I do not wear nail polish. 

These fingers that crown rusty hands,

smell like unpaid bills

in the pockets of a forgetful husband.

There’s a 'Midnight Blue' and a 'Ravishing Red'

for the young rebels, the tender, flawless ones,

fresh from runways, swishing down glass stair cases 

or floating in the streets of glamorous cities.

But name me a shade for thumbs

that have ripened with time?

What is the colour of the burden of those who have skinny-dipped in frothy waters?

Is there a gel or a matte finished liquid

that will survive the edge of kitchen knives,

the steam rising from a pot of rice,

the prick of a metal hairclip,

or the bite of a wrong-sized bra?

Even the nudes cannot survive the ordinary.

Is there a polish

that will hold my palms up to light?

Add meaning to the aching sentences of desires,

unwritten by routine baths of dishes and drains?

Dear artist, come down from your towers!

Join the woman who eats fish bones with her fingers.

Come, make her an edible stain;

an amorphous luminance,

unknown to the apologies

of her salary and nails.

* Credits: Queen Mob’s Tea House, October, 2019, The Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English (2020-2021), Hawakal Publishers, 2021, Noise Cancellation, Jhilam Chattaraj, Hawakal Publishers, 2021.