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.