Saturday, October 24, 2009


For me
writing is a zebra crossing
painted on a lawless road
I try to reach over to the other end
Sometimes, shouting all along
and drawing attention
But almost always, end up contemplating
a compromise to be at peace.
The fire within will die down with time
like the brightness in the school album.
It will be remembered rarely
as a fashion that is passe.
Only these words would remain as a mirror
exposing the leakages on my skin
Unable to contain the ideals that escaped.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009


Like whispering leaves
in the evening breeze
we lean on each others' shoulders.
We own and yet disown
We comfort and yet not indulge
There is a degree of helplessness to us
A limited degree of freedom
There is nothing we can do about it
Except pushing it behind ourselves
And cutting through all the years.
That is how nostalgia is built
Something that is behind us now.
At times, it is cold and heavy
like a necklace of stones
Hanging heavy around our necks
And pulling us to the ground.
But we go on with that burden
to climb new heights.
Like a stone being rolled uphill
Heavily and helplessly.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Eternal summer

The clouds disappeared suddenly
Like the relatives after a festival.
The indefiniteness of solitude is back
with its blues and other hues
And without its centimeters of leak.
Once a while there is a "tup" sound
A suicide cracker bursting itself
in the afternoon heat.
The chill in the air gives me a shudder.
How Time is starting to be cold
And throwing another year into the bin!
And like a worn out Halloween mask
exposing my vulnerabilities with each calender.
I long for a siesta in this eternal summer
I long to do nothing-
Today, tomorrow and the day after.
I long for such an abstract illusion.
Tomorrow, like a tough exam in the school
pulls up a knot in my stomach.
I cannot ask "Why me?".There is no answer.
I lost myself somewhere back then.
In those years, when I should have
stopped for a thought or two.
Not being sure when I will meet him again
I drag myself like a log of wood on tar
Making a screeching noise-
Neither a prayer nor a shout for help.

My dear words

I can start off directly
with a rhetorical conclusion.
What will the body be filled with?
Shouldn't it have a head?
Shouldn't I care for a tail?
Shouldn't it be, atleast, anthropic
and jumpy like our ancestors?

Like the hiccups that won't leave
Should my words stay for long
after the act is done?
Should they be melancholic
like the incessant rain when you are stuck?

An injection shot or an anti-biotic?
A small pinch now or a bad stomach for a day?
A pain in the ass or a bitter tasting tongue?
Where, what and how should they be?