A Medieval Verse on Love

Type: Poetry
First Published on: Good Men Project
Themes: Love, Teenage


The most loved often
is not loved at all. Like…

A medieval verse on love
starts with its end. Like
an impetuous outflow
of rigid desires.

It never stays. It never stops.
It stagnates. A medieval verse
on love wears cast
iron helmets wore on the heads
of the chieftains of before fore times

for protection
from love’s blows, from
those who are being loved.

The most loved often
is not loved at all. Like
a medieval verse on love
of chivalry, of long waits,
of fluctuating constants
of emotions

A night of urinary tract infection

Type: Poetry
First Published on: Pandemic Diaries
Word Length:
Themes: Existentialism, Illness, Despair


The poem was written on one of those lonely cold dreary nights in which you fear you have eaten a lot and you have urinary tract infection, and it is very cold and there are only walls.

This is going to be a long night. There’s 
No sleeping tonight, There are no owls, 
Just a bare pink room screeching from 
All sides. And a headphone and a smart 
Phone, to stare into. There is nothing, 
Except for an itch, in the urethra.

This is going to be a long night. There is 
Nothing. Really. Literally Nothing, except 
For a few words. The world is small and 
The trees are dead. And the winter is 
Suddenly gone, And the warmth of the 
Room suffocates. Outside? There is no

“Outside.” And outside, a few dogs 
Are quietly wailing a dirge of hope
For me. That the itch will go soon.
And a new sparkling stream will
Take its place. But the night —

It will remain.
In my memories. In this poem. 
Even when the dogs are dead. 
And the stars are gone. And 
The sky is glittering with the 
Sun. Without clouds.

This night will be watched.
And there won’t be a day 
For it to shrink into.

(2017)

The Postcard Speaks

Type: Flash Fiction
First Published on: FAHMIDAN JOURNAL
Word Length: 460
Themes: Fable, Anthropomorphism

Someone has written a love letter on me. It says he misses her and would come to meet her soon. I am confused. “Why didn’t he text her, or a call would have been better.” I nudge an envelope beside me. It is light blue and has a stamp from Karachi. I am from India. On my back, there is a dhobi ghat- two naked children holding knives. And women are thumping clothes on cemented waterways. I know I am not as pretty as the ones with Venice. But I am proud of myself.

I ask her- “Tell me what’s written on you? Let’s discuss what messages we carry on our bodies. In fact, let us make a festival. All the letters in the post office. It might be fun sharing stories. The postmaster will come in the morning and we might never see each other again. Let’s celebrate the momentary intimacy we are forced to enjoy. Who knows, we might be dead by tomorrow.”

Karachi does not reply…

(Read the rest at FAHMIDAN JOURNAL, Pg. 14)