Dreams of her that flame me.

We are walking on the street. It’s a sober afternoon. I am bored and she looks at me and says, make me cum. We plan to go to my room. We haven’t slept together before this. We haven’t even kissed. We reach the room and there sitting on a chair, is my mother. We sit on bed and I start talking to my mother. There is another boy in the room but I cannot remember who. We look at each other to make sure the moment is still there. I am shuffling stories in my head. Looking for something perfect to say to my mother that would make her leave the room. At this point, even two minutes alone with her would be enough. I finally ask mother to make us both a cup of tea. Mother exits the room. I lock it. She strips. Bare naked. I am fully clothed. She falls on the bed and spreads her legs. She has a small cunt. There is no teasing, no caressing, no kisses and no time. She giggles at me as I approach her. My head falls into her lap and I begin to eat her. There is no moaning. Only her thighs rise. Her stomach fluctuates. The room breathes. And she asks me to keep going. When I stop. She doesn’t cum. She laughs. We hold each other for a moment and I wake up.



I wished for nothing. My wish came true.

On a pale day with where I wore remorse as an ornament on my right wrist, a sunny feeling greeted me with it’s unexpected silence and half smile.

“What’s wrong? “ I asked him repeatedly and his silence grew deeper every time the question came up. “If you’re so sleepy, why did you come to see me?” I asked.

His reply was a gesture that was enough to turn this city into a poem written by Rumi. The kind of a poem that exaggerates the romantic relationship between two star-crossed lovers and leaves behind all the political idiosyncrasies one by one. Our one-hour together fled like a river falling off a cliff. He kept his warm head on my lap and murmured, “Silence is filling me up right now, it’s too much effort to speak. Please understand.”

From my terrace, we appreciated the polluted sky. After all, it’s all we had. I looked away thinking about another place. He stared at me hard with confusion. He himself had no idea as to why he came to see me in such drowsiness.

I felt his neck with my smoke ridden fingers. I was restless. I had been feeling restricted. A part of me felt alive with perpetual dissatisfaction.

He moved his head up and faced me. Both of us, victims of loneliness and slaved to our humanness.

We hate living in the city. We hate the constant buzz of it.

Enveloped in his drowsiness, I started to comfort him. One thing led to another and his mouth reminded me of a dream forgotten. His hands felt like a farmer sowing seeds and his cum tasted like his absence. Strangely nice.

Before I could collect myself before him, stillness hit us. His half smile turned into a light sigh. He walked away and I pleaded him to come sit next to me. The beer was hot now. My mind brimmed with words to say that would only come out on paper.

I came back to my room and wrote this. He’s somewhere drinking our time together, trying to make sense of it and I will stay awake another night.

Love in the Era of Confusion

I am excited to announce that an anthology about love is out on amazon for sale and it contains a short story written by me. Titled ‘Silence is innovation’ . Its been a feely process. Filled with anxiety, anticipation, cold feet and utter self doubts. In the end, I am just glad and grateful to be a part of it. Here is the link to it incase  you would like to read it 🙂



A little something.

All the lovely people
Who click
And share
By reading
My words

I have just made a new
Tumblr account
With my artwork+poetry

Like if you like
Or else

We are all evolving
Sight by sight

Happy to be here

Living life.


Nandini Bansal



Fresh out of college, Nandini is bursting with enthusiasm for the unexplored. She writes, paints, photographs and waltzes around town both when inspired and when searching for inspiration. Her trademark is her unique quirkiness and an all-accepting nature that truly sets her apart from, well, the crowd. 
She plays hide and seek with ideas and that safely, is her favourite thing to do. Ask for no more.

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10 Poems That Look Like What They Mean

Spoonful of inspiration.


By May Huang

Poets employ various means to get their message across in their poems, ranging from rhyme scheme to alliteration. However, poetic meaning can also be translated visually through a form termed “concrete poetry;” indeed, numerous poets experiment with line breaks and typography to present their work in a way that ‘looks’ the way it is supposed to ‘mean.’ Here are 10 poems whose meanings lie in their appearances:

1) George Herbert – Easter Wings


Published in 1633, George Herbert’s Easter Wings is the oldest concrete poem in this list. A poem about flight in its metaphorical sense, Easter Wings aptly takes the form of a pair of wings (the likeness is even more remarkable if you rotate the poem 90 degrees to the right).

2) 40-Love by Roger McGough

The English poet Roger McGough sends readers’ eyes travelling to and fro the way a tennis ball would across…

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If you don’t.

You reject lovers
You accept lovers

But you chose not to be one yourself.

Why are we always looking
In all the wrong places?

Suffering is pleasurable
When shared.

But sharing is painful
When the other doesn’t suffer for us.

If you can’t suffer for me
You can’t love me.

If you don’t love me
Why do you ask me to stay?

“There are no lucky numbers. I am all the luck myself.”

There are some moments that change us completely.
They alter our lives dramatically.
Once you have been a part of that moment, you realize there is no going back.

Your mind is new.
You gathered perspective.
The inside of your brain re-wired itself and gravity melted into inquisitiveness.

For her, it was when as a child she saw a painting made by Picasso. She stood in front of the painting and tilted her head a little to the right in exquisite delight and with gleaming eyes. That was the first time she felt a sense of amazement. Perhaps that’s where her relationship with art began.

Until she slowly
became art herself.

If Hemingway collaborated with Fitzgerald to write a story filled with existential musings and lovely ambition. She would be it.

She is a mirror reflecting my madness. Curing me of my ordinariness. Lending her originality to the space around me.

She feels like an accumulation of all the novels she had ever had.
Her heart is the thin paper that has the ability to contain oceans of emotions within it, stories within it.

I am one of those stories.
She reads me.
She writes me.