Chronic, yet we resist

Diagnosis: Undetermined, everything divided by zero
Pain index: a 9 out of 10

2012: Men gang rape and murder in a moving bus in Delhi.

Nights and sleep do not mix. 200 kg weight on chest, air sucked out. pain: constant, sharp now, then dull, then long, then short, then here, then everywhere like a sharp small stone buzzing around inside your eye. But, no one gets it.

They say you can’t clap with one hand, girls wear jeans, girls smile.

Prescription: therapy, an array of pills of shapes and sizes

#metoo is a spark in a concrete forest Women march and some men march too

A breath in: one two three four
A medicine that doesn’t make you retch
A therapy session
A smile
A breath out: one two three four five six
An ant of hope crawls up the spine.

One by one, people tell their stories Some listen My friend tells me it was her father I write a poem on the need for kindness

The symptoms subside
One day, the sun comes in through the window
instead of going back out

Spring is here. So, I write a poem on the unattractive flowers on the mango tree which will soon morph into manna for mortals.

Can you get used to living with pain,
numb yourself a little, cause life still happens?

A man abuses and murders a 7-year-old girl while across the globe a teacher opens fire on her own students. I don’t click on headlines.

Flare up. Inflammation. Migraine.
Can’t walk, eat, sit, sleep, write. A 10 out of 10.

Four held on the charge of raping 19-year-old in moving car in Bengaluru.

Hold on to something soft and strong all night,
and wake up in the morning. Breath. Stand. Move.

We walk into the streets in the dark. This time I write this poem on the persistence of resistance