Words

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By Saru Singhal - November 20, 2015

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तकिये के नीचे...

By Saru Singhal - February 22, 2015

ग़म इतना गहरा था शायद उम्र भर उसे कुरेदते ही रहे हर बात पे गहरी सांस ले कर तेरी तस्वीर को देखते ही रहे फलक तक साथ मुश्किल था तो कुछ क़दम में दम भर लिया मैंने किराये के मकान में कुछ दिन काफी होते हैं मैं उम्र भर चली थी उसमें रहने क़रीब नहीं थे कभी इतना कि तुम्हे हर लफ्ज़ की गहरायी समझाती औने-पौने इशारों में कहाँ दिलों की बातें बाताई जाती अब बीत चुके हैं बरसों यादें धुंधली और तारीखों का होश नहीं बहुत किस्से जो अधूरे रह गए उनका भी कोई अफ़सोस नहीं बस एक ग़म नहीं जाता काश तुम्हें रोकती और सब कुछ कह पाती तो ना सुलगती उम्र भर ना अपने अरमानों को तड़पाती

तकिये के नीचे दबा के रखे है तुम्हारे ख़याल एक तस्वीर, बेपनाह इश्क और बहुत सारे साल

He is heaven I can go to hell for

By Saru Singhal - June 19, 2019

I unzipped my dress. It fell on the floor revealing my breast with peaked desire. 'Take me to the bed,' I whispered. My inaudible words were clear enough for him to get up from the couch and lift me. I sunk my face into his chest. I heard loud thumpings. Was it my heart beating or his - I'm not sure. I'm not sure of very many things about that evening - I was in a trance - I was f****g high on him.
There are a few things I do remember, though.
I remember, he tucked my hair behind my ear before running the tip of his tongue between my lips and diving into my mouth. Havoc followed next. I won't call it hungry passion - it's just too lame. It was an aggressive tug-of-war. Most of the times, he was winning. For the rest, he let me. Damn, he was a gentleman!
I remember looking into his eyes, placing my hand on his stubble and for that brief moment, there was enough fire in our eyes to burn the city down. Did we burn the city down? No. But the heat in that room led us t…

All the sexy men be damned, I want to take you to my bed.

By Saru Singhal - December 14, 2019

I want to take you to my bed. Put on my favourite music. Dim the recessed lights. Light a musk-scented candle to intensify the romance. Move my fingers up and down - to create a symphony with your sculpted, sleek and toned frame. In a dimly-lit room, won't you look sexy as f**k?

Some people often call you a classic poem. If I may, please be my sonnet. Structured, layered and class apart. And let me undress you one layer at a time. Let me write a better version of you on my 700-thread-count bedsheet. I promise you, it will be a night to remember. But let me tell you, you are one poem whose place is inside my body, not on a piece of paper.

You are a poem that would rhyme well mixed with the curves of my body - meter, metaphors, similes be damned. So just play along. No questions asked.

Let me embrace you.

Let me hold you between my freshly manicured hands - creating a devasting blast of seduction. To have you inside me would be a nuclear explosion - a chain reaction that should nev…

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex.

By Saru Singhal - July 28, 2019

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex. When you'll light the Marlboro and move to your side of the bed, my poems will be the breath of fresh air in a room filled with smoke. But do not underestimate me. My poems won't be sweet, gentle or mellow. They will be brazen, brutal and bold. I will present them on a sharply-edged knife. The blood on the knife will be hot. Fresh from the wounds I don't allow to heal. You will take a drag from Marlboro - but served with my sinful words - you will feel as if you've snorted cocaine.
You will not get high, though. You will see the world in a different light. Murky lanes leading to posh hotels, board rooms and high-rise apartment buildings. In one of those aesthetically decorated rooms, you will see a man f*****g someone's life just for a little pleasure. You will see him getting hard on someone's misery. A woman pleasuring herself while watching a wrecked home that she takes all credit for. To watch someone se…

My First Awkward Sexual Encounter... Well, Almost!

By Saru Singhal - October 31, 2019

Men have a weird obsession with boobs. I get that. I even laughed out loud at a party in New York when a drunk friend being called out for objectifying women said - and I quote his exact words - 'We don't want to hear any word against boobs. Woh hamara passion hain.' He was sincere to the level that if there was a club of people extending their solidarity to boobs - he univocally and unanimously be the president.

Cut 2 to a couple of weeks back. I was at a meeting. The girl I was interviewing had no clue of the work she was supposed to do. She was hot and she might have used her body to get things done or undone. But I'm a thorough professional and a girl who only gets "cute" as a compliment, I was adamant on grilling her. In my desi head, I was like - Achha tu hot hai, behan chal ab khelte hai rapid fire. One question after another, I roasted her. But 15 minutes later, things got awkward. She started stripping.

She threw her hair back revealing her sexy collar…

I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse

By Saru Singhal - November 10, 2019

'Let's f**k on the dining table and eat dinner on the bed tonight,' I said between sips. 'She is gonna make me an offer I can't refuse,' you said while swirling ice cubes in your glass.

'Are we quoting Godfather now?' I replied in my clever, sarcastic tone.

You smiled still looking at your glass, not at me. The lady in me took offence. But I'm too proud to beg for attention. I don't beg, I command attention. I caressed my wounded ego with those words.

'It would be nice to have a man run his tongue from my neck to cleavage and spend good 15-20 minutes there. I yearn for that kind of wetness on my boobs,' I buttoned up my coat pretending it suddenly became cold. As if the mercury dipped below freezing while I was setting the mood on fire.

You looked at me.

'And he looks into my eyes when he is f*****g me,' I finished my sentence and sat straight crossing my ankles in perfect Duchess Slant. You looked into my eyes. You looked like …

You are my Desi Tharra

By Saru Singhal - December 24, 2018

My Blue Label drinking friends would say I've sold my soul to Desi Tharra. I have. I admit I've gone rustic. I want to taste that cheap alcohol. That 70-rupee bottle. I want it to hit me instantly. I don't want a tipsy evening. I want a drunk evening. High on cheap liquor and you.

Then let's get cozy. I'll read you a chapter from my unfinished book under my favorite flannel blanket. Hug me from my waist. Smell the patchouli on my neck. Lend me your ear. I promise I'll bare my soul. Listen, as no man has ever listened to me. Because every word I write has meaning. Breathe softly into my ears as I open myself to you.

Note where my words are harsh - someone must have stabbed me there - know my words are bleeding in response. Pay attention to the soft words - someone must have stirred my soul - know my words are humming a Coke Studio Pakistan song there. In case you feel my words are too intense at some point. Don't ask. Know it's you. You must have said s…

To the woman who sleeps with someone else's husband

By Saru Singhal - September 29, 2019

Let me begin by saying - I understand human relationships are complex. I also understand one-night stands, flings, excitement those flings bring, sexual desires, desire to be wanted by men other than your own husband. What I don't understand - why you had no respect for me? Why you demeaned me, mocked my looks, made remarks about my intelligence? And why you chose to do all that for not one day but for years? Even when I was going through one miscarriage after another.

Now let me tell you how your actions ruined one woman's life beyond repair.

When you did all that my husband came home and repeated the same words and actions to deal with his own guilt. He objectified me - he inserted in me when you were not available. He mocked my looks - his exact words - I look like a chimpanzee when I wear a bright-coloured lipstick. You know, I can't look at any man now. He insulted my intelligence. He said I was good enough only to bag groceries at a supermarket. The list of insults is …

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