My migraine is a pulsating red dot in a sea of indigo
A Bengali bride ullulating under the pandal in the bustle of a wedding hall.
My migraine stops me in the street and says:
Those lights are far too bright for any kind of real happiness, don’t you think?
Or my migraine complains about the sun:
No good can come from so much sunshine.
My migraine peaks around the full moon.
A romantic guest, it clings to my left temple and whispers a new song each time.
But mostly, my migraine is unreasonable about when it strikes.
An interview, meeting friends, a sexcapade – all are equal, all are dust.
My migraine comes on because I have been lazy in dispelling energy –
A furious, indignant toddler she sits, busy with her tantrum in the mall, and kicks, because I don’t. Yoga.
My migraine is also a man – He needs constant tending to and kindness.
He can perform only in the darkness.
My migraine was bought at a store.
The doc said: I didn’t realise the contraindications of this drug were permanent. All the best.
My migraine is the best.
Because it’s mine. More mine than the family or the friends or the lovers or the fortune or the words – all of which are temporal.
My migraine is a lesson to be attentive.
Life is passing on. Every minute matters. No one matters more than you.
Bhumika's Boudoir 