Poetry: In Honor of the Late Electric Kettle Martyred on the Promise of an Elusive Education

This poem is dedicated to:

Kirti, Pallavi (roomie), Khushboo, Priyanka, Kanchan, and last but not the least, my darling dead kettle. I miss you all!! :*

(image source)

For nine months we were Rapunzels

Languishing in the tower of redundant education

Bidding civilization a teary farewell

To buy a degree with the currency of isolated frustration.

And through it all, you were there

By my side, when the world seemed dark and bare.

Oh, beloved companions of my embittered soul

My electric kettle and my Maggi bowl.

Through the heated – if slightly inebriated

Political debates of 2AM

You kept us full and caffeinated

You are the Magi of Bethlehem.

And even when our packaged noodles

Were pilfered (or borrowed) with dubious consent

And even when our budgets frugal

Had all been on clothes and vodka spent.

Through those tumultuous times you kept us fed,

Never went hungry to the creaky hostel bed.

Neither snake nor monkey on those haloed grounds

Ever wanted for tasty food within your compound.

And here we convey our sincere apologies

To the morning lectures, whose many qualities

We shall never know, for they were always missed

With a commitment that bordered on religious zeal.

And here too, we must admit

That we never really gave a shit

About the assessments or the flashy PPTs

Of imagination and research a shapeless potpourri.

But my friend, you should never believe

Anybody who tells you they didn’t grieve

For the cheap momos and cheaper pav bhajis

When the town of Dhenkanal they had to leave.

And it was a strange and glorious land

Where mosquito troupes and reptilian marching bands

Danced to Bollywood numbers on command

At night when all was dark and grand.

Boiled Maggi and filter coffee

Had never tasted better than on the crappy

Sheets of the rickety hostel bed

With music loud, the future on an arrowhead.

And it was the best of times

Though we were broke and bored, didn’t have a dime

Yet we got the lesson of our lives

Never miss the chance to have a good fucking time!

Poetry: Aro/Ace - On the Slightly Awkward Subject of My UnSexuality

Closet? What closet? I'm coming out of an antique mahogany almirah decorated with rainbow butterflies. 

Aro/Ace –

Sounds like the kinda thing you’d say on Tumblr.

Or would have, when you were fifteen,

If you were into that sort of thing.

I wasn’t, personally. I was too busy–

Trying to make friends (with dubious success)

Get passing grades (a huge fucking mess)

And simply exist (without knowing it) as an aro/ace.

What’s that? I couldn’t have told you.

Not then, when it was all confusing and new.

I barely understand it now, and I’m just a year short

Of a quarter of a century to the day I was born.

Well, I guess it’s a distinct lack of butterflies,

In your intestines, where their natural turf supposedly lies.

I s’pose it’s also a few awkward dates, a few epic fails

But that, in my life, is just a reasonably good day.

You prude. So rude. What the fuck, dude?

That was a perfectly good platitude

Of romantic intent, if a bit commonplace

But who said teenage love was about originality anyway?

A shrug. Coffee mug. I’m not against clichés.

I’ll drink it black and wallow in my own uniqueness.

I’m a strong, independent rebel who doesn’t need no man,

Unless he can play guitar, then he’s part of the gang.

‘Tis a bit of a strange identity

To be not who I am, but what I mustn’t be.

The unoppressed minority,

Or just a pretentious wannabe?

And sometimes, it’s just confusing as hell,

Did I break the fucking Kinsey scale?

Truth is, I’m all of the above

Though to get there was a bit of a learning curve.

But hell, I’m a year short of twenty-five,

Too old for this angsty Tumblr jive.

So there, I said it, I’m aro/ace,

And with that I conclude this awkward exposé.