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Poetry Month: BLIND

the blind,

they don't know how

to distinguish,

they just know how to



The only way to change the past

would be to re-write the history books

Destroy the libraries that retell the stories of their atrocities

Create a new regime

that glorifies their 'good' deeds

Light the 'liars' on fire

So the smell of kerosene

masks the putrid scent of truth

Let this be an example,

To prying journalists

Student activists

The idol-worshippers

The circumcised

The ordained

The free

And the freedom seekers


This city is dying


We order a lazy lunch

Only worrying when we discern

these fires may delay our delivery boy

They should know,

There would be no need to re-write the history books

We've already forgotten


the first boy

that almost kissed me

saw a rainbow staring back at him

so he stopped and asked me if this

is exactly what i wanted and when i said


he dismantled every one of my arcs

and told me to leave his house

i cried so much i became


sank into the earth

for the next boy to shape me

around his fingers

held him till he

pressed a little too

hard on the cracks

and bled me to silence

and refused to talk in metaphors

for a while

i found poetry in

the boy that broke my heart after him


the night he stepped onto

my forest floor and instead of

seeing the wonderland that came

alive, left me to rename colors

after the next

who only saw me as a shadow

while he remained the

the sunshine that came before it

so i withdrew to the altar

prayed till a boy told me

he spoke to god about me

i asked him to

recite a verse with me

instead, he unfolded his palms

and watched me

set sail to meet

the boy that deserved

the world

all he saw was distance

all we shared was the sea

there are often days

when i want to believe

that love could be blind

but it has had a way of

shaking me awake

every time

you see, i

don't exist

within dreams

i exist as the rainbows

the earth and its forests

the shadows, the hallows

and the sea

and the boys,

they could never keep

what they couldn't see.


I wouldn't know how to

weave the unclarity

the state ordered starvation

the nightmare of migration

and the blind eye synonymous

to our normalcy

into a poem


quiromancia ~ palmistry in Spanish by Shalaka Kulkarni

di, overheard at school today

about palm history or palmistry

so gaze at mine

and tell me something


it better be interesting

well, let me see and

tell you i am no astrologer

or a palm reader

but just a verse-maker

so let me see,

your palms look clement,

dainty as a flower bud,

covering all the inner noise,

nerves, veins and loud blood

on your left,

there's a range of mountains,

just below your finger spaces

with a creek, and a brown

moon shining over the peaks,

honey, pretty mystique

whereas on your right,

a bunch of rays have formed

a springfield,

and there's a small shack,

to play hide and seek.

and when you join both,

you can build an air swing,

the tiny cross mats

on the ground, inviting a little

al fresco of you, me and mom

just above your wrists

enticing it is, but what are

mountains and creeks?

and shacks and swings, di?

mountains are natural elevations

and creeks are narrow waterways

and shacks are raw huts,

and swings are ... wait, i can't elaborate

wait, i can't elaborate

as a verse-maker, hereby i fail

let me borrow some science

and present you your

wonderful here after -

wait, let me trace

your palm lines in braille

let me trace

your palm lines in braille.


Blind Man by Vasvi Kejriwal

I’m thinking of how musical the world

might sound to the blind man.

Is the house sparrow’s song a clink

of glass bangles? How unforgivingly

does rain slap his earth? How much

higher does the mountain of loudness tower

over him, when there’s an unbroken silence?

I’m thinking of whether roads dislodge into

a mere number of paces in his mind. And

whether his bed is a number of stitches

mending memories the world left on his skin?

I wonder whether he might be grateful

for the Braille-like embroidery wanting to hold him

through the night, when he’s loathing the most,

for wanting to listen to the darkest parts of his day

as he traces thread

on the lumpy, pigmented parts of his flesh,

for not wanting to aid him, but for taking in

the wounded refugee of sight, for mashing his body

so pitilessly into a soft, unvigilant pulp layering bone.

I keep wondering, for I don’t know. But I know

he must have looked far down the depths

of kindness, beyond the lotuses that grow

despite dirt, he must have looked

further than I’ll ever know.


when i was eight

a blind girl lived in the adjacent house of my chawl

she’d caress people’s face

and read the face lines like her braille script

sometimes what you see is not enough

to understand how another person is feeling

she'd say

on frequent nights her father would come home drunk

and beat her mother and punish the girl

for occasionally bumping into things

and he would curse his fate until he slept

on nights like those, i saw her in the balcony

her face up at the sky and she'd console the moon

“i’m fine. i’m fine. how are earth and sun treating you?”


i think her heart probably knew how the butterfly effect worked

and so, she was so kind

hoping somewhere sometime

her kindness would save someone's world

she didn't know but she was so tender

that it could melt the sun

after years, now when i read about the ongoing researches

and how there is evidence that proves

certain genes linked with humans being caring and kind

i laugh at how silly science could be sometimes

i want them to know kindness is a virtue you might not inherit

but can always develop within

and if they ask me how

i'm gonna tell them that i knew a blind girl

whose eyes shone brighter than people having perfect eyesight



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