NaPoWriMo 2017.

2/04/2017 day two.


There’s something about clocks
steadily, as if nothing could ever
be out of sync.

There’s something about the way
the digits align themselves,
spaced so equally, as if nothing could
ever be out of place.

There’s something about the way
the wheels churning in the distance,
soothingly, musical even.

There’s a lot about how they align
in the illusion that is time,
as everything seems to fall into place,
and it all just seems so right,
rhythmic tick-tock-ing
calming the tides.



I have never been one to relate to those moments, where your throat is dry and your mind is blank and there is nothing you can say or do about it because your brain is not functioning properly and your mind doesn’t form thoughts coherent enough for you to voice them out loud, and you are just standing there, dumbstruck, opening and closing your mouth like a goldfish.

No. I think I belong to the other category, with the lesser percentage of people, where hundreds of thoughts are whirring inside your head like hundred clocks ticking and you don’t know which one to pay attention to because, according to you, all are important and you have some extra one’s like, ‘hey! that could have been better if it went like this’ and I anticipate your and my reaction to the situation already contemplating how to act out my reaction because I’ve already guessed the outcome of it all.
Hell! I’d even thought of an escape plan for covering up in case I speak out loud a wrong thought out of the hundred ones buzzing through my head like electricity through a silver wire.

I don’t associate myself to the larger population, who’s mind, when kissed, stops completely and you feel weak enough to not be able to stand on your own to feet.
Two seconds into the kiss and I’m thinking of what it would feel like if you did not have that little stubble and if your lips were fuller. Another thought buzzes past and is already forgotten and then I’m staring at your closed eyes, marvelling at how your lashes brush against your cheek and all I want to do is to reach up and stroke your eyes  but then you’re already pushing your tongue on my lips seeking entrance into my mouth, and when I taste you, I wonder what you had eaten last and how your tongue tangles with mine and there is so much more going on inside my head when I’m gazing at the soft freckles on your nose and under your eyes and then I feel your hand sliding down my back and onto my butt, squeezing it, while I’m now thinking of what I taste like to you, and then I lose myself completely when you open those pretty eyes and gaze into mine, waiting for me to say something, whether you should continue or stop, whether I like this or not. But then I find myself standing there, completely dumbfounded, no words escaping my lips even if there are a thousand thoughts swirling inside my head.



I see you taking off your belt,
removing it from the shackles of your trousers
wearing a scary look on your face,
ready to lash at me with it.
Only because my words stung you, right?

But aren’t there too many of us?
So many, that even if your belts are torn and ripped,
we’ll stay, bleeding, but words unwavering.

You then take away my paper,
Make me work longer, harder.
Pointing empty drafts and bills at my head,
forcing me to survive on water,
stirring empty pots and drinking from empty pitchers.

You took away my land,
you have almost taken away my religion too.
You want me to follow you, don’t you?

When your bullets were piercing through the
bodies of my mates, children, wives,
where was your religion?
Was it not there, looming in the depths and shadows
of your dark, merciless eyes?

How could you not feel, the slightest bit of apprehension
when you so casually made slits into our uniformity;
dividing us, forming castes, breaking unity?

And while we are at it, let’s not forget
the inter-caste wars, love, marriages,
killings, when the father saw to it that
his daughter was burnt to death, along with her lover?

You also took away opportunities,
chances from my offspring, making them
redundant, unable to go out into the world,
stealing their pages, pens, ink.
What would they know of the world,
when they didn’t know how to read and write?

Your corrupted mind,
pulling money out of my pockets,
not admitting my child in your schools
and colleges without an opaque donation,
a transparent bribery.

I’m home, waiting for your call,
the acceptance letter in your hands,
lies unhanded to me,
your lame excuses, poor reasoning,
I’m fed up of it all.

And then you look into my eyes,
emotional against emotionless.
Which one’s are yours, which are mine?
After all you have done,
How do you expect sentiment to be in mine?

The journey of a mathematically-impaired kid

Math and me have come a long way. From learning the spelling (yes, that matters too!) to learning the values of ‘x’. A very, very long way indeed! The journey is filled with tears, and on most parts, angry pen marks in frustration and torn pages filled with formulae.

Look from afar, and you’d always see a hazy, blurry picture of me scrawling out numbers on a Classmate notebook, the pen cap chewed to bits and the textbook, half torn, lying in front of me. There was never peace between us, a war of the Xs and the Ys. And there was me, trying to pacify them both, and failing miserably at that.

Sometime in the ninth grade, my mother made me join a tuition, only for mathematics. She said, and I quote, “You wouldn’t want to fail ninth because of one subject now, do you?” That sentence petrified me, I was so scared that I had sobbed into my pillow for the rest of the night. Failure was something that I could never take in. Whatever I did, I had to excel in that, play to win!

The tuition teacher was a good one, she made me solve at least ten sums per sitting, five out of which I executed properly, and the other five were solved in the same old messy way. Now I cannot disregard my style, can I?

A week later, I had my Periodic Tests, and math was the first paper. I felt prepared, for once in my life. I went inside the big hall, the eerie silence making me forget all the formulae I had crammed up inside my head. I don’t know, everything just went blank the moment I faced the question paper. A single tear made way down to the answer sheet, and I wrote whatever little I could recollect from the minutes I had spent cramming up and solving tons of sums.

Faith was lost, for me, I believed that I was never going to pass math, and it was so out of my league.

Five months had passed, I had changed tuition teachers, written down each formula at least a hundred times. I had my Second Semester in ten days. Math again. The first paper. I don’t know why my school always had math as the first paper, maybe it was to terrify students from the first exam itself, or to rid them of the fear and help them perform well in the papers that followed. Nothing worked for me, I worried about math in each paper, and every morning closer to the result date made my heart skip a beat.

Result date: I scored 55 out of 100 in math. I DID IT!! I PASSED!! I was so happy I pranced around the whole room showing everyone my result. I was promoted to the tenth grade!

I worked hard in tenth, though most of it I spent goofing around with my friends. For my boards, I think I had practised enough sums. I didn’t need to cram up formulae now, they were inscribed, engraved, embossed, and anything else possible, on my mind.

When the result for the board exams were out, I had scored 86 in math. It was a great score for  me, a massive leap. Happiness bubbled out of me like oil from a pakoda.

Although I did well enough in Math in the tenth grade, when it came to choosing subjects in FYJC, I felt math and my journey filled with tragedy had to end sometime. We parted ways happily. I chose Logic.

Now I watch, with a smug smile, at other people trying to pacify the Xs and Ys.