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A poet’s love story in a nutshell.

A tale.

An ode to October chills.

To the changing environment and traditions… To the changing order of things!

A record of what we grew up with, In Kalimpong town.

Farkanna hola aba ma gaye pachi utai tira… A song by John Chamling Rai. I have heard this song over and over until it started resonating with me… it resonated with me so deeply until somebody left… I won't say until someone left me but it was just until someone left my little town and moved to a different city. And I can't describe the pain of departing from someone. It feels like you are just there standing still and there is a storm everywhere around you and you can't understand whats happening probably because you have never seen a storm before. Or at least, you have never seen a storm of that intensity before. And this song suddenly plays somewhere in the distance. I recognize it like the verses of the text that I always read. It makes me feel the same storm inside my heart. And I tell myself it's okay. It's okay. But that word okay feels so small, like a thread trying to hold back a flood. I try to breathe like the world hasn’t changed. I try to walk the same roads, see the same skies, hear the same birds. But everything feels… slightly out of tune. Like the wind is whispering a name I know I shouldn’t answer to. Like the air still carries a warmth that doesn’t belong to this moment anymore. The chairs we sat on, the small shops we passed by without ever entering, even the half-finished conversations, all of it suddenly aches with absence. And in the middle of all that hush, this song… Farkanna hola aba ma gaye pachi utai tira… floats through the air again. Maybe from someone’s speaker nearby. Maybe from the wind itself. And it hits me. This song knew. It knew before me that goodbyes can happen for no clear reason. That some people leave like seasons change, without needing permission. And all you’re left with is the memory of sunlight when the sky turns murky. I pause. I let the music wash over me again, like I’m letting it stitch something back inside me. I am not trying to to fix the wound, but I am just reminding me that I’m still here, still feeling, still human. And somewhere, in that storm of silence and song, I whisper to myself again It’s okay. It’s okay to be hurt. because maybe pain is the proof that something mattered. That someone mattered. And in that, there’s a strange kind of peace. A soft, unsteady peace, like the moment just after a storm. When the world hasn’t healed yet, but it is starting to.

I have been writing too many opinions lately and have started calling my page Vee’s column. This is one of the episodes and this is my very PERSONAL OPINION.

Ending my April Hinglish poems with this podcast.

Dear Love, I would be waiting for one message, And I would be startled by every phone call thinking it would be you. But goodbyes don't work that way. Some goodbyes mean forever. And deep down I know, some days, you too, wake up with a faint memory of us together. I don't know where you are and you don't know how far I have come. But The only thing is, I remember you. Ardently. Everyday. Despite the odds, despite our indifference. I just remember you.

Inspired by the front porch of Coochbehar Palace.

Maybe I told you I love you by leaving the notebook by your office space And maybe you told me that you love me by whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Maybe, I told you I love you in the silence we both have created And maybe you told me that you love me by making calls and speaking endlessly. Maybe I told you I love you with tears when you were departing to a different place. And maybe you told me that you love me by making a brief visit just to take a glimpse of me. Maybe I told you I love you when I was angry at you for not understanding what I meant. And maybe you told me that you love me when you kept asking me if I was okay when I was not. We both had a different love language. I could not understand yours And you could not be fluent in mine.

Season 3 of Varinka Poetry is here! Get ready for an unusual blend of prose snippets and storytelling, a departure from Varinka's usual poetry. Love, V.

The battleground was silent, not from peace, but from the absence of war. I laid down my weapons too soon, not because I wanted to, but because I feared what victory might demand of me. Now, the ground is littered with the wreckage of unsaid words, apologies turned to ash, and the echo of your withdrawing footsteps still rings in my ears. I wish I had fought for you, but my hands were too busy building walls eventually to see the bridge collapse. ~V

Dear Love, I remember you as you were in the last spring You were like a shortbread, crumbling at every bite and had a stable heart. You had eyes like a blazing fire wandering through the forest at night. And I fell into you like water cascading through the waterfall. I remember your hair that shone like a moon and your mole resembling a shooting star. The only way I knew to make a wish was by planting kisses on those freckles, every time and I wished nothing more but only if your body was filled with a city of stars so that I could kiss you indefinitely. I remember your voice, your words, your beautiful expressions, as if those were the music to my ears. If only those were the music I could preserve, I would listen to them over and over and over again. I remember you as you were in the last spring. You had eyes like a blazing fire wandering through the forest at night. And I fell into you like water cascading through the waterfall. And now I wish we could have been like fire and water, flaming and dousing when needed. but we kept fighting fire with fire.

It started as a harmless tease. Varun would always find a way to sit near her, often commenting on her serious reading choices. She would roll her eyes at his dramatic poetry recitations but never actually stop him. ‘You know,’ he said one evening, leaning back in his chair, ‘if you keep frowning at your book like that, you are going to get permanent lines on your forehead.’ he said. Varinka sighed and said ‘If I had a rupee for every time you distracted me, I would have enough to buy this library.’ ‘Ah,’ he said, smirking. ‘But then where would I find you?’ She pretended not to be affected, but the truth was, she started looking forward to his presence. One evening, as she scribbled notes, Varun slid a book across the table toward her. She glanced at the title ‘The Art of Flirting.’ She stifled a laugh. ‘You think I need this?’ He shrugged. ‘Not really. But I thought you might like to study my technique.’ Varinka leaned closer. ‘You have a technique?’ ‘Oh, absolutely.’ He tapped the book. ‘Chapter three: The Power of a Well-Timed Compliment. Chapter six: The Art of Subtle Touch. Chapter nine….’ She rolled her eyes, pushing the book back to him. ‘You are impossible.’ ‘And yet,’ he teased, ‘you are still here.’ For weeks, their flirtation danced on the edge of something deeper. But Varinka was careful. She never told him who she really was. never mentioned the stories she wrote, the places she had been. She liked being just a PhD scholar in his eyes. Until one evening. She was in the library, typing furiously on her laptop, when Varun sat down across from her. ‘You are not reading today?’ he asked. She barely looked up. ‘Deadline.’ she said. ‘For what?’ he asked. She hesitated, then casually said, ‘An article.’ Varun leaned back. ‘You are a writer?’ ‘Hmm. Something like that,’ she said. He studied her for a moment. ‘You know, I’ve been trying to figure you out since the day I met you.’ She smirked. ‘And?’ ‘And I think,’ he said slowly, ‘you like keeping secrets.’ Her fingers froze on the keyboard. He noticed. ‘But I also think,’ he continued, softer this time, ‘I like that about you.’ She met his gaze. ‘Even if it means I might be something you didn’t expect?’ He smiled ‘Hmmm Especially then.’ he said. And just like that, she knew, he wasn’t just flirting anymore.