The Second Collection

By Nalini Dhiman

We are unique people – the total (or not) of every experience we have been through. The Second Collection is also a collection of unique stories intricately woven in poetry. Maybe you will relate to some. Maybe you will not. But what you will experience is the emotions – pain, joy, grief, fear – that the stories in this book hold. Some of them might bring a tear to your eyes, others might remind you of good old days. There is something for those who simply like to ride the rollercoaster of life. Alas, there is something in here for everyone.

“The poet genuinely depicts her intricate relationships and intriguing encounters with the people around her, her beloved father in particular. The profound feelings expressed, the sophistication in diction and her love and affection in life make it a good read. An anthology not to be missed!”
Maggie Hiu-kin NG, English Panel Chairperson in Hong Kong

“Nalini’s writing is rich with melancholy, transporting the reader into a nostalgic landscape of memories. But I also find it uplifting in the way it delicately weaves in threads of hope, love, and sometimes playful humor – ultimately making each poem a life-affirming read.”
Tristan Lavender, Writer, Speaker, & Photographer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781543781670

Nalini Dhiman

Nalini wrote her first book, called The Labyrinth of Clouds, at the age of 15. But her very first poem can be traced back to the tender age of ten, when she believed that a poem was not a poem if it didn’t rhyme. Now, she studies Big Data and Quantitative Marketing, and she is not rhyming her poems.

Book preview

Half a Woman

Far from peaceful when I was young;

times were tougher still. Went to bed

at the stroke of midnight, awoke

to verbal clangor, yet never once thought

that life was an unlovable thing.

Will you accompany me at 4 in the morning?

asked he,

I will do anything to make you happy,

and I would still, except…

he is not here.

When his health was fine, he’d run, I’d chase.

I brought him flowers, and I still do, then

to his warm hands, now

to his cold grave.

Sometimes I leave them around,

thinking he might be following me.

I do not know if he wandered near,

or if the flowers were ever found.

I used to write about puppy love,

I used to write about heartbreak;

now I write about emptiness,

and I write about pain.

Everyone claims that death is natural, death is common.

It does not change the fact that when my father died,

he took a part of me at my prime,

such that I became, for eternity, merely half a woman.

Half a Woman II

Since I was a child, I was my father’s little girl;

A baby with the cutest smile, with a lovely twirl.

Grew up in his arms, his right shoulder was my nest;

He told me I was so lovable, I called him my loveliest.

October 1, 2003: the day I entered his life.

He was complete, he loved me more than did his wife.

Over the years our friendship bloomed,

We stuck together while the evils loomed

over our heads, but we were strong:

together, we were one, correcting the wrong.

He called me his best friend and I know it is true;

Because, Papa, I feel quite lonely without you.

Only 15 years he gave to me and now he has gone.

I am weak, I am lost, I know I need to be strong.

He loved me when I was a girl, and when I was a baby:

As I transform into a woman, without him I feel crazy.

Like a lock and a key, you & I were in perfect symmetry.

When you left, you took a part of me, leaving me incomplete.

I was whole with you; you really were my best friend:

But you died, you are gone, now I am only half a woman.

The Music Hurts My Ears / The Wind Scars My Skin

The music hurts my ears, but the silence does more.

The chaos just eats away at my peace.

If my shut my eyes, I think that the sky outside is red,

but when I open them, I still don't have any sight.

Waking up feels like a chore, so does falling asleep;

I exhale a tear, but I wish it was a snore.

The wind scars my skin, but their words do more.

I'm not one to commit, because I am the sin.

Because a person is the sum of what they do,

and I have just transgressed.

The worst of me said may be true, but so is the good.

I know not when I will find the warmth I so desire.

I know not when I will find a version of myself

I am happy to be.

So I wish I could.

Till then, I am the stone while I am the bird,

I am sensible yet I am the absurd.

To Live in Your Dreams

In the middle of August, a storm of great strength comes,

the wind whistles, the birds warn, yet

the old man hums;

sitting across his garden with trees bellowing,

his face serene with its lines mellowing,

he fears

not a thing, not what the storm shall bring.

Staring into the puddle of water beside,

he sees the reflection of roses,

and then his beautiful wife;

and all in the world,

the wind, the whirl,

ceases to be seen,

for the ghost love of his life

is now more than just a dream.

She smiles at him, waves run across her face from the rain,

but she is just as he remembered, she hasn’t aged a day,

thunder cackles above him, winds blow faster,

birds fly away even farther;

but all in the world, the wind, the whirl,

has ceased to be seen,

so, of what importance is reality,

when he can live in his dreams?

Big Sister and Little Sister

No one knows what was going through her mind,

when she took out the liquor bottles

that were sitting in storage, collecting