I came to love myself,
over the disappointments taught to me,
over beliefs and faiths admonished by life;
a sinister of revelations brought to me

I came to love myself,
in search and discoveries of new callings
the exclaimed use of passion
Where I found them to be—
hidden in books and poetry,
the picturesque orange tinted sky,
flowered seasons and roads that radiate;
from an autumn’s fall on its leaves

I came to love myself
to take delight in places I visited;
basking in nature’s astound beauty
the people I observed at restaurants, waiting for tables;
clattering plates and dishes,
serving and savouring taste buds to form exquisite flavours
Realising in entirety,
Self fulfillment—an unrealistic expectation
is never to be achieved and dreamed

I came to love myself
Last but not the least—
in undefining yourself,
reconstructing spaces,
Demolishing built dreams
To fulfilling just a day; over a simple survival’s guide
For self love,
is a matter of loving yourself
in the ways contrived in mind.

– Shweta Kher


The inferno within my heart pervades over the love letters you write for me,
In a cauldron of smelting pot they broil, figments of my mind I give to you
Stirring to make up ingredients;
I taste of you

Tracing black pen’s ink,
they outline words of endearment—
In hushed voices, they wrap me
in woven subconscious-dreams,
that are often made of you and me

Your letters,
fissure inhibitions in my mind and conquer to titillate me
over words that are now slightly run over
Making their search,
to find me at my lowest;
My mind travels to where your letters take me

Surrounded by an island, enclosed,
Stranded by you and your dead promises; to that of a magician’s delusional entice
You leave me enchanted with your letters,
melting my heart to its lowest
You stay,
as I break into this beautiful memory you once gave me

Chiding an uproar of tumultuous wave to silence;
that ripples chaos by the ocean
The inferno within my heart conflagrates
Oh, what a rebel this heart can be

Ruffed by its edges— is the shoreline,
Smooth crippled pages are its feet
I preserve your letters,
placing in an ornate wooden box of things I hold onto;
Agile in their weight and sense of you
Pledging them forever to stay and be.
– Shweta Kher


I am a puppet of my own mind
Tilting me left and right as it chooses to sway
It conspires to take over thoughts of distraught and distress
those of which, I can never flay

Implanting sleeplessness
It conflicts me with resolute absoluteness—
To conjure and ploy a stratagem
making me a docile host in my own body
for a place to harbor its stay

It refuses to shun and cease provocation
one, which is its favorite occupation
Diabolical in nature,
it guiles my mind to this trickery
to force myself upon thoughts which won’t give away

You know this to be a playful game,
in this so called charade, which you and I play
Each time, I let you win
to lark in this dalliance with speculations you enjoyably concoct and create

I am a puppet of my own mind,
for your amusement I participate
in this farce you and I stage
I comply and cede
to your over thinking
letting you triumph in this victory of a tug-of war
which, you I and wrestle for days

– Shweta Kher


Love happens,
not once but more
Don’t be played
by its romantically crafted devotement—
Wrenching your mindless gullible heart,
for it to prance with frolic and merriment

Imbelice heart!
You efface the red flags—which signal you out of the blindfolded affair
You refuse;
to coil into this pleasure of knowing what it feels like to be needed
Supporting the blinds you suffer from;
a known, love at first sight malady
A garden of red roses to plant your deary dreams—
for every fantasy to stem and seed

Tender foolish heart!
You bundle into this fascination you pick out for yourself
Believing it to be the only arrangement
In your timid imagination,
is the favour you do yourself

Clamors over the peices that break your chest;
heavily seething of resentment
Swearing never to be mended

the perfect cure for this contusion
Hurrying to rebound with fondness,
you recuperate this torn wounded heart
Believing it to be, the only source of reparation

fills the gaps it leaves you with—
pouring affection from other crevices
What shatters your illusion
stitches your heart whole again;
Showing you mercy in pain
So, much so that,
You wait to fall in love
not once but again.
-Shweta Kher


What dismal nights you dawn on me;
longing for hopeless company—
You meet me,
in the distilled shadows of my past
You creep in most nights
marring days of glee
with your benighted presence
Failing me never, there’s always that night you give me to remember

On most nights that go by, estranged,
You shake my hand
over a mutual feeling of recluse and revulsion
We acquaint ourselves—
“Loneliness, my name,
Solitude, my home”

You linger and loiter for hours
on the nights you choose to stay,

Brandishing the epithet of your self
Forlorn and deserted,

with you I bite into this obscure hiding ,
I helplessly cave in

Whetting our appetite,

in this late hour of a night

over the reasons you choose to stay.

– Shweta Kher


The winds that gallivant across the salty seas get me high,
I immerse myself into this profound happy place,
subdued emotions drowing me—
unfathomably to a place
one that is ecstatic,
by the name of illusion I weave

Awakening myself in a lucid dream
I find myself in a reverie—
bylanes and cabins that pass through scented flowers
which make way for a lovely home
My heart blooms,
over the freshness of their sight
and fragrance that carries me to a land far unknown

I stay here for as long as I can
it breaths to me
The freedom I’ve not known
Resigning to my own calling,
I belie and run around in circles
submitting to the figment of my mind; a peice reserved
I elude from this morbid reality
transcending borders
and, here’s where I often nestle
in a labyrinth of my own chimera
A strange peacefulness takes ahold of me

This heavenly abode—
a creature of my mind
embraces me warmly,
in a comfortable space and zone
lifting my spirits high
I float and sit on the clouds made of cotton candy
enjoying the candescent colours of sunlight as they fall on me,
The naked air giggles and mumbles its musings playfully
It tingles and plays with my hair
blustering over a calm breezy day as it proposes to be
Resting myself,
I reside in this haven
A fortress of own invent and imagination
This is what I am,
It is what I shall ever be.

– Shweta Kher


She sits by the bark of a broken tree,
equating her loss to ride her pensive state of mind

Underneath the vaulted sky,
she softly hums the tune of agony
Resilient as ever;
She mouths in mournful silence, of days, she regrettably remembers

Her face folds in creases made of tangible lines,
older than they appear to be—
like crow’s feet, near those eyes,
they draw glint of every sadness and affliction ever known to mankind

Bare and bleak,
they seem like the branch of the broken tree she sits by
coddling herself to the sweet song of a broken melody

The air is wet and nippy,
Dipped in moist as her face,
waiting on time to heal her wounds,
over days that were lost to lachrymose and pain
Cut those wounds deep open. Time shall heal
She sits for hours by the bark of a broken tree

To heal the wounds that have been inflicted over the loss of a ravaged war, fought and torn within herself There waits an empty house—
attaching to the girth of her hapless tale of sorrow,
countless teachings that have equipped her with a stronger heart and head
She, is, the resilient one

Her face is a shade of yellow from the moonlight falling,
She recalls her maddest moments;
chortling laughter and the confound pain thereafter
She departures from her mixed emotional rollercoaster ride—
which takes her to the many highs and lows she has known and the bygones that are now fading,
into a distant past of a blurry vision,
Indeed, so long to be forgotten

The memory of her pain has receded into nothingness and numbness;
Yet those fleeting moments are a reminder,
as they scornfully visit her to some long lost feeling she once succumbed to;
But now, she is braver than ever,
For this heart is a resilient one

She, now, knows the scabs of her wounds healing,
Her broken heart still beats,
Her eyes shimmer in the light of the moon which stages the center of the sky,
with a sad and hopeful crescent shaped smile,
wayworn to the closing of a starless night
She gapes at a distance
with no recourse to remorse
And a heart, perhaps, that has nothing to lose.

– Shweta Kher


Dodging away formed prejudices,
while eyes roll and snide comments brush past us—
To abasement that leads to despair and destruction;
In fear of which, most of us, subject ourselves to the drudgery of flawed impressions

Lest parting ourself;
We hide into the scent of others, while shedding the scent of our truest self,
We inhume the living skeletons in a closet of our buried lies
to exhume and let fear inflict on our pride

Let me tell you now this now:
The truth we turmoil our hearts in;
We submit at the behest of preconceived notions and dismaying nods that speak unjustly for,
while many of us cast our shadows with the reflections of anticipatory insolent remarks we fear of
Lying underneath which—
is a shallow garb,
while the outer shell chaffs leaving alone to be it our nameless devotion.

– Shweta Kher


Turning in semester four,
hearing conversations being made of internships galore,
Melancholy crawled in—
while anxeity wore the prospects of my future
To fret and doss about in search of new places
I oscillated between my new callings

Brimming with an ocean of knowledge,
having no laws of limitation,
I clawed the opportunity laid in front of me,
only to let in and be welcomed which channeled and grappled me through a chain of new beginnings,
A process of becoming;
in the role I played as an apprentice

This place I tell you,
little in its size—
having no place to walk over
while we squeezed our way past the room
with boxes and files stacked beneath one another,
heavy in their size
submerging their weight onto;
I was engulfed in pages aged and worn of evident experience,
as they clung onto their corpulence
while I played the role as an apprentice

This place I tell you
never seemingly not enough
I was accomplished and accompanied by
an erudite, as my mentor
A man of Seventy-two—
with the brightest intellect he wore beyond his glasses,
and the verve of energy he carried
while marking long strides every Friday to be our ‘Court Day’
over the lunch breaks we shared often,
riffling through pages and documents aplenty
I was a seeker in my own skin, playing thoroughly, the role of an apprentice

Weaving in an endless web of learning
with passing of every day,
which pressed onto my white shirts I ironed daily,
the black blazer I dutifully donned,
clutching my diary held against me,
with notes dictated and dates smeared onto its pages,
in the blazing summer of October heat
I was let in and welcomed
to quench my thirst of learning
A process of becoming;
in the role I played as an apprentice

This place I tell you why,
As, I retire from this eventful short journey
For todays’ and tomorrows’ there will forever be—
I, now, bid adieu and step into the tides of my new calling
with so much to learn and seek for
And, to my inner most deep sense of this prized experience,
I’d find this place
for, this place, I’ve been a part of
has been a greater part of me
through my process of becoming in the role I boundenly played as an apprentice.

– Shweta Kher


Greetings from a fellow traveller I see everyday
who carries the whisper of a childish gaze
When our eyes meet,
we greet—
in nods and wordless sentences
breaking them at every minute by the hour

The fellow traveller holds my attention,
at every stop the bus makes—
to accommodate passengers that glide in;
He acknowledges the spot I reserve everyday—by the window seat of the bus I take
catching by the very sunny hour I make

I take an hour’s journey to study him:
convoluted features; expressing a heavy heart,
with so much to convey Deposing no commonness—
He wears a smile that would give a toothache on a sweet candy,
And, a face—
so cheerful, to that of sunlight that pours itself on a windowsill
giving warmth and sunshine on a summer day

As I feel our plausible unretired relationship—
I temper my misgivings and care about this unusual fellow traveller,
He seems to have had something on his mind, I cannot figure nor explain.

In another time, another day,
We broke our wordless sentences—
He asked me the time,
Engaging my eyes onto the words chosen carefully
I accorded my reply

I’d never lose sight of that childish gaze
I’d tell him but wouldn’t that make him run away?
So I stuck to my short answer which I chose very carefully,
with the intent of continuing our ever long unretired relationship—
I resorted to my reticent self
And, so did he,
to the guise of an unusual quiet fellow traveller

But one day, He went so far and away,
I waited by the same spot I take
the sunlight did not pour on the windowsill that day

My apprehensions of where this fellow traveller might be—
grew into that one queasy long hour
Seemingly longer than the usual,
It was my longest one hour, indeed.

To this day, I don’t find the unusual fellow traveller,
For, wherever this fellow traveller may be—
I remember our elaborate sentences
the bluest shirt you wore,
the brown strapped satchel you held onto; co-ordinating the colour of your hair—
You made the mark of an unusual fellow traveller,
A fellow traveller that I long to see,
wherever this unusual fellow traveller may be.

– Shweta Kher