Naina Agarwal

People, at large, lack empathy. Pooja did not. Her frivolous expressions, bold laughter, and carefree persona ignited Khan's curiosity. He was amused. The two leaped from casual to serious dating in a short span of time. “ Life will not be boring with this one ,” he couldn’t help wondering. Pooja lay on the left of his bed fiercely typing on her phone. She was once again fighting a right-wing troll on her Social Media. The recent social unrest had nurtured her activist stance. Khan chuckled and let her be. It was a Saturday afternoon. He looked outside the window. The trees appeared greener, skies bluer. Khan noticed her.   She was not one of those Instagram girls with polished legs and painted skin but a glass-eyed selenophile; a jobless bookworm who looked out for ways to avoid reality. She was red rose; her thorns defending the velveteen rabbit. Her ice burned and her fire soothed. She was an oases found in the middle of a desert. Or a

Back in 1992, when Malik Khan was six years and one month old, his parents left him to the riots following the demolition of the Babri Masjid. But this incident did not instill any sour thoughts against the other community or the world at large in him. Khan was no Batman; his abba had not left him a rich heritage that could foster his dream of making India great again. He grew up in the household of his childless uncle and aunt who willingly adopted and raised him as their own. Throughout his adolescence, Khan never indulged in self-pity and instead, channelized his energy into a positive direction, thus, seeking personal growth and development. Upon the completion of his engineering in Computer Science from an eminent technical university, Khan unsurprisingly bagged a decent package offered by an MNC, and landed in Pune.  In Khan, one could find an apparent amalgamation of talent and hard work – two key ingredients required to make a successful individual. Th

“He should be six-point-one feet tall,” Pooja giggled as she told him the ideal qualities she is looking for in a life partner. Her date smiled. He had to. He had his height written in the Tinder Bio. Her date was six-point-one. Pooja was good at it: the flirting game. She considered herself an independent, self-sufficient, metropolitan woman who was vocal about her needs and interests, and was not afraid of labels and tags. Pooja was a voracious reader of Facebook posts, high-end Twitter celeb, public figure on Instagram, e-book author in making, and frequent user of dating applications namely Tinder, Hinge and Bumble. She used the dating apps to pamper her singlehood. Once a fortnight or so, Pooja managed to go out on a casual date with a new boy post chit-chatting in the DM. Her present date was one such individual whom she had right-swiped on Tinder and upon a decent conversation that led to the two sharing their WhatsApp contacts, agreed to meet in person.

Taj Mahal marble. skin  Of snake or chameleon-  You change so quickly?  Chameleon skin-like;  You change your shades so quickly.  What you touch is yours.  Like a snake slithers out of its skin,  Frequently, but retains self -  You change yet you don't.  Are you an old witch?  Changing shapes at her own will?  Your beauty is unusual.  My white marble Taj -  Your moods vary from day to night - You are the nine rasas.   Every time I hold you,  I see a new you.  My kaleidoscope lover.  I wait patiently, every day,  For you to show me your real. Or is this your self?  You are a pastiche  Of different colours, Intermixed  Violently.  Revealing your shades;  In different zones differently.   That's where your beauty lies.  *** 

Skin will be cold, Ashes stay- For years and years- The soul will stray. Moon will scatter, Sun be set; Eternal be night, And that is that. Whales be gone Along with the ice, And gone will be The little Paradise. And gone will be The honey and the bee, Along with the greens, Savannas and seas. No little men Or big be left; Nuns or babies, Whores or saints Or mothers and sinners, Lovers and slaves; Skin be cold, Ashes will stay. For years and years, The soul will stray, And that is that, is that, is that.  ***

The daily humdrums,  Ignoring rhythm in monotony;  Weaving patterns in the maze,  Of those black eyes where night meets the sea. Like the sound of temple bells,  Of the rivulet, anklets,  Like the smell of ocean,  Smell of coffee, of perspiration,  Summer wind,  Song of a woodpecker,  And rain.  Take a single grave on the hilltop of a deserted island,  Or a young girl collecting sea shells, Unpainted lashes,  Illusions, and glances,  Orange ember of coal.  Twilight or Dawn. Like the colour of cactus when it rains,  Colour of void.  The death of hibiscus on the eve of its birth, or mayflies.  Of honeybee. The taste of lies on the tongue,  Or hunger pangs, blood,  Vow.  And Salt. Have you noticed the vibrations in my fingerprints? Or the horns on swans?  Mother beating her infant when he doesn’t cry? Fifty thousand mourners; Vibrations when I feel..  A child’s smile less divine than  An adult’s nervous breakdown.  I think nervous b