I am fresh dew drops over cold windshields on sullen wintry daybreaks
I am Sunday morning coffee served in bed with extra cream,
I am Midsummer Night’s Dream, a couch and a blanket on wild stormy days
I am not a three-course meal in a fancy restaurant,But
I am homemade candlelight dinner at midnight after a long work day.
I am a month long poetic spell, with the right amount of emotion elixirs and word potions.
I am comfort. I am calm. I am cold. I am warmth.
I am the light that emerges from within your eyes when the bulbs go out,
I am the hue of petrichor rising from a parched earth,
when monsoon lets down it’s gaurd.
I am the sound of a flute when hard rock starts hurting your ears.
I am a muslin cloth against a coarsed skin
I am an ocean,
reflecting and refracting light,
translucent in the day and coloured at night,
and yet, unmoved.
I am acceptance. I am glow. I am spirit. I am strength.
I am the colour brown,
and not the latte or the cocoa brown that is devoured by men,
I am the colour of earth,
I am silt, that brings life to reapers.
I am dust, that rises for droplets to coalesce around and fall as rain.
I am clay, that takes shape on a potter’s wheel to tend to dearth,
I am sand, that adorns a soldier’s forehead before entering a battlefield.
I am the Sita who never waited for Ram to come,
I am also Sati, and parts of me have been burned for far too long,
Charred by the soot,
Mucked by the ash,
I am black now.
I am hurt.
I am scarred,
Because I know
I am my pair of ghungroo, striking the hard floor at all the correct beats and
I am my feet that balances me perfectly on hundreds of one-foot turns.
I am my diary, dissolving in the numbness of my being and
embracing the ink flowing out of my pen.
I am my pain,
That eventually leaves.
I am my breathe
I am alive.
I am willing to show you why.
I am regret.
I am power.
I am hope.
I am myself, in all the conjectures and bones.
And I am an endless expanse of I am’s:
I am Countless and indecipherable,
Like the number line stretching from minus infinity to infinity.
And only fools think that
I am measurable.
I am the soul:
Eternal and absolute.
But for now,
I will tell you this
I choose to be confined
by my mother’s dal,
by my father’s scolds,
by rare hugs.
I choose to be finite
in the fleeting moments
when someone spends them on me.
I choose to be bounded,