My City

This was a poem that I performed during the last Pratibha (a cultural fest) of my final year college, sometime last year. The theme was The World Through my Lens, and of course I’d write about my city. I secured third place for performing this! And then I fell sick for the next 10 days.

High rise apartments

on dead lakes.

Lakes that provided for hundreds and hundreds

of acres of farmlands.

Lakes that provided for hundreds of migratory birds and nature lovers.

Lakes that gave us drinking water,

fresh and healthy.

Lakes that were alive, fifty years ago.

It was about nature. It was about being happy.

What about now?

What about now, you ask?

Look around you!

High rise apartments,

software dumps,

industrial wastes,

air conditioning,

cars, cars with air conditioning,

Employment opportunities like no other!

Would you build a twenty storey house on your providers’ grave?

Should I be proud that this is about the development of my country?

Or should I hang my head in shame and shiver with fear that the one thing that I hold dear, will be snatched away from me

in the next ten years?

Looking back on this, there are lots of opportunities for improvement. But I wrote this in like, 20 minutes in class, so I shall forgive myself.




Learning Art

I’m no artist

But I do love art

I am not that skilled with my hands

But I do admire people who are

And, yes, I do try to imitate them

Only because they’re good

And I know I’m not

But is that such a bad thing?

It’s not like I’m trying to snatch away their fame,

Am I?


Because I can never be that good.

But when I do try my own versions,

I am ridiculed

“That’s not original!”

“Try to come up with something of your own!”

But I don’t care.

Whatever happened to doing art for fun?

Like, reading for fun?

Is it lost?


People tend to forget to have fun

In this mechanical life

So, what I’m going to do is this:

Copy a painting

Add my own colors

Make a ribbon bookmark

Lots of them, for myself

Using my own sequins-ribbon combination

Scratch a piece of paper with colored pencils

Till I can see no white,

Copy a doodle off someone’s last page of their notebook

And make it into your own


Just like writing,

You can’t be inspired to do your own art

Without looking at others’ pieces

So, next time,

Don’t tell me you’ve seen this before!

Because I’m sure as hell you have!

Because I’m trying to have fun,

Unlike you,

I don’t try to be perfect

Or original

I’m only trying to learn

And understand my passion for art.

(This is my first attempt at a slam poetry, inspired by Colleen Hoover’s Slammed series. Go, Read it!)