Tanvi Kusum

This is something I wrote for the new blog 🙂

Dear Sylvia

Dear Sylvia,
There is something inherently romantic about buildings in construction, or buildings in general. While I sit in one right I feel it as a powerhouse of memories, the home I live in, it’s every wall and bricks that compose it are familiar companions. It seems they will know more than any other the tragedies of my life. These walls constitute my life, and ensconced in it is my sense of security.
While I sit here I imagine the labours which lived here, constructing this one brick at a time. They may have felt the dauntless permanence of this building too. That is a thing about buildings, they make you their own and you almost forget that this too shall pass. But what about the weeds and animals which resided on the same piece of land, 10 or maybe 100 years ago? How was this same piece of land…

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Tanvi Kusum

Dear Sylvia

Nikon Transfer 2


Hello everyone, I have started a new blog called Dear Sylvia where I shall be documenting letters which people shall write to Sylvia Plath.

I see her as an ultimate incarnation of pain and isolation and I was curious as to what people  would say to her if they had a change to! I would absolutely love it if you guys submit because it is always great to read new perspectives.

This blog shall be a way to take out pain, loss and turn it into hope. I hope you enjoy the process as much as I will!

Love, Tanvi.

Dear Sylvia


Informally written articles, stuff written in rage and absence of calm

We hear everyone say ‘don’t blame the girls’, for the various things which happen to them, while blaming them internally all the while. It is time we voice our opinions freely, let us blame them for the rapes, the molestation and everything else.
Let us blame them for their pathetic societal wiring which makes them want male approval. Let’s blame all of them who hear words like slut, whore-and the choicest of hindi salutations about other girls laughing because they find such attitude ‘funny’ or ‘endearing’. Let us blame the mothers who tell their daughters to stay home while letting their boys go everywhere. Let us blame all the girls who tag their fellow comrades as being “loose” if she drinks and an “aunty” if she doesn’t. Let us blame ourselves for the judgements we pass. We want boyfriends, we want someone to be there for us, we want all the guys to like us, we want to attract all the attention but we forget that once we invite attention we invite both positive and negative. We let the society make songs with abysmal lyrics top charts after charts, be it “munni badnaam hui”, or “laila”. We, the 50% of society, give our silent approval to things which foster a thinking which makes women inferior to men. I know a lot of girls who hear the brags from their guy ‘friends’ about other girls making out with them, having sex with them and stories about “how he left her because she was so boring”. Isn’t personal life supposed to be personal?
The problem with us is we like to make an exception of ourselves; we like to think “oh, she must be boring, but I am not, that won’t happen to me because I am so much better.” Truth is you are not; you are not better, maybe this guy wouldn’t treat you wrong but what if the next does? Can we afford to promote an environment which demeans women?
Feminism is converted to mean ‘a bad word’, social media, real life is filled with feminist bashing words, and there are women who voice their approval for such in order to feel more acceptable. Women need rights! There is nothing left to intellectualise. These same people who practice anti-women behaviour on a daily basis come up with candles and emotional facebook posts after singularly famous rape incidents, forgetting that the more gruesome evil is only a cumulative effect of their lesser previous ones.
We are HALF the people and have immense power, we can change everything but only if we want to.

(NOTE: Munni badnaam hui means Munni is shamed, and Laila is another bollywood “item” song with very objectionable lyrics)




So I got a new DSLR as a birthday present and since I have no idea what to do with the obscene amount of pictures I click I thought I’d post them here.



Even 3 am pathetic selfies where I can hardly feel my hand due to the weight of the camera come stunning in this camera?

How am I supposed to stop?

Must make another blog with title- Narcissistic everyday selfies for everyone to see where teenage girl puts makeup and does various novel tantrums in lieu of photography.

I am sure the only person who’ll follow me will be me.



Silent Storm

I dreamt of Huge-Moon-ipad-wallpaper-ilikewallpaper_comwalking on the moon,

Its rough surface made of crushed candy canes

And obscure rocks,

With craters named after scientists my little tongue couldn’t pronounce.

I dreamt of freedom and never ending grounds,

Of light steps and lithe submission.

But every time my fantasies took an unwelcome turn,

Like a virus attack or a tsunami of sorts.

If was a computer my screen had blacked out, sending helpless signals to god knows where,

If I was a person my head was stuffed in bubble wrap.

Apparently my rebellious, curious self,

Had taken one wrong step,

Disturbing nature’s peace and its unsaid laws.

I had pressed my feet too deep, and my jump defied moon’s

Miniscule gravity,

The attraction between us was insufficient to hold our ties,

Tethers stretching far away from known territory.

I found myself floating in vacuum and isolation,

As the dark navy, almost black

Invisible viscous liquid of universe compressed me to oblivion.

Refraction, reflection science and reason, I saw all these escape one by one

Mixing themselves in the surreal bliss of aloneness,

No control no direction, my body turns to dust then atoms,


Even as I wished for someone to find me.

photo by- ilikewallpaper.com

Silent Storm

A portrait of lady

Went to a poetry slam today, had no idea what poetry slam was. Lol big fail, discovered another thing I am completely, ridiculously and pathetically bad at. At least a poem came out of it!

Anyway this is the edited version-shorter.

A meek girl once stood on the stage

there was a mike, a voice,

what lacked was courage!

Her legs shook, and palms filled itself with a million droplets of her own shame.

She had asked her mum a day before,

mum, what if the mike falls?

Her mum smiled and said, you pick it right back up.

That was a while ago.

The face is now covered with a beautiful cascade,

the peach melding to black, a peach she wishes did not exist.

The blinds of her window still lets the light creep in,

and renders the camouflage futile.

She stood on the door as the wind played

with the spider’s elaborately carved web,

like a thin plastic flask of a discarded cold cream,

her translucent bodice lets the light pass through,

illuminating her papery skin.

Mum,my skin is covered with maps which know no treasures,

and my face is home to undulating terrains,

I do not fit into these size 0 jeans,

and I do not have the confidence you so easily display.

I’ll never be enough, I’ll never be enough.

She says she needs someone to see within her,

but she knows there is nothing extraordinary,

she is like an empty book with an attractive cover,

she is made of vacuous dreams and misplaced priorities,

there is so little she knows, so circumscribed is her hemisphere,

there are lives she hasn’t lived,

times she hasn’t seen,

thoughts she never thinks of,

leading a life of ignorance.

She didn’t go to her mum, when she decided to lay on the cold linoleum floor,

and pop the white pills one by one-then all at once.

She will never be a lady, not anymore.

Sometime while fitting in, she forgot to pick up the mike back up.

A portrait of lady

Death of Me

Inspired by Siddharth Mukherjee’s ‘The Emperor of All Maladies’-

The most malignant parts of us are the most resilient,
They sit silent in some forgotten corners of our DNA,
Waiting to strike and convert us to our true self,
Our constant endeavour to hide them proves futile,
As they take cover yet never really go away.
We’re so scared to become the more perfect version of ourself, we know
Honesty is never received well,
Only leading to destruction, and demise.

Death of Me