Sunday, March 18, 2018


In a way, each story has the same kernel in it- our dreams, hopes and longing all lost and found again- the fire and the smiles and the hopes that love kindles and brings joy.

The stories that we write are not what really happened or events that could really happen. These come from an imagination that loves to wander and see what would have happened if!

Sometimes, it is sunshine and laughter outside; depends on the state of this mercurial soul. The reality looms large taking everything away and sometimes giving blessings unasked for.

Your stories reveal the joy of finding happiness in new things, which are in fact, new ways to name the old likes and loves while I harp on change and about moving on but have stayed in the same year where I stopped learning.

The fire still burns in these kernel stories of love, longing and loss so much that our words have intertwined the threads of our many lives forever. 


The world stood still for a few days, it was as if there were no one around. Their tired eyes sought God and lamented about divine justice.

For they were innocents who wore their hearts on their sleeves, the ones who had not learnt how to deceive with a serpent's tongue or act like a dove.

They bore their yokes without even a murmur and none ever saw them cry. Not that their shoulders crumbled with the weight but only became stronger.

Now, they look like zombies lost in a mad world of dictators and strange chatter.

Leaves in his hair

 Image result for leaves in his hair

The tiny yellow leaves in his grey hair made me feel a stange tenderness for him. To run my fingers through his hair and to feel a strange closeness that hit me like a thunderstorm, the first time I gazed into his eyes.

May be it was because he was waiting under the trees, may be because though he said he didn't wait much, but his eyes flickered with a strange delight when he heard my footsteps. When he looked up every time, it was like I could hear the roar of the thunderstorm.

I don't think I need much except this roar of the thunderstorm daily.


Your words fill my heart with a strange emotion; it’s like seeing me in a mirror, a million crossroads ago. The words bring new possibilities that I had lost and may be with a sleight of hand, with a sudden twist, I want a victory in life, not beautiful words in multiple colours strewn across pages and pages of separation and absence.

The bondages don’t matter anymore nor the daily actions that need so many juggling roles; one to another switching lines and changing masks. Your angst matches mine and tears rise up in my eyes when I realise that what matters really is flying out of mazes, free and wild, without ever getting burnt in the riot of ecstatic freedom.

Time freezes and I always go back to the day we spoke; more or less clueless as to emotions; yet in a strange way feeling the way how words do not make sense any longer with the baggage that I carry and the familiar way in which my eyes longed to see what I saw till the magic was broken and the moment gone.

Many seconds passed before I felt what it is to come back before you and get back the same lovelorn gaze; many days, months, years may pass with the moment gone; while the writer’s words say it all, wasting away lives and crossroads all in the name of a love that never found a way to the lips, all in the name of a love that is so you and so me; and so perfect  


For a heart like this full of love for wandering in the serenest places on earth, each and every picture of natural beauty is an invite. The cascading waterfalls that astonish, the beautiful mountain-tops, the endless beaches and patches of green everywhere.

May be on a day like this, looking at this beautiful earth, I may not write a word but only sigh and think; for what to write about a work of art that is beautiful more than any word can describe. Yet I sit at home and dream of visiting all these wonderlands after looking at their pictures.

It might happen that one fine day, I will be able to wander as long as I pleased and as far as I pleased. But right now, the travels occur in dreams that carry me to these imagined places of delight.

A cup of coffee

When I drink you in like my cup of coffee;
With a little milk to bring in the right colour,
Strong flavoured robusta with sugar added,
In my large brown mug, with a tome in hand.

When I drink you in like my cup of coffee;
With slices of brown bread slightly toasted,
A little marmalade and butter thinly spread,
As I read the current tome that I’m reading.

When I drink you in like my cup of coffee;
I dream of your eyes that drank my desire,
My eyes stay on the page and the storyline
But my heart falls back on our little fantasy.

For another day, when I drink you like coffee,
When you sip my desire your eyes only on me.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

An evening

In the midst of this summer tedium,we meet again,
In the same old park where we used to sit around, 
Reading books and chatting for hours altogether, 
While the ancient tabeubia trees bore us witness. 

Once again, the carpet of pink blossoms is made, 
For you and me to sit and doodle with lifelessons-
The serious thoughts about the angst of this life , 
The trivial thoughts about the colours in the world. 

You are a strong shoulder that I had let go earlier, 
Your few words fill me with so much of happiness, 
I am the mighty wordsmith in whom you believe, 
The one who can conjure up new worlds in verse.

You and I talk of the serious and trivial meet again, 
In our old hang-out under the same ancient trees.


In a way, each story has the same kernel in it- our dreams, hopes and longing all lost and found again- the fire and the smiles and t...