When does Love de-links from Pain?


I wasn’t aware as to why I was running towards you with a broken phone in my hand.

The glass pierced through my palm, and I didn’t feel any bit of pain. But the realization of it happening, that, that hurt me. The inflicted pain didn’t matter, but the occurrence of a pain inflicting moment forced me to think hard. What does it take to differentiate pain from love?

As expected, before arriving at the answer, I have to address a series of questions that will talk to each other.

60db1917a8cb619f244265c57be6b9fcWhat turns a happiness-seeking human into a masochist? If love demands pain to be felt, then what does pain demand? And if it demands nothing, then why does pain drains so much out of my fulfilled soul? What does love do, with the “demands of feeling”? How does it use those handful of emotions? Or does it not use them at all? After all, love should not “use” to deplete but generate? However, if generation could happen without fuel, would it still be generation? Or would it be miracle?

Imagine, “producing things out of the thin air”.

“Thin air” is a metaphor, in my view, of the molecules far apart, they lack the acknowledgment of the others, and just lie at the periphery of each other’s fields. Hence, they do not collaborate, coordinate or co-work yet, co-exist. If such atoms and molecules are enabled to attract each other, they come together to form vapours and gases and other materials, toxic or metal. Although, when something is made out of thin air, it means it was an eclectic marvel that the peripheries merged into each other by fooling the field of the individual atom, and by the dawn, they found each one merged into another. It is interesting how love might just be a product of thin air.

So, is love a miracle? Or it works on recycle, reuse and renew? Investing and losing, while the bull and the bear comes time and again leading love to invest in the future and account for the losses in the past? What about present then? Who cares for it, if love fails to! Because pain holds a grip in the present, and secures itself in every passing minute, becoming our past and future at the same time!

The next question is, what can love store? Can it store enough?

To be continued…

-From the Land of Mystical Queries



Do Not Enter in My Shoes!

If I were to tell you, that I don’t really care about what people think of me, what will you
think of me then?
And you would pop the question : “then why does it matter what I think”?
I ponder exactly the same.
I have this peculiar urge to communicate and have people see, exactly how I feel. I want them to see the constellations exactly from where I stand. And every time, I offer them my seat, I don’t realize I move to a new seat, a new angle, and then I want them to shift with me. It is not hard to learn from this argument, that at one place, can only be one.
Maybe I feel alienated and alone in feeling how I feel, in perceiving what I perceive. I feel alone in my theories.
Unlike Marx. He got whole goddamn community to read, what he fathomed and observed. Although in his journey of observations, he was alone and singled out and in solitude. He spent time in observing, instead convincing.
I once read somewhere, an artist demands not be be understood, but leverages people’s own reflections through his art. What people see in art, read in literature, witness in theater, and live in life, is a reflection of their ability to expand and explode, or inability.
So all these writers, attempting to tell you how they feel, and trying to connect a cord with how you felt, are simply looking for somebody to drown along with. They are afraid of sinking alone. Wishing to be retold, with every like, re-tweet, comment on their pieces of scribble story, that we are all together in being alone.
I hence, want to tell you how “I” feel.


Not to ask, if you agree with me or not.

I do not wish to have you stand in my shoe.

Let there be difference. If you change your shoes, you might transport yourself physically from yours, and slip into mine, unfortunately you will keep comparing it to the comfort and liking for your own.

We all need to know, what not to say, to a person in grief. See, it is basic, the only shoe you have known is yours. Then inviting you to come and stand in mine, is an invitation to offer you comparison. It is snarling, that such invitation is all about rendering you more judgmental than before. As you will leave your shoes, but you can’t leave your feet behind. Your thresholds, your idea of dealing with situations, your coping and defending mechanisms, your idea of trust, skepticism, tolerance or misbehavior, you bring them along with you. So my shoe, will have a new owner, with different capabilities than my own, and you will treat my shoe in a new manner.

So, it is only the shoe that changes, not your art of positioning your feet. Darling, this is called bringing in perspective. Kindly, parcel it for me from outside, and not meddle with my shoe through your actions. It is my shoe, and it will only require to be mended by me.

You could tell me how to wear it better, or how to tie my lace from what you know through years of doing it yourself. But, do not try to take away my shoe for experimenting.
Hence, don’t try to understand me by becoming me. Because you are not me. Be more tolerant, and just like how we accept without seeing, that there are many more than 3 Dimensions to our world, and an alternate universe, but we still happily co-exist, let us co-exist. I will show you my wounds, let you see the 4th dimension of my 3D body, see it with awe or anger, query about it and learn me like a data point. I think I am better than just data, perhaps for now, just assume I am not.
It is important for me to know, what you think about me; not giving damn about anyone else’s thought, is because I want to know how you feel in your universe, and I wish to know my tolerance towards yours.
I want to test, if I will snap at your revelations. I remember once, I were told, you do not know what is to long for a home, what is hiraeth, when I recited to you my blog stories.
I am willing to explore your inability to feel love, and yet sink into your arms in the night, to feel the warmth of your effortless love.
It is mesmerizing to receipt the touch of lingering fingers on my cheek and neck, love oozes out of it. It is awe inspiring to acknowledge that your heart doesn’t feels a thing, but your lips quiver to kiss me. The hands slide past the consciousness of your unknowing and find the right spots on my back and Breast. I am amazed to know more about your desires, that you think were buried in the ground of your hill top school.
I yearn to scoop out the knowledge or the absence of it, that you posses of you, and then
experiment with the truth of your conscience.
And all this, for? For Us. Precisely me. Because, I believe, and I have faith, through another human, just as big as me, or bigger probably, I have greater chances of exploding out of my body, and find light at the end of the tunnel. This tunnel has no medium to travel. I pocket myself in your universe, to get across, you can pocket in me if you aspire. My journey is a long one, and I am using my body, and yours to get across. Because this is all I have.
And I have chosen you.
You can choose to get down this flight right now if you are afraid of this tiring journey.
I warn like a pilot; we expect turbulence.
And I don’t care what others think, because my choice is undeterred. I have my prototype ready. I need pores in your brain, and openness of your heart, and assurance that we won’t exchange shoes, but only perspectives.


From the Land of Mystica

How long?

d7ca1ff1b16dc81a3cca6956861395e5Just as it lasts

Like an ember breathing it’s last breath

In future, it won’t light

In past, it wasn’t born

In present it burns, like this is it’s first and probably the last time,

Through the nostrils it takes in all the oxygen to burn in the crucible of time


Just as it lasts2ad95d8c800b5a9821b92941787358a0

The bubble out of the mouth and gills of a fish

Not Scared to burst out laughing as you crack a joke through it

Unaware of the vast ocean right outside its boundaries—-Where blue whales, octopus and a deep diver, swim— playing with a billion others like itself,

In present, it floats, light and sturdy, like this is its first and probably the last time,

Over the skins of plants and fauna.

Lets light past through it, glowing its boundaries.

9a388f9774c33b67ab09943c6625c777Just as it lasts

The wave, angry and ferocious, like a child out of the womb of a mother

Crying while refusing to open his eyes, in the denial of the shore

Carrying tornadoes in its lap, and a lump of star fish in the palms

Unconscious, just like you, of death at the feet of a lover

Unknown of the fiery stir, called out by a boy who came to curse the ocean for taking away his father


Indifferent, yes like you, to “forever”

Waves do not stop coming to the land, to wipe away the last traces of tears shed on the sand.

Just as it lasts6c302abccef72f811257181eb030579e

The funny moon plays a piano through the instrument of night, placed in the arms of the universe

Keys painted with the white of your face, and the black of your mole

Tiptoeing through my window, hangs like a hole in a black craft sheet

Reminding me of my art class, where I pasted white origami over colorful drawing board

Awed by god’s forgetfulness to fill in color!

Unconcerned with what the sun did to be gold?

The moon hides, and reappears, losses in despair and revives in beauty.

Just as it lasts

We will.


– From the Land of Mystica



The ink of my mind has been chronically drying. Lately, in years for the first time, I have come to know what is to be quiet. Not the usual quiet. The unusually weird and thrilling kind of a quiet. Particles of stillness lumber around the room. I can see light breaking through them. Splintering into minuscules of individual suns. Suns, floating around in the room, sticking themselves to the walls and the curtain, settling on the eye lid of this lover that sleeps next to me.

I do not see his body. I cannot touch upon his hairless skin or the bush of his hair. I see only the parts, on which these million suns, like dew, roll.

From Inspiration collection
Experiencing Silence in parts, interwoven with his love for mountains and my love for breaking.

For today I see eyelids. As sun sets on the west of our intoxicated horizon, and rises from the east of our yearnings. I see the the eyelids that engulf the blazing crimson at the dusk, when we soaked ourselves in a watering hole, and the eyelids that unleash the overwhelming desire, compassion and togetherness into a light breaking dawn, where we wake up to part.

His eyelids flutter too much, quietly. In the midst of the sleep, they lose the count of the time and frequency of the flinches, shutter-bugging without any stimuli. Seems like they mime to themselves, and talk. Talk in the language so quiet, that it seems nearly ignorant of my presence outside them. Perhaps they have taken a picture of me and pasted it on the retina, and then they mop my image clean with few drops of tears that have built a perennial canal of dreams and thoughts.

I am happy to be cleaned out. Wiped off. I fall short of words and I stop talking to find his stoic eyes, enduring me like any other pain, luring me. It opens to acknowledge my presence and in split seconds slams me out, fearful of my intense magnetic stare.

At that slamming, I am fevered and I shiver, outside. Just as I was marching in, into his eyes, an inch at a time, a bit at a go, he closed midway. Now my half hangs outside, and half holds within. I flutter like a butterfly, half a wing hooked between a closed door, trying to pull itself away. Careful! The wings are brittle. Might torn apart. He snarls and sucks me in through his eyelids. Leaving me quieter. From passionately twitching to be left into the arms of the breaking silence of the dawn to giving in, to be pinned down, between the tiniest pair of eye rims.

Immediately, a stillness of surrender seeps inside me. Subservience is beauty at the behest of a genuine cluster of emotions, maybe devoid of love, however stacked with the pointlessly painful care and admiration.

Tranquility comes with unreasonable quiet, and I speak too much in the daylight. I ponder flower to flower, suck the nectar, and mound it in my hive. At night, in his encompassing embrace I bathe us in the honey dew. Honey drops emulating the million suns, that were created on my quest to calm.

I grow quieter. Quieter within and without. With him, or without.

-Kanksshi, From the land of Mystica


A Bronze Typewriter from a Vintage Collection at KalaGhoda Art Festival 2017, Mumbai. Clicked- Kanksshi Agarwal Date- February 9th 2017

Bleed while you are alive.
As Dead are not hydrated with the blood in their veins
Or moisture in their eyes
They devour the myths of glistened skin, a rose-berry smelling neckline, a hardened muscular bone, or a creased bow tie.
Succinctly, dead lack the patience to remain flowing
They just Drop. Drop in the fire or in a corpse and become ashes. Solid, grey, powdered fine particles, atoms close together, unlike blood which streams.

So, Bleed.

Bleed words and versify while your fingers can touch the marvels of the sand dunes resting over a bridge between a promiscuous lover’s infidelity and a poly-amorous lover’s scintillating capacity to brim love to all without loving you any less.
Bleed, while you can be hurt and hope to heal.
Bleed while you have a muse who doesn’t wants to return home. As her home is a war torne piece of meat.
Bleed while politicians saddle your aspirations and crumple your dreams like a pendulum in the thin air.
Bleed while religions are belligerent, and arouse a sword.
Bleed, while you are agitated and you have read the constitution of the land to demand for your rights.
Bleed, while philosophy is not abstract but analytical, and mathematics emanates from it.
Bleed, while there is a reasonable war to fight and love to lose.
Bleed, till they bathe in the river of your presence and chastise the worms which gobbled the papers of your typewriter.
Bleed, till they stop bleeding in the name of God.


From the Land of Mystica

He is.

img_20170127_180804He is.

He is a harsh struggle,

and when he comes to me his hands tied and

eyes shut his body trembling in fear and embarrassment I,

the unchanging universe embrace him with his infidelities.

The salts and smells of other women the teeth marks and the blood stains on his limbs

come calling my name and then

He, slowly in his nervous laughter drowns in sleep with his head on my lap.

I, the universe

He, the earth



Marvelously astonishing

He is a small planet, fighting wars to survive one day at a time

And as he gazes at me

The other eyes, that are entrenched on every pore of my body

Look at him, and binds him to me

Through the threads of a widow’s yarn

His breasts filled with water. It ruffles at the wink of my flirtatious moons,

those tears of a hungry cub come brimming out of his eyes,

he is a fighter with moist sights

He succumbs every night

As he let my kisses be planted on the ceiling of his abode

My pecks appear as the stars on his sky

He, the earth.

I, the universe

His voice cannot be heard, escape his body

My benevolence cannot be touched, escape my entirety

He is the drunkard High on the idea of life

I am the grape, the brewery, the Oktoberfest, and the drunkard himself

I, the universe!

that contains him

He, the earth!

weaving little universe of his own.

~From the Land of Mystical Hiraeth-  The mystery of the cosmos.

Kanksshi Agarwal

The Incessant Incense.


I am scattered. Like dirt and air around you. The incense burning in my womb, is not letting me sleep. It burns slower than my cigarettes. These days, I cant even spell “cigarette” correctly. My first attempt in self-correction was when I was marred by my peer for using incorrect grammar. I have been self-marring since then. I change. I do not like most of my versions, and this is my umpteenth one. I almost wonder every night, what smell is my incense? Is it the taste of the soil after the rains? Or it tastes like golden wood? Like the leather of my purse, as I have clutched it between my teeth, when I use a public loo. Does my incense smell like a butter-piece scrub in the holy water bath? It must have a taste. One that defines the scent. I want to eat the fragrances, when one crosses the two wide holes of my nostril and bundle me up. I had seen a dog in my elevator day before. He sniffed and rubbed his nose over the elevator wall. I thought, he purred over the rusty element. He licked it innocently. I was told, he was enjoying the fragrance of some other dog or probably a bitch, who had been taken in the same elevator before him. He lurked.

I direly wish I could smell all humans who have lived before me. The fragrance would have spoken of their spilled blood and scoosh. Of the kisses planted on their skin, also the ink in their tissues. They would all have written letters to their loved ones, and etched it in the pockets of their limbs and calves.

I get tied to things very easily.  But things, they do not string me for long.

Half way, the dreads unbundle.

I fall lose.

Over the ground, almost breaking.

Not me!

The bundler’s spectacle. It broke. His judgement too.

He had bent down his arrogant head, to see how a thing of such menial confidence, doesn’t breaks. It cuddles itself, cross the two arms across the heart, shuts the eyes, and stare deep within her womb at the little light coming from the incense. The smoke filling up her conscience, leaves her body only when she opens her eyes. Puffs and garlands of suffocating smoke, had turned into tears, stranding her eyes red, and lips salty. This thing, this me, this I. I have been kissing my own tears, like the water from the brook. Brook, the poem I read in school. It flows in my dreams. It sometimes look murky to me. But I never get worried even when it appears so.

Brook has been painted so beautifully, that it has camouflaged the reality. Concepts are attached to things we wish to derive meaning from. The “ever-flowing” concept of brook, it makes me believe, that anything that comes down a hill, sprinkles and tumbles, carries with itself the moss and ferns, and sunshine dances over its shallow, and it brims to join the river can be called a brook. I see the inherent incense in me, becoming the brook. Because men may come, and men may go, but the loitering lust in my womb, to carry the world like an unborn baby inside me, goes on and on and forever.

~From the land of mystical hiraeth, Kanksshi.