle
of the chin, then brightened her face
beyond recognition and changed
the background to something green
and floral - the picture she thrust
into my hands was nothing like
what her daughter must have
been like, nothing like
the words inside me, falling apart

so please don't mind me
when i say poetry is pith
because real words don't mean much


demonetisation woes

in which i desperately want to tell the internets i withdrew 10000 rupees but account balance doesn't comply. :/