It's that time of the year again. That dreaded time when us single people feel the need to invest in a shotgun and go on a shooting spree. (I'm sorry. That was in poor taste. Shooting sprees are not something to joke about, but this is the only way I can illustrate my level of murderous rage)
As if life it isn't crazy enough already, I am now reminded every day on social media that almost every single person I know (or so it seems) is either getting engaged, married, is pregnant or in what is now called #RelationshipGoals.
As if life it isn't crazy enough already, I am now reminded every day on social media that almost every single person I know (or so it seems) is either getting engaged, married, is pregnant or in what is now called #RelationshipGoals.
I try not to let it bother me, and honestly, it's not jealousy, it's just the fact that thanks to you lot and your seemingly perfect love lives, my family thinks I'm some sort of asexual antisocial heathen that needs to be exorcised, baptised (again) and married off at the earliest.
Thankfully, about a year or two ago, my best friend Samah Mariam got me into writing poetry as a means of venting. The very first thing she had me do was a countdown to Valentine's Day with what she called 'Unlikely Love Poems'. Knowing me all too well, she knew I would so totally be up for mocking the shit out of what we conventionally term as love and also for putting out the stories of women (and men) like ourselves, who have found love in other places, like at the bottom of a bottle of Old Monk, on the shores of a beach or in the case of this particular poem, inside a pot of steaming hot biryani (yummmm)
So for the next week, I shall be spamming your news feeds with my poetry. Bear with me, and I really do hope it gives you a good laugh. So here's poem #1. This one is for all the people out there who can whack multiple plates of biryani, three meals a day, 365 days of the year, and is specially dedicated to my baes and fellow biryani-lovers Ashwin, Sruthi and Simi.
We sat across the table
Sipping our caramel lattes
His feet gently brushing against mine
His hair styled slick
His face, carved by angels themselves
'So tell me,' he said, smiling coyly
'What makes your heart skip a beat;
Makes your blood rush and your toes tingle?
What is it that makes you moan with delight?'
I bit my lip and lowered my eyes
I leaned over and whispered in his ears,
'Biryani'.
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