Because I have no tales to tell
And nothing else to write
Just horrid stories observed
On an instant gram app
Where everyone’s a chef
A master of ingredients
Donning H&M suits in the kitchen
Even pale whites
500 calories, 490 likes
From people of influence
The likes
Of which preach fitness as prayer
Me, not a tendon moved
Fat, only burned on the pan
No shakshuka made
No “looks delicious” said
No words to express
No acts that impress
Words
Words of Rumi & Ghalib
That echo lifelessly
In empty chambers
Of large palaces
Left abandoned by a people
Immobilized by a virus
Yet not a smidgen of doubt
No self-reflection
Of the heinous acts
Upon those who ask “why us?”
From locker room chats
To showers of flowers
Of hollow emotions
Blindfolded to the agony
Of a penniless migrant
Oh, the apathy
Dissented then, and how much now
And for how long
Do we stay strong
On this instant gram
Left wondering
Relatable 100
Accountable 0
Surviving through a pandemic
That’s made everyone prolific
Making art, making masks
Writing, creating, consuming
Seeing the best of some
The attention deficit of some other
And so, lies a perplexed writer
Pious in his heart
With a parched throat
And perched in bed
Gazing steadily at Prime
Professing his pomp for Pushpavalli
Thinking to himself of the pointlessness of it all
Jotting pesky little words in the clear air of his wit
Perishable goods you’ve heard of
Pistachios, they rot
But perishable skills?
So, he lays them there
On the pyre – pinewood of rot
Wrapped in pashmina
Waiting for the puff of smoke to pass
Because he has no tales to tell
And perhaps just nothing else to write