Pulkit Khanna (he/him) is a 23 year old commerce graduate from Kirorimal College, Delhi University. He is currently studying to be a Chartered Accountant. He has been writing poems and stories since his school days and after being published by various magazines internationally, he recently released his first novel- “The Other Side of it”. Other than penning down his day-to-day conversations with numerous interesting people, Pulkit loves to write about human behavior, philosophy of everyday life and about silence- the things people don’t say.
The shop that sells time
Best of the Net Nominee 2022
The last time I saw you, we went to a huge clock shop
On the walls, on the shelves – all there were two hands moving incessantly.
Two of our hands, though, were steady as we held each other.
One messed up watch in your hand, one on your wrist;
and one on my wrist that brushed passed your forearm.
We were surrounded.
So many clocks not to believe that we didn’t have any time left.
The little one that you liked, the huge one that reminded us of the little space we had between us.
My yelling, “What kind of place is this? All the clocks are ugly.”
You twitching your nose, pressing your lips, sealing them of the giggle you were about to give out-
all I wanted.
I think that I offended the clocks that day.
Because the one you got repaired, started the time we were running out of.
I often wonder,
How much time did we waste just looking at the clocks?
Freedom
I noticed this long, scary cut on my forearm one day
Exactly like the one my father had
I don’t remember how or when did I get it
All I know is it’s a long curvy scratch tearing my skin apart like it was a piece of worthless paper
I covered it- with bandages and tapes
But it threw them away like a used cigarette
The more I applied the medicine
The darker it got, the more it burned
Day in and day out
It got deeper and deeper
First my finger, my hand, and then my entire arm
Then it crawled up to my shoulder and neck to the head and then slid down my spine to climb back
up through the thumb of my foot
It submerged me completely- converting everything it touched its replica.
And then one day I woke up and- I felt like scratching it
Vehemently. Slowly.
The more I rubbed it, the more it fell out
Day in and day out.
And then after many days- many that I can’t count, I noticed
that it was just gone
And a better, shinier newer skin grew below it
I don’t remember when did it go away or how long did it last
All I remember that is it was there one day and one day it was absent
All I remember is that I’m feeling something that my father never felt
All I remember is I’m feeling something that
I haven’t felt in ages.
Freedom.
My Most Comfortable Sleep
My sleep is like a hug
when I lay down on my left side
between my body and the wall
gazing my own personal universe.
my left hand under my head
like a pillow- Some bones
are softer than cotton
I’m aware my hand would hurt in the morning
slowly pinning
my entire body with it
but for now, I’m comfortable
in my forbidden transgression.
The minute I looked at you
under the universe of all
I was sure you would be
My most comfortable
Sleep
The Field Guide Poetry Magazine 