Brewing A Storm

The smell of rain isn’t quite like anything-

Damp mud filling nostrils on a humid day

Hints of earthly tones paired with

The over-hanging gloom; except 

That of 

Grey clouds and green drops from the sea

Whiffs left over from the loose leaves

The warmth of the departed rain and the fresh 

Kettle of lemon and honey, overpower the senses,

Beside books of 19th century poetry;


The darkness of the sky seems lifted 

The smell of mud lingers, the air feels lighter

And now the only storm 

Is in the comforting cup of tea.

©Isha Malaviya. 


The strongest warriors aren’t the ones you see in movies

Superheroes, soldiers, dying a noble death, before braving a personal battle,

And saving more than a million people.

They overshadow the real fighters, the real soldiers and mothers and wallflowers

The ones whose bloodstains can’t be wiped off stone,

Whose stories can be told, but not through their own 

Words and movements; their lives are a motion picture,

 And their shoes are filled by actors, shadows much smaller 

Than the ones they left behind. 

Not all who are courageous, have to die

Our everyday heroes, don’t wear capes or armor

But a curiously static expression, their deeds hiding 

Under quiet voices or stutters;

Not all heroes have to save someone else, sometimes

The only person they help is themselves;

Not all heroes have to fight in wars

Sometimes their biggest battle is under their own scars;

Maybe these heroes aren’t the ones we’re used to seeing,

But they are, because they are brave enough to accept

That they’re the ones who need saving. 
©Isha Malaviya.


Sometimes it’s better not to be understood;

Because the way I interpret the world, analyse

The faults and valleys, and the epitome of humanity

Is a tool which carves my own universe out in my mind.

Where the trees can be greener, denser, and the earth

Doesn’t crack under the weight of a billion souls;

Where I see people for the true broken selves they are,

Slowly healing, or stopping, or having stopped forever;

Where evil doesn’t hide behind elaborate phrases for loving gestures

Or manifest somewhere deep inside the brain, living as a coward;

Where the good and bad don’t exist because no one knows

What the good and bad mean;

Where humans are just walking moulds for thoughts 

Empty but not lifeless, free but not aimless;

Where I feel safer, knowing nothing and feeling nothing

But still being aware of my objective purpose

Sometimes it’s better not to be understood 

Because that’s where my own home dwells,

And home is where the heart is,

Home is where imagination lives. 

©Isha Malaviya.

With the Coming of Night 

The moon pulled in a blanket

Of darkness over the sky

Lit up windows slowly faded

Like dying stars of the night;

My bedside lamp was barely alive

Intensifying and growing dim

Mimicking the blinking of my eyes;

Both succumbing to the tire and strain

From trying to keep alight,

And craving sound sleep at least,


©Isha Malaviya.

The Evolution of Writing Tools

Aeons ago

Charcoal and stones carved

Poetry into the bones

Of anything that could keep up with the whirlwind

Of words;


A few odd centuries ago

Writers fell asleep to the echo

Of typewriters furiously fighting

To keep up with the whirlwind

Of words;


The clicks and taps drowned in the snaps

Of switches starting computer screens

And fans whirring endlessly

Trying to keep up with the whirlwind

Of words;


Yesterday, a midnight thought struck me,

I reached for my iPad, no sign of pens or sheets;

My walls only hear the constant beeps

Of notifications received,

The knell for the memories

Of typewriters and pens clicking,

pages tearing; rings loudly in this century,

And now words try to keep up with the whirlwind

Of technology.

©Isha Malaviya.

Note to Self

A cut on my skin

Tells me that I am not



A scar on my skin

Tells me that I’ve fallen,



A bump on my skin

Tells me that I am



A stretch mark on my skin

Tells me that I am



A little fat under my skin

Tells me that I am



The folds and valleys of my skin

Tell me of my own



Not every obstacle

Needs to be demolished.

Not one piece of my body

Needs to be corrected.

©Isha Malaviya.



Mood swings- creaking under my weight

Rust dusting off the chains

Bare bone visible now,

Cut into my hands; but if I let go

I’ll soar straight into the ground

Exhausted, given up;

I don’t want to give up just yet


Rollercoasters- at terrifying heights

Late night highs, plummeting into

Shadows cast around by

Broken light

I have arrived

At the end of the tunnel



I keep waiting for the final bow,

Because everyone tells me

Life is meant to have

Its ups and downs

Before the real fun;

And so like a child I cry,

For one last time

on the amusement park rides;

But a carnival shouldn’t look

Like tortured souls and teary eyes.


©Isha Malaviya.



Take me to a club

Worthy of old movie screens;

We’ll sit across each other 

At a dimly lit table 

You’re working an old cigar,

I’m serenading a glass of whiskey 

In the smoke-choked atmosphere 

A tiny lamp outlines our silhouettes

Illuminating your eyes, lighting up my smile;

They’re playing timeless swing and jazz

The kind that makes you want to leap up 

And dance;

Two figures in the moonlight

Black and white;

You and I,

Our lives,

Are the Old Hollywood kind. 

©Isha Malaviya.

The Perfect Dystopia 

What’s perfect?

Not me, not you 

Not a celebrity’s forced smile

Or a quick pose for the paparazzi’s lights 

The grass will always be greener 

On another side

And even the greenest will eventually die

Not the air we smoke in, take in, that only few let out

Not waves rolling over sea shelled beaches and farm droughts

Into villages and above struggling feet and hands now 

Not expensive shoes and nude lipstick hues

Not the words we utter or the ones we leave mute

First kisses and first loves are overrated 

(And expiry dated)

This rhyme isn’t perfect

And neither is time

Because ‘perfect’ is a dystopia

Just like our lives.

©Isha Malaviya.