​// To all those who need to be reminded what they’re made of 


Of the endless resilience of a bloom cutting through stone,

Of the crackling, grey potential of a storm,
Of the grace of seasons sailing seamlessly into each other,
Of the angry disaster of a violently shaking ground,
Of the exultant arch of a rainbow,
Of the fiery fierceness of a burst volcano,
Of gentleness of a caressing breeze, 
Of the cleansing beauty of a flood no longer holding back,
Of the divine intervention of a ray of sunlight in numb twilight,
Of the homeliness of a familiar ground,
Of the blood of Mother Nature,
I bid thee-
Of the name of son and daughter

Of the life giving Earth-

r i s e.//

-Kimaya Ingale.


Fallen Un-phased. 

​She wants to be like the moon, she tells me. For the 100th time, 25th time in the same place.

We are in my backyard that we toy our minds into believing is a makeshift meadow. The willow tree prevents the moonlight being too harsh on us, while the Zen fountain- which I want to state I installed all by myself- make gentle, gurgling water sounds.

But tonight feels different because I know that after asking her why, I will have an answer following after the shrug of her shoulders.

Maybe it’s because it shows you what you can be, despite your deepest fears, I tell her. 

She rests up her elbow and looks at me  decidedly with more interest. I don’t think I’ve exactly noticed how lovely her hair is. I suddenly want to play with it and I do. 

She giggles and tugs lightly at it, bringing me back. 

Tonight is different. 

She tells me she wants to hear more. 

I say- Maybe you want to be like the moon because it reminds you what you can be inspite of your darkest corners. On the days when you feel like there’s no light within you, you recoil away from everything because you don’t want to spread your darkness around. 

Because you don’t realize that you’re something that cuts through mine and so many others, I add as a quiet afterthought. 

Something shifts in her brown eyes. The same shade as mine and the reason why I got over the thought of them being too boring, because they looked beautiful on her. I figured, how could something with such immense power of beauty be anything other than it? 

I think I have fallen. 

She tugs again at her hair. 

I am composed as I speak- The moon, it doesn’t have its own light. So, it takes what it receives from the sun and shines. It shines, and thinks it’s more than okay to get by and light up others’ life with a little help from those you love and love you. Even if there’s a new moon and the sun’s light fails to touch it, it doesn’t give up and hesitate to trust and receive when the cycle changes. It trusts and hence, shines, again. 

Darling, not everyone’s here to hurt you. That’s what the moon’s trying to tell you. That’s how it wants to cut through your darkness- your fear of trusting people and taking from them; by grace, through faith, I finish. 

Her smile dazzles. She hugs me tight. 

Us, two girls moonlight bathing. 

From that moment onwards, I find myself changed. 

I vow to myself that I’ll be her sun.

For, seeing her shine is unearthly and I believe she belongs with the stars. 

I know I have fallen.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Welcome To My Ruins.

​These Lego pieces don’t fit, 

Unless you’re willing to give 

A few of your own,

And maybe permanent glue them;

They tend to be knocked down quite easily. 
These hallways to my mind

Were once alight, can you believe?

The marble, the wit, the walls, the sanity

They were all in place.

Now, even I can’t make sense of the mess.
The dining room of my heart 

Had the biggest chandelier,

The crystals were the family 

And friends and lovers,

Who lit me up wholly

whenever they convened.

The darkness now provides

A blanket, however. 
The backyard of my soul

Was the prettiest green, 

With the loveliest plants

Giving provided they were given.

Oh, believe me, it wasn’t always this dry,

There was life in it once. 
These were my favourite places

In the home I once had

That I could carry everywhere I went

Through meaningful lyrics,

White pages written upon by love,

Beeping of phones;

All of which ceased to be,

Along with me,

To put it subtly- when he discovered

The gypsy in him. 

That is why he would leave this eldorado

For other lands, right?
If he ever comes back, 

I think I have one wall of memories,

Memories of us painted red in love

Maybe then he’ll recognize the ruins

He left me in.

For others like you,

May I offer a full tour?

-Kimaya Ingale.

What She Is.

I. She’s a lover.
She has a heart, a mind and a soul. 

She says her mind dictates her, but does she not remember how she lost her mind when in love with him, the one that came before you?

She had a soul that was different, which he shattered when he left. 

She had a heart which he kept hanging over a ravine, knowingly or unknowingly. 

She had a heart so powerful that it shut her mind’s incessant insecurities up. 

She had a heart so powerful that it crumbled her soul’s wild desire to be set free, from his tyranny. 

She had a heart so silly, it did things under love’s name that didn’t belong there.

She gave him all of her big heart in hopes that he’d find a place in it to stay, absolutely anywhere that he felt home. 

He took every key and fleed, 

So that she couldn’t lock the doors 

And he could walk in and out,

As he pleased. 

She had a heart, that was in love and collapsing upon itself.

Fool or faithful, you decide. 

II. She had friends who pointed out her folly to her. 

She was magic, you see, for she created time for him that could only be spent on him, when he wished to. 

She had friends who reminded of the words- “time and tide wait for no man” and in her case, they shouldn’t even.

She protested. 

She accepted. 

She lost.

She won.

Broken or mended, you decide. 

III. She berated herself for being so unseeing.

She forgave herself for not listening to her mind’s and soul’s cries that sung-c a u t i o n.

She was healing her own heart. 

She swore that she’d call it ‘love’ only when her Holy Trinity (heart, mind and soul) proclaimed a heart the Vatican. 

She swore that she’d call it ‘love’ only when such shitty analogies about love and a God she didn’t even believe in were the only things that would help her make sense of the situation. 

IV. She met you. 

She was afraid because it took a week of speaking to you and she knew she was going to be in love, all over again. 

She learnt your tragedies and your victories. 

She knew she was there when she felt her heart tug every time you called something of yours a “flaw”. 

She knew she was there when her heart reached and claimed its throne atop vulnerability. 

She gave love another shot because she was a lover. 

‘Why why why’ or ‘WOOHOO!’, you decide. 

V. She fell in love.

She found love.

She is keeping love, for the first time. 

She can never thank you enough for burning away traces of him. 

She can feel you ripping away the dictionary of love that clung to herself, ripping away one page at a time. 

She can never thank you enough because she realizes it with you that her definitions were co-authored by the wrong person.

She can feel you writing new ones that exist in annoying moons, horrible pick up lines, reassurances when she asks for them. 

She has never been in love so much and not been broken. 

She hopes to not be a bother to you, ever. 

She doesn’t want to be anything that causes you to leave, at least not this soon. 

She wants to be what makes you stay and keep loving her. 

She ardently hopes you care enough to find these hidden words. 

She hopes that you care enough to read between the lines and ask her for a map leading to them. 

Lastly, she hopes that you will love not only the title that she has written these words under, but what she was and will be. 

Because she will stop at nothing to give you the world, for she’s in love.

-Kimaya Ingale.