In this vast world of human emotions,

Homesickness is the one that slips through the cracks.

In the face of heavyweight contenders like grief and pain

Homesickness needs to be dealt with in the private realm.

Homesickness is the forlorn mind wallowing in nostalgia,

Falling back on the joyful moments in the past to push through this intensely dark present.

Homesickness is a fragile heart gasping for breath

Caught in the throes of a passionate affair, it is yearning for her beloved.

Homesickness is that bittersweet pull on the heartstrings when your new neighbour invites you for dinner 

And the culinary conversations end with you telling her the story of how your mother learnt to cook chicken fritters.

Homesickness is the riot in your heart when, on an impromptu visit to the art gallery, you realize that a stranger in this new city is an 

Artist who grew up in your town and has brought it to life on her canvas.

Homesickness is that sudden thrill of catching a fleeting glimpse of a sky blue Chikankari saree in a sea of women at the Pujo pandal and 

Missing the hostel-mate who draped you in her heirloom Chikankari saree for your college farewell.

Homesickness is that morose feeling that befalls you when you come across an Instagram post advertising a talk by your favourite author and you can’t 

Call up your childhood friend who made you fall in love with literature because he lives in a militarized zone with no access to the Internet. 

Homesickness is a terrible disease with vastly different symptoms

Each as unique as the person living with it.

Homesickness is an ailment we bear in isolation

Yet it is one that unites the world in its suffering.

Homesickness is the sweet fragrance of the jasmines in the nursery that transports you back to the 

Lawn in your school where you spent many glorious hours chatting with your friends.

Home is the cosy flat in this new city with your name on it

Where you bring back a few potted jasmines and allow it to embrace you with its sweet smell.

Home is your brave tender heart where the 

People, places, moments and memories of your past are lovingly ensconced.

Homecoming is the dinner for one that you cook at your new address

And thank your mother for feeding you comfort food through the years.

Homecoming is paging through the photo album where

Your father documented you and your muse – the city of your birth.

Homecoming is calling up your friend and talking about

Sarees and other stories under the Sun.

Homecoming is writing a long letter to your friend and

Sending your favourite author’s new book in the mail.

Homecoming is this deep connection with your vast world

Living, laughing and loving in the confines of your heart.

It is the season of love

(Yes, I can see you smirk)

Valentine’s Day is around the corner

And my new employers want to jump on the bandwagon.

So a party is announced 

Replete with music and booze

Old-school romance coupled with new-age charms

And the manager wants my love song for the mixtape. 

Her words rip the bandage off my heart

If only this day crept up with a TRIGGER WARNING

A love song? A mixtape?

What even is that?

Our love story (if it can be called one)

Didn’t follow the template

Didn’t get to perform these rituals

So I think of us and imagine our mixtape.

The first song about the first time

Our eyes met at the public library

You desperately searching for that elusive tattered copy of bell hooks’ All About Love

And I extolling the magnificence of Elif Shafak’s The Forty Rules Of Love to a stranger.

The second one in memory of that Bombay monsoon where

Seeing me stranded in my rain-soaked clothes at the bus stand

You offered to drive me home

It was the first time we spoke.

The third song on this tape must be the 

Konkani number that belted out of the roadside teashop where 

We grabbed a cup of cutting chai after the movie

Our first date, though neither of us had the courage to acknowledge that. 

Your favourite Jazz singer features next on the list

We danced to her songs on that first night I stayed at your place

It was a night of many firsts

Our first kiss, our first snuggle, our first time together.

Part B will have just one song — the anthem you chanted on returning from 

Your first Pride March was the day you decided to be

Out and Proud while I knew the closet was my refuge

Strange how a song of affirmation became our breakup song.

Immune to the vitriol the world spews at you, you have built a 

New life in a country that respects your human rights while 

I live in one where pinkwashing is considered progress and chants of 

Love Is Love rings out on Valentine’s Day even as I fall apart inside my closet.

In the holy month of prayer and fasting

My prayers must be lost

In the deluge that washes up 

At the doorsteps of God.

I must resort to fasting with greater sincerity

Maybe this plea for help will jump the queue

And turn His attention to the burning

World of mortal beings.

I don’t know how to abstain though

And like the queen from the pages of history

Who ate cake as destruction and 

Devastation inched closer.

I turn to feasting as the world goes

Up in flames around me but 

My table is large and well-

Endowed with life’s bounty.

On the menu tonight is the chef’s

Special handi of insurmountable grief

With a judicious sprinkling of raw rage, it

Sets my mouth on fire and the bitter aftertaste coats my tongue forever. 

Each bite of this chapati is dry, hard and unpalatable

But that is to be expected when the 

Dough is made of trauma and guilt

So I plough on undeterred. 

The perfectly charred kebabs are quite juicy

Dripping with helplessness and anxiety

And making me salivate even as I 

Gorge on mouthfuls of it.

The aroma of restlessness assails me long before

I taste the fine flavour in the biryani but the

Star of the dish is the despair that

Comes up in each spoonful I take. 

I fall prey to the appetizing Rogan Josh

And sink my teeth into the crippling

Fear and stress that gives this

Fiery-hot dish its richness and taste.

I lick my fingers clean of the loss and 

Abandonment that now courses through my veins

Ever since my tongue first recognised the shards of

My heart in the creamy phirni.

In an apocalypse, feasting is a luxury

But one needs a full stomach to survive it

So I let my heart marinate in all its emotions,

Cut it open and eat all my feelings. 

(Of) what use is poetry

If it doesn’t speak the language of the powerless and the helpless

If it doesn’t become the voice of the present moment

If it doesn’t ally with history to become our collective memory?

And even then it won’t be enough

For poetry isn’t policy or apology

At least, show the mirror to society

Be our collective conscience.

Recite a poem to bring about a revolution.

Recite a poem to love deeply and laugh loudly.

Recite a poem to hope fervently and live truly.

Write your poems - your love letters for the world.