Steel grey skies set behind the red sun
dipped with russet rimmed lines,
spelled with the darkest clouds;
are people sitting by their windows, curled,
dawned in a sensation of grimaced hope
that sits silently on their calm—
in the event of a welcomed rain,
in the event of an unarmed gale;
offering the atmosphere to compel
compassion over hot beverages
along with a light heart-ed conversation,
whilst people await its arrival;
over days, dispatched to return
over days, slept in triumph
over days, dispelled nostalgically—
causing ebullience sought in droplets
that are freshly planted on a soil inhabited,
that carries fresh smell of mother earth
in cakes of mud that are left imprinted;
murky water splashed by vehicles wheeled
on black tarmac roads half wet,
washing away dust & stones;
finding trees that shine over zealously
in a watered glaze coated partially
on its roots and stems,
quelling nature to carry it in a semblance
of spilled watercolors on an easel,
that is left half-painted by an artist
drawn invariably to subsume
colors of a season,
much dreaded and loved.- Shweta Kher


You once asked me
if I love you to the moon and back,
if I am as fulfilled with you,
as the sky satisfies me
with its vivid colors
if my declaration of love is as vast,
as it is to the expanse of the ocean.

My answer to you is:
I see the undefined beauty in your eyes,
the bare nakedness in them, touches me,
I feel vulnerably close to you and nearer to the distant emotions I’ve never felt before—which now I feel in abundance
as the expressive sky,
diving in the vast expanse of the ocean,
exploring every untamed emotion,
reflecting the impossibility of measuring my love in enormity to the moon.

I trade my beliefs for your questions
and so I am embodied with a thousand more,
I can’t help but wonder
if this is what being with you feels like
and that every time I see you
I am wounded with anxiety
and I talk about myself 
more than I can learn about you.

Do you make me feel as much as
the moon, sky or the ocean?
The thing is,
whenever I look at them
I can’t help but feel the existential void
that fills up to the brim of my
where I am left clueless;
a tiny speck
in front of the entire universe,
the one I gaze with wonderment.

But when I am with you,
when I look at you,
I am made aware of my existence
more than ever and in the
moments we are sharing together,
your existence feels greater
than the moon, sky and the ocean
and so I don’t think it’s ever right
to compare the two.

When I am with you,
I feel significant and
self aware of my consciousness
that fills up to the brim of my body,
making me feel significant
to the pores of my skin,
that are left open to absorb
every feeling that is amplified,
which is maginifed by your touch
and as you hold me in whispers of my name that you sweetly call;
I am yours and you are mine,
finely knit in our desires,
in the smallest universe we’ve
created for ourselves together,
to acknowledge each other’s claim
of how much we belong to one another,
as much as but not limited to the
extent of the moon, sky or the ocean.

– Shweta Kher


Here comes an infant
who depends to grow up and be fed.
Here comes a bird
who depends on the weather, to emigrate.

Here comes the weather;
Like that of the rain
depending on the season of winds to move in a certain direction, for them to change.

Like that of the sun who depends for the moon to fall asleep.
Like that of fauna
depending on trees for shelter to survive, make home and canvass for it’s prey.

You see,
it is in the very nature of things
indebtedness comes along.
Tired, tethered are we
to people, places and surroundings around.

It is no wonder,
that even,
as we take life and part alone in our sojourn.
We chose to lead a life
owing to the nature of our debt,
acting in consonance with
relations made and found.

We come to partake roles,
divulge in remnants
of those who birth or part
before even, coming to treasure life as it remains.

– Shweta Kher


I break into writing
scribbling on pieces of paper
in the dawn of this mad hour
with an ache, carrying in my heart
to plague itself with feelings,
I thought I’d never consider.

Scribbling into this parchment recklessly
my ink is soaked with words,
that are heavy in loss of many letters;
they seem to be travelling
beyond thoughts, once,
taped, sealed and measured.

Trapped inside,
plunging myself
into feelings now discovered.
I’ve come in terms of my devotion;
in terms of sentiments that belong to me,
but were unaccounted for, impenetrable, from eons afore.

Drawn into a string of words
with a tinge of musical sound
mellow and raw in its truthful-ness;
exposing me to emotions tamed,
infused with amass of poetry
in love,in anger, in hurt—
they lash, bearing a cacophony of words
that are silent, rested within,
as, I begin to end my sentences—
in a period; they close,
with a pause retired,
resuming to break into
words never uttered.

– Shweta Kher


The trees are moving,
as, the winds sway,
they flitter with a raspy voice in season,
in shades of a jade green—naked to an eye,
baked in roasted colors of yellow-brown,
bronze by the end of a Spring, forlorn.

Whispers of exultation,
spreading solace, are found
in frozen ice cubes immersed
in a cold water glass,
to quench lips parched,
as dry and frail—like the summertime warm sky above; waiting for a drizzle all along.

The sultry afternoon is warmer than bright,
waltzing in different shades of bluish-white with the blinding sun, causing,
drapes of curtained windows down;
secured with shaded trees
to call shelter from the blaze,
inducing sleep; a lackadaisical noon.

The flowers flutter in the light winds caused,
the rays of sunshine, on them fall,
in petals that rise, in colors known differently
balmy as though, sprightly in veneer
with coconut trees, still standing upright;
that sprout the tastiest coconut water
with its meat all-over, dripping on fingers,
to be relished in a scorching heat of a summer.

The cooked rice, is eaten with curd,
cool for the stomach, for heat to curb
and, the cold watermelon
being sliced to halves,
is heard crisp on the edge of a knife;
to formelt the beads of sweat that roll,
which soak in the finest cotton linen worn.

The mangoes freshly skinned are diced,
arranged decoratively,
on vanilla ice cream slabs
in more than two scoops
of a spoonful—
with crystals of ice that form beneath
they, too, are being wolfed down hurriedly;
in little joys of a summer known.

The grapes half eaten, kept on a tea table,
with, tea now little consumed,
filing them with glasses of freshly flavoured juice; they are being chugged in tall mugs,
squeezed from the sourest fruits
prepared with cold milk, sugar and love;
they are little joys of a summer known.

– Shweta Kher


Which were once found,
to be tucked in a breast pocket
or deftly folded underneath
the pages of a book unread
or secured under a flower vase
placed by the corner of a table;
are now being saved in
a drafts folder to be sent.

Which were once preserved,
in a special place for them
to be served, often,
in remembrance of a person held dear;
in regrets, in love—they were sodden
in declarations, in apologies, affirmed;
in the event of being left unopened,
after receipt from a mailbox or the person who hand-delivered.

With alphabets formed,
in cursive loops neatly trimmed;
wherein the finality to determine
the intention of the writer stays,
in pages folded in squares
with lines left by the
reader absent-mindedly,
after being opened,
read and further unread.

Where transmission is quicker
than a handwritten note or a letter,
has caused the wait,
anticipation to no longer suffer;
even, the excitement of receiving
a letter no longer occurs;
it has abated,
in the age of
messages and e-mails.

Where with a click,
a message now sent
is instantly delivered,
and, so, is the desire to
wait, write or reply;
has left us to part,
leading to their sad demise
that once came in a box
or a pile of treasured notes and letters,
which evinced longing, hope or a desire.

– Shweta Kher


Sometimes my heart feels so heavy,
like the steel weighing upon me
I feel wearied to live such days
Sometimes my heart feels so alive,
with the beauty I’m surrounded by
I feel happy to live such days
Sometimes my heart feels banal
to the purpose of existence
I feel fultile to live such days

To all such times—
I feel happy, anxious about living
I’ve realised life is coming of moments,
we wish to encounter and have encountered with
making us the center of everything that happens in a universe so large enough
in little parts that we play;
We habour, reside midst emotions,
emotions we confront, delude and chase.

– Shweta Kher


I wait in search of you
I wait to fall in folds
of this idea named “love”

They say,
I’d feel the nature rising
where I’d find it beyond ravishing
which would take me in an embrace
of a kind hearted man with traits of an “ideal one”

They say,
he’d woo me against all odds
in japes of a humor of my taste
And, so,
I’d snigger and fall in peels of laughter;
one which, I would hardly be able to contain

Witty, o’ wise,
thus, my search begins
Now that I hear so much about love
I wait in places that look promising,
where you find to comfort me
making them toes and fingers curl

My heart sounding silly and beyond reason
And, with your warm smile;
in depts of despair,
you recover me—coming tither
in the most unasked graceful way

What do I say!
You play in every figment of my mind
in tales I find to create,
passing off the loveliest remarks;
in search of validation
I please to participate

How lovely are you I think?
Like the red roses,
appealing to my eye, you are
carrying a redolence
I wish for you to stay in a frolic “forever”
summoning you in my arms wrapped tightly,
around days that behold to be my best

You come like a box of assortments I wonder,
in every surprise to mine,
shaped in all its “delightfulness”
And, let’s not forget the euphoric moment
I have on our first encounter;
We have,
the loveliest conversation of minds
where you and I are drawn in a heart shaped fantasy,
making a silhouette by the dusk that falls on an eventide

My thoughts are midway interjected
just when you have escaped
into the sunset sky,
in horizons of an imagery I’ve touched
I am sadly interrupted, by a query on my mind
to resume to the start of this very tale,
one I’d missed to say, that is,
the tale of a man I’ve never met.

– Shweta Kher


The streets are vacant,
in sheer silence; they are still
captured by people in their homes—
playing, resting, reading
baking, cooking or cleaning,
making art and reliving
all things; they rarely did before.

The streets are secluded,
longer and wider,
brushed with trees,
painted with flowers
that are blooming,
with life in the
city coming to a stand-still,
in the mid summer of March
and the beginning of April’s heat.

With pin-drop silence,
to an infant who is put to sleep
nestling in the arms of a mother,
feeling the wrap of her newborn—
the nature is being nursed,
over a lullaby sung,
breathing the fresh air into its lungs,
of trees that are shaded
in different colors of green.

The streets are in bed,
the nature is awoke,
with sounds of the birds,
with the branches of trees
having leaves fuller than ever,
with gust of the wind never failing to blow,
reminding of the air we need to breathe;
the sound of the waves
crashing towards its shores
in oceans, rivers that are flowing in abundance,
reminding us, how scarcely we need,
for them to consumed in bare minimum.

With the mud brewing
it’s freshly ground smell,
are the people making tea,
filtered coffee in their homes,
to sit in the middle of a table with a family of four; a routine they could never follow before.
With the markets silenced in the evening that are usually abuzz
with people bargaining,
are people, now preparing home-cooked meals,
to talk at a dinner table that was left unoccupied, not long ago.

While, some are finding solace in this peace,
there are others who are driven to feel locked away; quarantined,
While, some are peeling off the skins of the fruits and vegetables they can rapaciously eat,
there are others, who are finding ways to meet ends; to consume basic needs,

While, some are resting in their homes,
there are others, who are working incessantly towards its recovery and to sustain needs of the society;
Yet, amongst all other things—
the world is presumed to be on a hiatus

The outbreak continues, waiting wordlessly,
dwelling and being swept in earth’s glory
while the world, its people are asleep,
wresting with thoughts alone—in a future that is now unknown and bleak; it has shaken every mankind to reflect on this desolation
while, it continues to struggle
to break in fragments of
a prayed uncertain full recovery.

– Shweta Kher