Sunday, December 2, 2012


Like the first monsoon rain
    that comes pouring down without hesitation
Like the baby's uninhibited laughter
    proof of a soul that couldn't be free-er
Like the mother's love unconditional
    beyond all boundaries and every fear
Like all of the above, pure, true and blessed
    is my happiness, which lately, knows no bounds! :)


Saturday, December 1, 2012

Doesn't matter to me

When the clouds rake up a sorry storm,
  When they thunder up against the norm,
People crave for shelter, safety and calm.
  To me, it doesn't matter: for I've your arms, my universal balm.

When friends cheat, loot or don't care,
  When loved ones are away with no time to spare,
People brood, cry, give themselves a melancholy day.
  To me, it doesn't matter: for I've in you, my best friend in every way.

When life gets stubborn, sullen in an unforgiving way,
  When all paths close, except the ones of pain and shame,
People get disheartened, discouraged and maimed.
  To me, it doesn't matter: for I've your love, it always wins me every game.


Thursday, September 20, 2012

I hold you in awe.

I sometimes wonder
about the success phenomenon
would it ever behold me in it's juvenile attraction?
The show offs, the talkers
the screamers, the followers
those that shout their accomplishments
those that look down on other sentiments.

Alas the only thing they could ever do to me -
is increase my disgust, my disrespect, my pity.

That lone man on the distant land
whose voice is anything but noise
in whose work radiant perfection throbs
he who couldn't care less about me,
about you, about our impressions or assumptions.
The only thing that could ever move him -
an idea, a passion, a thought, may be?

Alas no force in the world can hold me back -
my respect, my awe, my heart, my thanks.

Why is there such unmissable charm in humility? Why is there such power in understated achievements? Why cant any amount of money, marketing or pure gab beat pure, consistent and unpolluted ability? Thank god for that unmatched radiance that lends itself only to men of genuine ability, detached passion and consistent excellence. Thank god that nothing can beat down a person true to his abilities.

Thank god for small mercies.


Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Spoilt for choice

Live gives me options
the first is called wealth
in whose shelter, I can live
the life of luxury and stealth.

Then there is a second
it is called fame
fame that spins me a rare story
it can give me wealth and glory.

Happiness, the third is named
elusive, mysterious and slippery
if you choose this, says life
your time will know no pain, no strife.

Spoilt for choice, I am offered love as fourth
deep, lasting, enduring and true
Love that knows no language, no boundaries
Love that can bring peace to you.

Me with my presumptuous, cocky confidence,
I disregard all choices.
I ask for you.
Life, in all its innocence, offers me my due.

I smile as I receive all of wealth, fame, happiness and love,
in their purest form, rare and true - you.


True love

Time stops in its tracks,
unwilling to tick ahead.
The cloud gathers all its lost friends,
unwilling to bring the rain to an end.

My heart, generous, beats a tad faster,
unwilling to let me be the master.
The power of love that is honest and unconditional,
knows no conventions, no rules, no parallel.


Ripples of promises

Words, promises, colors and hue
    As transient as the morning dew
Ubiquitous in their impermanence
    Abundant in absence
Promises disguised as words
    Interfere in all colors and every hue
Nothing more than pebbles tossed in a tranquil river
    The ripples don't last beyond a quivering shiver


My mornings

Mornings aren't mine anymore
not without your gentle touch
My laughs have lost their spirit and roar
now that I miss you so much
Flowers seem to find blooming a chore
and songs seem to bore me more
Nights are longer than ever and unusually so,
As I scan these lonely roads, to and fro.


Wednesday, August 29, 2012

The poem in my pen.

The fury in my thunderstorms.
The calm in my songs.
The words in my head.
The only truth I'd never dread.

Joy prophesied. Love premonitional.

The truth in my smile.
The twinkle in my eye.
The noise in my shouts.
The space in my silences.

Time stopped. Love eternal.

The rhythm in my life.
The reason in my madness.
The in between my sentences.
The sudden spring in my steps.

Myths dispelled. Love unconditional.

The assurance in my apprehensions.
The balance in my confusions.
The hope in my doubts.
The love in my life.


Tuesday, August 14, 2012

The friend

Have you The one friend
who sticks by you every bend.
adores your quirks, honors your smirks
knows every thought that lurks
who gives you all that is hers.

Have you The one friend
who knows no weather, no time.
with whom your song always does rhyme
whose silence renders powerful as words
she who brings the joy of the worlds.

Friends all kinds, some kind some kinder
some near some yonder.
But the only one who defines belonging
How unbelievable it is, that I
have forever known the feeling.

Friendship is perhaps the only thing that makes me all warm and gooey inside. I am thankful for the many incredible friends I am given. But like everyone else, there is the one friend who is special, surreal and the reason for all sorrows to be forgotten. Whose outstretched hand and the kindly smile always reminds you what an inspiration friendship can be :)


Saturday, July 21, 2012

Sometimes I wait

I sometimes wait, just beneath guava tree
where the children chase the rabbits in glee

Sometimes I wait, on the bed by the window
I wait silently while I watch the rainbow

Sometimes it is on the vast wide sea shore
I wait with the wind in my hair, sand on the floor


Sunday, June 24, 2012

Time stops with Ruskin Bond

I suddenly realized that I cannot read most of Ruskin Bond short stories without choking on a lump in my throat! Every other story manages to evoke a strangely familiar painful feeling in myself. 

I wonder why though. His stories are neither terribly tragic nor unnecessarily sorrowful. They are almost never about broken hearts or lost loves. Then why is it that they move me so? I always thought only unrequited love and lost sweethearts could evoke such waves of emotions in me! But it is beyond argument that these wonderful little stories bring a shiver in my spine, heaviness on my heart and tears to my eyes. As I ponder about the mystery, it dawns on me that most of his stories are nothing more than random occurrences. Incidents that happen in the lives of common people living common lives in some unknown but common land. 

The stories are almost always about some bygone experience, like a forgotten train journey. They are about some distant but enduring memory, like an old grandmother remembering her frolic-full days of laughter and mischief. A freak occurrence, like a widow finding and losing love, for the second time. They are about human eccentricities, like a woman falling in love with a man she has never seen. They are about life's whimsical and quirky ways, like an old man growing exceptionally attached to a little girl. They are about things we would otherwise not notice, like an old photograph now seen with new eyes or a daffodil that suddenly feels different. They are about travel, where we move ahead but only after we leave behind. 

His stories, like his travels are always moving always fleeting. They are with me this minute, they get lost the next. One experience withdraws only to tumble onto another. Each as sweet as the previous and as mystical as the next. I think it is this fleeting quality of his stories that touches me. This fleeting, transient and a vaguely temporary feeling that brings to me the strangeness of it all. The impermanence of everything. The broken dreams. The not so broken ones. The going to be broken ones. All of them cross my heart in a fleeting moment. That's why I cry. 

Oh and there is some element of broken and lost love after all. Even if in a very abstract sense often spoken of like it was in the past. Because after all there is really nothing more tragic than unrequited love. Is there?



Friday, June 8, 2012

What more can I do?

I try
I fail
I beg
I retort
I tremble
I fumble
I shout
I surrender
I agree
I don't
I order
I am denied
I refuse
I am given
I postpone
I forget
I forgive
I realize
I understand
I accept

Coz what more can I do?
I rest


Choices and Chances

I have always wondered about choices and chances. Opinions vary about whether life is a choice or a chance. I have had many people argue vehemently that life is a choice. Your choices and your options decide where you are today and where you will be tomorrow. Most of the times, I have to agree with this opinion. We have, after all, always had choices, good or bad, wrong or right. We have made the choices and we are living its consequences. Good or bad, right or wrong.

However, there are certain times, when I am forced to have an internal debate about chance. And destiny. There have been a couple of times when I have had no choice. Things have just happened. Out of chance. With absolutely no input from my side whatsoever. Even when I look back, and try to find a logic behind the occurrence, it doesn't exist. It was just chance. Pure chance. And nothing else!

Interestingly or should I say luckily, both my chances and my choices have been always for the better, even though not immediately obvious. I would risk it further and say my chances have always been better than my choices. In every way. Always.

So today, I will keep my practical mind aside, and send a small prayer for my life to continue having these rare but life changing destinies and chances :)


Wednesday, May 30, 2012



Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Love vice.

like the sand
in the hand
they slip
they escape
they vanish
they hold no value
no permanence
they are but mirages
that come out as sounds

like life
and its strife
it comes
it promises
it vanishes
it holds no meaning
no strength
it is but a vice
disguised as virtue


Saturday, May 19, 2012

Unreal truth

Life, is such a mirage. An accumulation of things and situations that seem real. But aren't real. That doesn't however make them any less beautiful though. I have a craving for beautiful things. For love and madness. Love and madness cannot be totally real anyway. Else they would not be love and madness. Love and madness is always in the mind. Always outside of a perceived reality. In a realm of their own where everything works but without rules. Where everything is true even if unreal.

If I had to choose between the real and unreal. I would choose the unreal and call it the truth.


Can I be yours

Can I be yours
at a place
where nothing matters
except the love
that we share

Can I be yours
at a time
when nothing occurs
except a touch
of our hands

Can I be yours
on a date
that knows no reason
except the oneness
of our souls


Sunday, April 29, 2012


My home, the exquisite palace -
adorned with prosperity and golden lace.
What use is it to the homeless old man?
How can it ever solve his case?

My garden, the haven of luxury -
all flowers so precious, rare and gay
What use is it to the hungry little child?
Can it bring him out of hunger's way?

My gowns, their extravaganza -
precious stones, the finest of silk
What use is it to the sad blind girl?
Can it give her, her life's pick?

My friends, the influential lot -
incredibly able, outrageously rich
What use are they to the lost weeping baby?
Can they find the mother, the unlucky lady?

There are times when we all feel deprived. Deprived of all the good things that we think we deserve. Deprived of all the love that we think we have missed. Deprived of all the richness that might have been ours. It's human, natural and perhaps even important for certain intangible reasons.

However, there are also certain days when we feel lucky and blessed. Blessed with a safe place called home. Blessed with abundant, unending and unconditional love of those that matter. Blessed with books that never cease to inspire. Blessed with friends who never utter a word unwise. Blessed with a mind capable of thought. Blessed with a present we can call our own. Blessed with a life that is so much worthy of living.

Feeling blessed,

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Today, yesterday and tomorrow

Is there a tomorrow? Yes, there probably is. Even if there isn't, there was a yesterday. Tomorrow will likely be no different. Maybe we should treat all tomorrows like yesterdays.


Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Place called home

I'd want to build a home someday
with nimble notes of music for bricks
those that'd lend their sweet echoing voices
those that'd ring over and beyond my gardens.
Whimsical words would make up my walls
their heart warming melody, my ceiling.

I'd have a home that'd rest on the hills
an abode of all my forgotten dreams.
I'd have fixtures made of love, light and trust
I'd paint them with the colors of joy and comfort.
I'd have a door that'd sing a song of sweet delight
I'd swing it wide to welcome you home each night.

I'd have two friends who'd often visit
who'd sit by the light and talk things I'd not recall
I'd have an oven to bake them brown bread
I'd serve on purple plates with white flowers on them
I'd talk to them about my dog and its rug
and I'd hope my dog would rush me a hug.

I'd long for Sundays for my mother'd be home
she'd bring me things I'd never use for a long time to come
I'd still wrap and store 'em in brown bags carefully
I'd give her a teary kiss and thank her profusely
She'd talk to me of my little sister's nice new pond
I'd listen delightedly and would want to laugh loud

I'd long to be home when the world'd shun me
to listen to my father and his never ending rants
I'd long to be lost in my sister's light laughter
to be with my mother as she'd search her mower
I'd long to be home where there'd be you and our laughter
I'd long to finally be home never to go out after.


Sunday, April 8, 2012


There is this beautiful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye on kindness. It's so beautiful that no matter what happens, once I read these soulful lines, everything becomes easy to forgive and forget.

" Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness. "

Life, in its basic essence, is harsh and cruel. Unstoppable and irrevocable. Idiotic and irritating. A fake and a thief. It wrecks you, it imprisons you, it hurts you, and never tires. It frightens you, it disillusions you, it lifts you up and throws you down.

It takes away everything you have always held dear. It will take away your future, it has already marred your past. Your present is under its senseless mercy. All those beautiful flowers on the tree are soon going to fall down and disappear. The sun is going to set no matter what. Life has no mercy. Life has no treasure.

What life does have, however, amidst all the rubbish are those regions of kindness that the poetess describes. Those tiny, innocent, selfless moments of kindness. It is kindness perhaps, of all the virtues, that gives life a hopeful face. Kindness is the only saving grace.

Thank god for the small mercies :)



The little bud hangs on safely to the stem
blooms into a pretty flower continues to hold tight
only to be plucked and thrown apart by the wind's might.

The steely spider doesn't lose hope
builds and rebuilds its dainty little home
only to be brought down once again by an angry broom.

The misty morning dew arrives as poetic as eternity
with little else in our innocent immediate sight
only to be rendered non existent, the sun makes it evanescent.

Temporary joys. Temporary riches. Temporary people. Temporary lives.



Oh why!
are these books so temporary
these pages painfully few
words ending before they start.
Just when I slowly begin to fall in love
with the proud protagonist in Paris..
just when I begin to live the story
the last page arrives in all its glory
Oh why!

Can't they write a mind bogglingly nice but never ending book :/


Thursday, April 5, 2012

The object

Its nice to let your imagination run free,
when you know not what the story can be.
when you know not if the story should be.
when all you know is an object of glee.

Will the object roar in dreamy delight?
when the rain suddenly stops the sun and its might.
Will the object flash a tiny rare twinkle in the eye ?
when the rainbow surfaces, as surreal as the smile.

Does the object like these worrisome windy nights?
or does it prefer those mild mornings with kites?
Does the object need a blessed blanket to sleep?
or does it suffice to have a warm pillow to keep?

Perhaps it likes the wet grassy lands
or wait - perhaps the dry silvery sand?
Perhaps it leads a peacefully pretty life
or wait - perhaps it rejoices life's adventures alike?

The story has infinite and more possibility
or wait - perhaps just the one and only?
The story might or might never be
but isn't it nice to let your imagination run free?


Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Those 3

A little kindness in a stranger's strife,
got me my best friend for life.
A little curiosity in those childhood days,
saved me from dangers of the grown up ways.
A little courage under the clouds of adversity,
took me to the horizons I had only dreamed to see.

Kindness, courage and curiosity. They made me everything I needed to be.


Monday, April 2, 2012

Not worth the fear.

One raindrop, disowned by a cloud
falls down, fears its end
Little does it know, its destiny -
lies in being passed, onto another cloud
only to be disowned, and yet again.

Such is life. There is no single abode, no single source, no single means. Everything is in plenty, for everyone. Every abode, is however as beautiful and as intriguing as a cloud.


Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Short story[1]

Writers digest gives writers some interesting story prompts. Here's the story I scribbled for today's prompt. Enjoy!

The link ->

The prompt -> "While out at a bar, your old high school sweetheart approaches you and gives you an unexpected kiss right on the lips. This causes you to have one intense reaction that will lead to a very memorable night—but not for good reasons."

The story ->
I adjusted my bright red sari as our car screeched to a halt. It was a Saturday night, and being a page 3 journalist meant dressing up and interviewing celebrities at a high profile pub for the day’s “Breaking News”. Unfortunately, I had never been able to get into the skin of a page 3 journalist. Sure, I liked the money, but hey! All I really wanted on a Saturday night was to cuddle up and watch a cheesy movie with the perfect man. Like the camera man who had accompanied me to the pub. Ah! An absolute dream boat. What I wouldn’t give, to be with him right then, all alone, in a faraway place. Pubs were surely not for me. They were for all those celebrities out there. The wannabe actress out there in a strapless green gown, for instance.. How I wished she would commit a fashion faux pas so my boss would get his “Breaking News” of the evening, which would mean I could try and get a vacation for real. Oh, after asking out the cameraman, of course.

I tried to exchange a few words with a caked up celebrity model with a high pitched voice and weird girly laugh, when I saw a man amongst them trying to chat up every pretty girl on board. His broad shoulders and flirty dark eyes reminded me of someone very familiar. Then I remembered. He was the dude from high school I had a silly crush on. Thank god I had long outgrown high school and all its burdens. The tall, intense, intelligent men were what I wanted now and those baby blue eyes just sealed it for me. God, I had to get this camera man out of my mind.

I got back to getting my “Breaking News” for the night. Just then, I felt a light tap and I eagerly turned around thinking my camera man had for once decided to talk. Then, I fainted. Only to wake up and find my camera man look at me with an “Are you OK?” expression. I sighed and like an impulse reaction I returned his kiss. The kiss that had just made me faint! But something dint seem quite right. The expression on his face didn’t do justice to my kiss at all and all eyes were suddenly on me. Why were all the rich and famous curious about my simple love life?

“It was you who kissed me, right?” I asked my cameraman, who looked mad enough to hurl his camera at me.

“No, it was me, your college crush, remember?” It was the dude from college I spotted earlier. Er, why wasn’t the world ending?

Yes, I could see it, right then. “BREAKING NEWS: SARI CLAD JOURNALIST SEDUCES HANDSOME CELEBRITY INTO KISSING HER AND IN TURN KISSES THE CAMERA MAN “. Clearly, I had lost all chances of asking out the camera man or taking my vacation.


Sunday, January 15, 2012


As I begin to take my writing seriously, I wish to keep track of submissions for the sake of motivation ;)

1) The Cha Magazine "Encountering" poetry.
2) "Three poems" to "The weave magazine".

The list will keep growing. Amen!


Friday, January 13, 2012


Readers digest gives writers some interesting story prompts. And here's the story I scribbled for today's prompt. Enjoy!

The link ->

The prompt -> "The plane lifted off the runway and into the air. The person next to you turns and quietly whispers in your ear, “I know I’m supposed to keep this a secret, but I absolutely must tell someone.”"

The story ->
I hated air planes. They made me sick but this was a trip I had to make. I could only hope it would be uneventful and predictable. I carefully made myself comfortable on my window seat as the plane took off. Take offs always made me funny in the stomach. There was something about being lifted off the ground when seated in an unknown enclosure that made me very uncomfortable every time.

I wanted this to get over fast and I was in no mood for any conversation either. My co-passenger, however, seemed to have different plans. He startled me with his deep voice when he said, “I know this has to be a secret but I have to tell someone. I was waiting for the right person and you fit the bill”.

“Excuse me?” I said trying to bring some expression. God, please make this easy and quick.

“The man behind your seat. I murdered him and you are going to have to take the blame for it. If you don’t, my accomplice will raid your home and then, god save your lovely daughter”, he smirked.

“What the..”, my mouth dried up and my mind was numb with dread. God is this real.

My daughter! I wished she wouldn’t have again forgotten to switch the lights off when she went to bed, else I would have to strictly reprimand her when I reached home. Oh dear lord, what was happening to me? I was supposed to be focusing on what the man was saying and not keep thinking about admonishing my daughter’s absentmindedness.

I barely heard him as he continued, “You are going to have to give your handkerchief which I am going to plant as proof against you when the cops look for evidence”.

“What the hell is this about? Why did you kill him? and why do want me?” I managed to bring words out of my mouth. The AC inside the plane was making me colder than it ought to. Why were airplanes so ill designed?

“Stop stalling and hand over the handkerchief” he repeated. My hands went numb. Damn the AC. I tried to focus on the present thinking I would comply with his wishes now and hopefully figure something out later. All those Agatha Christie novels had to come into use some day, dang it. Though I had no idea how. Oh hell, I didn’t even know where my handkerchief was. Goodness I was in a mess.

“Why the hell is it taking so long”, he growled.

“Um.. er..”, what the hell was I supposed to say.

And then from nowhere came an abrupt, exasperated voice that broke the tense silence.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!. For heaven’s sake, can’t you memorize 4 simple lines?” It was my director. I had forgotten my lines again. Being an actor was tough thanks to my wonderful memory.

We had to redo the shot all over again… right from the sickening air plane take off. Sigh.