Tales of a Tattler

  Who we are today is often rooted in the influence of a teacher who believed in us, nurtured our talent, guided us back on track, acknowledged our humanity in mistakes, or answered even the smallest doubts with a patient smile. From such moments we grew, reaching places and heights they may never follow, yet their lessons live within us. Though they continue teaching the same subjects, the knowledge, values, and inspiration they instilled endures.    Eternal Beacon is a tribute to all the teachers who live on through us.

  The earth’s turning is more than just rotation, and breath more than respiration; it is the universe expressing itself through us, and we through it. So Hum is a poem that breathes, meditates, and gently dissolves into something larger.

  One person's scrap is another person's home. What looks like refuse to some is the thread others use to stitch into shelter, memory, and belonging.  Stray Away is a story of a boy and the bonds that kept him tethered to a world that has little space for him. 

  Healing is never linear. Some wounds close while others open, and the healing touch itself can both mend or leave a mark of its own. Mosaic is a poem that lingers in that paradox of being broken and mended. 

  If we are always in the making, is any act truly final? If each misstep carves us further into who we are, can any role hold a single definition?    Daughtering captures a moment, where a daughter is unmade and remade under the gaze of her mother's constant love.

  “Smile is the curve that sets everything straight,” is a quote I have lived by since I first heard it during a school assembly on Smile Day. Since then, I have tried to embody it in spirit and action. But occasionally, I would question its nature.   This poem is one such contemplation on the nature of smiles, and the pauses between each of them. 

  We are all good people.    And... we are evil people.   What we are, or what we become, is shaped by the coalescence of our many past and present decisions.    This piece is an experiment, an interpretation of the painting 'Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581' by Ilya Repin. It is a departure from my usual style, yet a deeply personal glimpse into the shadows and sparks that flicker within the human psyche.    Behind every human — from those who have governed the highest and strongest thrones to those of us who hold onto the fourth seat of the morning train — there are stories: of love, rage, legacy, and regret;  of what we try to control, and what eventually controls us.    Here is one such story of a man, a tzar, a father, and everything he could not undo.

  We spend much of our lives searching for signs that we hold a place in the grand scheme of things.   But if, for a moment, we paused, and truly listened, we might hear the quiet whispers of the universe: in the brush of wind against your skin, in the steady pull of the tides, in the quiet persistence of waves meeting the shore.    It is in these moments, that we realize that it doesn’t matter whether we are great or small. The universe isn’t concerned with scale. There is only the experience, and the unexpected peace that comes when we stop measuring our place in it, and simply let ourselves be.    And perhaps, that’s where this poem begins...

In 2020, Mumbai: the city that never sleeps, slumbered like a child. The railway halted, the bustles dissolved, and its "spirit" softened into tranquillity. An unfamiliar silence pervaded every corner and street. And behind every closed door, a different story quietly unfolded. This is one such story. A fragment of the moments, the memories, and the stillness that lingered among you and me. It is an elegy to all that was, all that could have been, and all that remains.

What is love? Ah, the age-old question. It’s difficult to define. Not because love is abstract, but because its definitions are ever-shifting. Love means different things to different people, at different times in their lives. This poem was born from my own reflections on that question. It comes from moments when I choose to set my guards aside, and experience the wholeness of love. It comes from those moments when love meant softness, patience, undemanding presence, and an ever-giving kind. It comes from a place of offering — of holding, without needing to hold on. Then, the moments passed. I returned to the definition I have always held: that love, no matter how generous, cannot exist without the self. And each time, I came back steadier, clearer, and more certain of what it means to give without diminishing. So, as I offer this poem, may it find its meaning in you. And may you find your current definition of love — whatever that may be — within it. Because no matter how it...

They say, time and tide wait for none — yet a clock does, and so can a person. What happens when both pause? This story invites you into a moment of stillness to reflect on our relationship with time, the weight of productivity, the illusion of motion, and the quiet spaces between apathy and meaning.

I found the spark for this piece in one of the frames from The Parting of Ways by Sukanya Ghosh, displayed in the white aisle of Cymroza Art Gallery. Cigarette — a digital collage built from archival photographs, placed opposite a vintage wooden cupboard, stood out in its silence. It captured how time had not only tarnished the photos and the cigarette held by the faceless figure within the frame, but also the memories. Is not the present like that too? Here now, gone the next moment. Yet it leaves behind traces that stain us forever. Not in the vibrance of tomorrow, but in the quiet greyness of a faded yesterday. This poem is a return to the whispers that linger.

  Some bonds outlive time, even if distance and changes of life blur their edges. This story was written to honour the girl I might have been had I grown under my uncle's constant affection. It is a tribute: to those who held us before we learned to hold ourselves, to those in whose laughter we now see a reflection of who we once were, and to the selves we have grown into.    What follows is a soft acknowledgment of what was, what could have been, and what lives on — across generations, through names, and in love that knows how to grow and how to give.

We rarely notice the silent companions of our daily lives, those that stand by us, not in grand gestures, but in the most quiet and necessary ways. This poem is an ode to one such companion: my handkerchief. In this experimental work, I try to honour its silent services, and its soft presence of that makes moments of distress a little less heavy. 

  Some stories are not entirely ours, but are told anyways. Not because we are mere tattlers, but because they echo something we have lived, something we remember in the quiet corners of ourselves.    Back when the world went quiet, a friend once spoke of a bird. The moment passed, but the thought of the bird, and what it represented, never left.    As you read, I hope you too find a glimmer of something forgotten, something familiar, something your own.

   In all that is shaped and seen, somethings are quietly unmade. I wrote this in recollection of my childhood walks to the church every Sunday morning.  I used to pass down a lane of glassmakers, whose craftmanship were reflected in every glasswork. I remember the mornings, the shimmer, the spectacle, and the silent stories that existed in the spaces between each piece.    This poem is about the quiet subjects that are always left off frame. 

  At sharp 00:00 today, Tales of a Tattler went live. No fireworks, no grand launches. Just a quiet click into existence in the vast world of the internet. Planning to announce it at dawn, I went to bed in the pleasant weather of Mumbai, cooled down by a light, unseasonal drizzle.   But the sun rose on a different kind of day. The air was heavy with the news of my country's retaliation to an inhumane act, which might soon become war. And then, a message from a close friend about a profound loss. Suddenly, everything I had planned felt far away, almost out of place.    I also found myself standing at the edge of a familiar feeling — one that has echoed through so many moments in my life. The feeling of getting something, but not quite being able to hold it. Like a line from Anuv Jain’s Husn :  “Milke bhi na mujhe mila...” ( Even after getting it, it was never truly mine.)  This launch felt exactly like that. The prelude to this moment was beautiful w...

  What makes a miracle? Is it surviving against all odds, or being conceived after years of prayers and failed treatments?     This story holds a special place in my heart; it is one of my first stories to take a physical form.  I can't quite remember when I conceived this, but it held on, quietly and steadily, till it found its way onto a page.  Take a walk through this tale of hope, heartbreak, and silent resilience.