The Art Of Being Less
some days, i sit with myself and i can only list the things i lack.
it feels like the world handed out blessings like prasad,
and when it came to me, the plate was already half-empty.
poor in beauty.
i know people say “you’re fine, you’re not ugly,”
but fine is a curse word to me.
fine means i’m forgettable,
fine means i’ll never glow in anyone’s memory
like the girls who just exist and still take everyone’s breath.
my mirror is my enemy,
but also my oldest friend,
because i’ve learned how to look at it
without expecting kindness.
poor in knowledge.
i try.
god, i really do.
i read, i underline, i scribble notes in margins,
but the words stay slippery.
in class, my thoughts trip over themselves,
while others speak like their mouths were born ready.
my brain feels like a half-filled notebook...
scribbled pages here, empty spaces there.
i keep waiting for wisdom to settle inside me like rain,
but it only drizzles, never floods.
poor in confidence.
i shrink before i even try.
my voice hides in my throat,
my thoughts rehearse themselves into silence.
in groups, i’m the shadow,
in conversations, i’m the afterthought.
i hate how i betray myself like this...
how i edit myself down until nothing is left to say.
poor in body.
every outfit feels like a negotiation.
should i cover? should i hide?
i tug at sleeves, i pull at hems,
as if fabric could erase my discomfort.
this body doesn’t feel like mine,
it feels like a cage i’ve been locked in,
and the lock won’t break.
poor in happiness.
it’s never constant, only glimpses.
like a coin rolling under the bed,
i keep chasing it, stretching my hand,
and every time i think i’ve caught it...
it slips.
people assume i’m fine,
because i laugh at reels,
because i post silly captions,
because i show up.
but no one sees me gathering myself at night,
holding broken pieces in both hands,
trying to glue them back together before morning.
and still...
even in this poverty of self,
there are tiny moments that make me doubt my own verdict.
the breeze on the terrace that knows my name.
the way chai warms my chest like a hug i can drink.
the comfort of old songs that stitch me back to the child i was.(abhi na Jao chodkar playing)
the softness of my sister’s voice,
the steadiness of the few people who don’t let me drown.
these are riches too, aren’t they?
but they never make me feel full enough to believe
that i’m not poor.
maybe i am poor in the things the world glorifies.
beauty, brains, confidence, presence, joy...
all those shining coins that make life look effortless.
and maybe i am rich in the things that don’t matter to anyone but me.
a moment of stillness.
a silly laugh.
a heart that still aches and still loves,
even when it’s empty.
tonight, i only feel the weight of what i don’t have.
but maybe tomorrow,
i’ll remember that even poverty has its own kind of poetry.
and maybe surviving, is a form of wealth too.
..