Aekta Khubchandani

Let’s throw pebbles and pumpkin faces
in the ocean of sadness,
map our own constellation
dip our feet in the glow blue beach
tip toe with glitter planktons
build a concrete lighthouse,
forget that sand castle
sometimes, dreams come true
sometimes, nightmares do too
so let’s live a page from magic realism
pac-man faces, emoji conversations;
how did we forget the smell of
cartridge papers, ink and feathers;
the length of letters and
the breath that breathes a summer song
the sound of the sea in a sea shell,
our voice above the noise,
wave after wave after wave
skin, the colour of sun kissed sea
eyes, the blue of sky and
smiles like the elephant trunks of clouds
why have we forgotten the simpler things?
rivers and roads that lead to us
the bend, the fall that make us, us
the head, the heart and
another day basked in moonlight
that still tastes of the sun.

three cigarettes today
but today is a brand new day, I remind myself
I’ll get through alarms, reminders and to-do lists

a pile of jumbled words running in my head like typists’ fingers – tap tap tap
heart racing, out of breath, collapsing, interrupting to hold another breath
breath-less but still working – thump thump thump

there are fifteen faces I’ve to greet
faces will suddenly grow like omelettes on an oversized pan
from the days I’ve skipped breakfast

spreading, increasing amoeba-like but magnified
cup shaped fingers like fat wires of a blown out socket
reaching out to me like grim reaper’s slimy fingers

brushing their sweaty palms on my cheek
hands gently flowing down to bleach my spine with black sand
arms wide open, thrown at the sight of my body

our bodies will dance robotically to a music in their head
‘free hugs’ are claustrophobic and exhausting
but the campaign in their minds are advertised otherwise

I’ll fold my hands in prayer hoping it doesn’t last long
I’ll find the lighter, after knowing where it is
seventeen times

three cigarettes today
(and counting)

My body wakes up to get stubbed
I have holes in my belly
I taste of imprints of nail cracks, pencil points,
grey and brown of paper, page and canvas
my lungs cough out whiskers like shavings
of my tangible body
I taste of my own departure
soul leaving body leaving soul
part by part in threads of what I was once clothed
I smell of sweat and palms and pokes of points
I smell of a gutter of an artist family
I bend and thump and puke my service out
at the knees of their fingers
fat flesh strangles my breadth
the inch of my length makes music
the one a rape victim would howl
when his voice box is on mute
I wonder if we’ve had a voice at all?
when they shred my leftovers
part by part, I see teeth and claws
scraping off the plastic gown
I can smell my death at a feet’s distance
The bin-yard waits for banter
slaughter is religion and recreation
of art.
there, I hope I’ll rest.

I’m booking myself a one way flight,
Packing chips and chocolates
In containers air tight,
Sometimes flying means seat tied sitting,
Soaring high with metal wings,

Or smoking in circles and rings
Forgetting the shallow human existence.

I’m booking myself a one way flight,
I’m carrying our favourite playlist,
Our broken conversations and pending kisses,
I’m dumping traces of you and less of myself
In a bulky bag,
Thinking if I could only take the bag
And leave the baggage behind.

I’m booking myself a one way flight,
To see my eyes less tired and dry,
I’d welcome with wide open arms,
The sulking sea and the sinking sand,
The taste of salt in the breath of the air,
I’ll make new memories like paper boats,
Keeping ours safe in my pockets that are out of my reach
I’ll drown in the alcoholic ocean of emotions
And temporarily survive.

I’m booking myself a one way flight,
To a land where park benches don’t know our names,
From where the Moon looks down at me and still smiles,
I want to touch spaces so wild and insane,
And let lose of all the love I have trapped within,
Waking up to the smell of our home
Where I believe you never left my hand.

– Aekta Khubchandani

If I had a daughter
I’d have tears in my eyes

If I had a daughter
I’d erase the word ‘love’
And emphasize on slaughter
If I had a daughter
I’d treat her like a son
I’d maybe tear her apart
Hoping she isn’t left
With much of a heart
If I had a daughter
I’d train her brain
To earn money
And forget all about
Paradise, love and honey
To talk to praise
And talk to be praised
If I had a daughter
I’d make her wear
Long shorts and
Summer full sleeved tops
If I had a daughter
I’d treat her like a son
And tell her
To walk like a lady
To swallow her sorrows
And to be rough and tough
To hold her chin up
And take in the tears
Before they dare
To slip and fall
If I had a daughter
I’d tell her that
Red is for love not
But for blood
That flows and blots

If I had a daughter
I’d have tears in my eyes.