the youngest sailor

in another universe

we all live by the beach.

all eleven of us

in the same house

sharing the same blue sea-shell rimmed ceramic plates

with guitars leaning against our walls with textbooks peppered along the floors.

in another universe,

it’ll be late at night and we will all come home from our jobs, throw our bags on the floor, and see everyone’s shoes by the door.

i’ll come home to laughter,

the sweet, deep laughter of my friends, of a family i somehow found when i felt like i had none.

i’ll fall asleep, mid conversation with one of them.

i’ll wake up, and watch as the sunlight colors all of our faces.

in another universe,

we won’t have a dining table, no chairs, and no room for it either.

we will all eat on the living rooms coffee table

with scattered bowls of diced potatoes boiled and cooked in a loving array of warm spices

with a soupy, comforting egg curry and fried onions

with a sweet mango yogurt and warm, thin dosas.

in another universe i’ll eat, and i’ll remember what my english teacher said in class once,

that the act of choosing the people you eat with is a powerful and an intentional act of love.

in another universe, i will look through at our licked-clean plates and see religion.

in another universe i won’t write these kind of poems.

in another universe we make it farther than this.

we won’t talk about what the future will look like because we know we are each others future.

i won’t cry at the thought of how in two years and they’ll all be gone, building their beautiful lives.

in another universe we are all twenty forever - sitting crossed legged on the floor singing songs together.

in another world it’s us, and us till the end.

a sailor, in pain

i listen to your voice memos.

it hurts.

god it hurts so much.

everything hurts, and i feel the pain sticking to me like black tar, feeding off of my organs like a plague and staining my blood dark.

i cope by bleeding out poison.

i cry when i hear my father talk about his bad dreams in the voice memos.

i never want to sleep again.

i feel my insides churn when i hear him say my name again.

why do i even care so much? why do i still grieve?

i feel anger when he talks about driving.

he promised me he’d teach me how to drive.

how long is this night?

i don't need anyone, i don't need anything.

but this fire is burning bright and its starting to burn me.

its stinging me and i cant remember why.

why i entertain this mess or why i try or why you left me with a hoodie and 3 sentences.

it’s so lonely here.

and it’s feeling so heavy.

when can i put this flame out?

how long until daytime?

i don’t care how fucked everything was before he died.

i’d let him hurt me again and again if it meant he’d just come back.

i’ll always be this way. god i’ll never let him go.

goodnight dad, i love you.

writings of a half-asleep sailor at 2 am

i will never sleep.

i know there are still lighthouses shining their lights,

and maybe one of them is yours.

i will stay awake, until i see the very last ship come to shore,

because maybe you will be on one of them.

and i think i will finally make time to rest when the last fish washes up to the shore, all quiet and beat, from its long and final swim.

maybe you know it, and seen one of those fish, maybe that last fish was your lifeline.

the sandy grains called to me to their feet, and i suddenly became obsessed with oceans after you left.

i learned lots about the water when you were gone, and like a sailor, i did anything to get closer to the seas.

i learned the constellations and stitched them into the fabric of my skin so i could use the skies when i set out to find you.

i learned how to never get attached to my findings (and my lack of),

and i learned how to speak to the water itself.

i am a different girl now.

there is a salty tang that was left in my hair, one that you have never smelt.

there is a coconut perfume you will never hear me spray,

and my wrists are filled with bracelets from other sailors you will never meet.

you will never taste the seas air

or see the sun, lazily slip back down under the horizon, letting the moon take its place for a while.

you persist, despite the weather.

a constant, amidst the unpredictable winds and rains.

your picture is still up, pinned to the cabin door, and the salt air tries to blow you off during storms.

it blows and blows but you remain on the door- strong and persisting, hanging on by one singular pin.

i am the pin.

the magic of egg curry

i go to college in a white town.

i stand out, as a girl who wears gold bangles like little planetary rings that circle around her wrist, whose long black hair falls down her back like a snake, whos deep, coffee-dark circles hollow out her face.

when i came to this town, i told myself i wouldnt find people like me, and that it was okay, that i could still make friends with all sorts of other people.

but i wonder, how despite the statistics, the very slim chances of finding others like me, i got so lucky.

i wonder this as i am in the car, this warm, ocean boy driving us to our friends apartment as soft, beautiful hindi music strums from his car radio.

i notice the stars as i step out of the car. i notice the dark night and the calm, late august air.

we enter through the door, and when i step into the kitchen, i see that they are making egg curry.

my heart squeezes a bit, remembering the egg curry my mom makes, how it smelt and the warmth it brought to my stomach. my heart squeezes at how my friends are making something i thought i would only get to taste when i was at home.

i go upstairs, and two of my friends are sitting together.

my first thought was to leave, to give them space, but they pull me in as if i am their own and hug me hard enough to scrub away the hurt i never talk about, the sticky mess insides of my veins.

i smile, my whole face being consumed by its presence, i smile as if i just won the lottery- and i guess in some way i did, with how i got to meet such beautiful people.

we laugh, talk loudly, and i stay on the bed.

and i swear, in that moment, i felt love.

i go downstairs, and see the boiled and unpeeled eggs in the pot. i see the way my friends easily talk to each other, the way that there is love in the way the light shines down on all of their faces, the way that all of our shoes are by the door, in no rush to be worn.

i enter the kitchen, and the boys are peeling the eggs. one of us is attending to the pot of curry, adding ginger paste and chopped onions, while two of us are using all of our arm strength, combined, to open the window and let the air in.

as im cleaning and putting away dishes, i take a moment to look at all my friends.

the most magical part of all of this is how, amidst all of our different tasks, we are laughing from the deep parts of our bellies and talking with each other after our long days.

i step outside to the patio, to feel the nights calm on my skin, to see the stars, to hear my beautiful friends.

my ocean friend steps outside, pulls his chair close to mine and we sit, talking in gentle voices as im smiling and falling in love with how perfect everything is.

im a bit cold, everyones a bit loud, i still have homework to do, i still need to call my mom, i have so much other work to do, but all of it can wait.

this, this moment, this night, is all i care about right now.

after, my friend breaks a piece of rotli, scoops up the egg curry and feeds me the first bite.

my stomach feels warm, my whole body quietly processes, in awe, how good of a cook my friend is.

we spend the rest of the night, all of us watching tv, all of us close and comfy.

someones legs are wrapped around me, im scratching someones head, someone is playing with my hair, and someone elses arms are wrapped around me.

skinny love by bon iver plays from the show we are all watching, and i sing.

my friend drops me off to home, and we talk the whole drive.

as i go to bed, the smell of spices linger on my shirt. and even as my mind drifts to sleep, i can still smell it. i smell the marinated eggs and the warm, spicy curry. i can still hear us all laughing.

ramblings of a girl who is learning to say goodbye to another august

its noon, and im sitting here thinking about poems and drinking chai, when i really should be studying for my upcoming exams. i forgot this side of me, i buried the poetic parts of me because i was to busy trying to get through the summer, trying to convince myself that once i could get back to school, get away from home, i would be okay. i did it! i made it! im alive and in school now. the stress of academia is my favorite stress, one i would pick over and over again. being home is a kind of torture that makes my lungs close and my mind shut down. i would religiously listen to novo amor and bury myself in books and papers and microscope slides forever and ever if it meant never having to come home again. too bad that i am not strong enough to cut these sticky threads tying me back to my family, that i am too soft to leave them even if it means taking care of myself.

i will admit, i was excited to come home after 2 weeks of non-stop work, two weeks of studying and overthinking and working with barely enough time to eat, sleep for at least 6 hours, or squeeze time in for a shower. i thought it would be a nice mental break. but the sadness in the corners of the house, the dim, flickering lights my mom refuses to change, the arguments in the kitchen, the overwhelming blanket of a quiet and hateful life reminded me of how much i hate it here. it is such a shame. it is a beautiful house, a cozy, window-filled house. how could i not be grateful for that? but my stuff is all over the floor- i dont know where to put any of it. i tried to help my mom cook and she listed 20 reasons why i am not good enough to help her. i tried to watch a movie with my brother but he was too busy to come downstairs. its so lonely here. its quiet. i would call my friends, but the sound of my laughter when talking to the people i love most echoes a type of betrayal to the rest of the house.

my heart aches. i tried to bring laughter when i came back, tried to push away the stagnant air, but i was not successful. i tried, i really did, to make this place feel like home for all of us. but i find myself forcing my brain to shut down when im here, i try not to hear what is said to me. i keep to myself and try not to attract trouble. i force myself to forget. i let the wisps of memory slip away from my head, i turn on auto-pilot and try to take as little of home back with me, where ever i go.

i cant wait to go back to school. and i promise i will not take it for granted. i will study for hours with so much passion, that you can practically see my written notes swirling around my head. all the magic i loose at home, ill bring it back to there - twice as much. i will not let this place erase me. i promise this to the books and to my notebooks. my magic will live, no matter what.

june 2025

i sit at the dinner table looking at my mother.

its been a couple days since i came back from college for the summer, and i could already feel the weight of the next three months.

    in college, i ate most of my meals with my friends. 

    it was a break from countless hours of studying, where we laughed and talked about our days over pasta from the dining hall and water from the nearest water fountain.

    it wasn't much - the food was bland and often the same as the day before - but it felt like the universe was opening up to us.

    it felt like magic, how i found a family so far from home.

    my friends - they make me laugh. spending time with them, sharing meals or side adventures or a coffee with them felt so beautiful every. single. time. even though we did it everyday.

but here, back at home, hearing my mother tell me that she hates it when i talk at the dinner table broke my heart.

for the past nine months my every dinner had been filled with laughter and joy. 

and i knew that for the next three months my dinners would be filled with silence and hurt. 

i sat there that day, knowing that i would take the dining hall pasta again and again if it meant being able to spend time with people who love me as much as i love them.

i understand it is unreasonable. 

its unreasonable to compare my mother, a broken and tired woman to my college friends, people who are young and hopeful.

but is it wrong to want the relationship most important to me to be full of love?

is it wrong for me to wish that i actually enjoyed the time i spent with my mother?

in college, i rarely went to my room to sleep. at night, i slept 5-6 hours daily. i was occasionally tired, but never of life. 

but here, as the days passed by, i started to sleep in till later. my naps after work became longer, and i would do anything to avoid going downstairs. 

i became a different type of tired, one that sleep was not able to fix. 

maybe one day i will have a nice summer. 

when its late at night, when the ceiling fan is whirring and the windows are open and i am lying in bed, i dream.

i dream of a summer where i can go outside. where my everyday is not just sleeping and going to work.

a summer where i can make art, where i can see my friends, where i can explore. 

i dream of a summer of flip flops, paints, swimming, tanning, and learning. 

i dream of sitting outside on the porch and talking to someone. i dream of picnic blankets and stargazing and game nights and all nighters and laughing so hard that the whole house rings with laughter.

i dream of a summer where i am not afraid to speak, a summer spent in the downstairs of the house, a summer where my heart does not feel like its physically breaking. 

i promise to myself, that when i am older and away from here, that i will make every summer beautiful. i promise to myself that i will never let anyone yell at me ever again, not when its summer. i promise no one will be able to tie me down or tell me what i can and cannot do.

i promise, that at the end of the day when its time for me to journal, i will have a life where there are more good things than bad things to write about.

i promise myself this.

summer, but five years ago

 i want those summer days with blue skies and the smell of cut grass back.

we would go on long walks, for hours. 

we would talk about pointless topics, the meaning of life, the science of the world, and it was like our conversations would touch every point of the universe.

those days were comfort and contentedness, happiness despite the sadness in the core of my body and soul.

i want those day back, where the windows would be left open, the curtains swaying in the warm breeze, my loved ones at the table swinging our legs and laughing at each other's stories. 

there would be the soft hum of the air conditioning, the soft melodies of hindi music from the radio. 

the rhythmic chop chop chop of the knife cutting carrots, the sizzling of oils and spices, the chirps of birds. 

the sunlight would stream in, bringing its warmth and light into the house, the light making all of our faces glow a golden brown.

the sweet taste of biscuits and chai, the time ticking by.

i would sway as the music played, my mouth would tug at its corners as they joked and i would feel waves of tears when we shared our pain.

we would feel like family on those summer days, like a whole, real family and i miss that, i really do.

other days we would play badminton.

one of us would hit the birdie, and it would fly up, up, up to the clouds and we would watch in awe as the birdie touched heights we would never reach.

we would stretch our limbs and run backwards, with not a single thought in our heads except ‘i must hit the birdie’ and we would swing.

even the earth seemed so happy on these days- the flowers swaying in the wind, the sky all sorts of beautiful hues, the water shimmering in the sunlight as if there was glitter in the water.

even the sun seemed reluctant to go down, and it would stay even after dinnertime, watching us go on about our lives together.

i want those summer days back.