Wednesday, April 2, 2008


I was chased by sorrow,
Out of breath, out of pace,
I turned around and threw back my tears –
It rained and the peacocks danced around me,
The flowers reveled in song, and,
With his drooping face,
Sorrow departed.

I had been chased by fear.
In my small, square world,
I had nowhere to hide, and so,
I turned around and threw back my rage –
Fires broke out, the thunder roared,
And then, with the storm gaining on him,
Fear scampered.

The day I was chased by love,
I had nothing with me.
Out of breath, out of options,
I turned around and threw out my heart.
The wind played truant in my ears,
The sound of cascading waterfalls,
Tempted my eyes.
And when I entered this world,
Geometric emotions made me feel out of place.
Like an old acquaintance,
Love left me.

Then I was chased by exhaustion.
Empty hands, empty eyes,
Empty heart, and in utter desperation
I turned and threw back – a sigh.
In the whiff of the breath,
The past lit up in scarlet hues,
Memories, turned to splinters
And then metamorphosed to the silent ash.

Now, I’m running in peace,
With my arms outstretched,
I know,
At last,
I’m being chased,
By my destiny.

Monday, March 17, 2008



Lips and well known words.
Traditional enemies, battle for the real thing
And wounds cease to hold back.
Clenched fists and hopes to reverse the wheel –
Brighten the iris.
Unaware of the gory chronicle,
The horizon sports a smile at dawn…
But, where are the birds?

The parrots have flown away,
And the pastels on the branches
Seem, a shade lighter.
Winter is here – hues are changing…
It is cold; looks are changing…
The gardener will be on song
Because Keats had hope.
I guess he was on the other side of the fence.

Here, tragedies occur,
And bearded dreamers wait for the moon on Emajor
While the voice provides company.
The tangible firmament is less alluring,
And Belafonte adds to the misery.
A pity…

The stethoscope dangles;
The doctor reflects –
From the ambulance to the bed,
He has seen it all.
How, the power of a few sleeping pills
Humiliates six years of diligence.
Hands clutch onto the bedsheet,
Expressions are choked behind masks
The gloved finger shivers…
The iris widens…once….

The year has ended.
Along with many lives.
We shroud the pupil behind glasses,
And embrace the night,
To wait for the red morning,
The green grass, the blue sky
And the white tomorrow.
And then retreat into the future.
Anyway…happy birthday.

Monday, February 4, 2008

REMAINS, TRACES, MEMORIES - last week at college

static images above a shimmering flame,
moist kerchiefs and scribbled names,
monotone of noise encroaches in --
i'm not good with plastic grins.

synthetic eyes and squandered lines,
inquisitive fingers, but - "I am fine"
twenty days and the encroaching bend --
photographs, phone bills and emotions penned

remain as scraps, hungry for the flame --
dry kerchiefs, and forgotten names.

attired looks for the bored eye --
bruised knees, and the want to learn to fly,
is over now -- a petulant whim;
years after -- "that that him?"

reluctant strolls and images cascade --
memories, of the haziest shade
shake up the images under the shimmering flame --
torn kerchiefs, and once well known names.

So, goodbye dear friends, i bid you well --
invigorating smiles to conceal the swell --
may they make worlds shine and linger on --
for newer eyes to replace eyes that are gone.

backbenched laughs and illegible hands,
will tomorrow seem alien and distant lands?
but the smoke will remain to keep memories of the flame,
burnt kerchiefs and stubbed out names.


Why, in the shades of black and white,

Red, appears lucrative to every eye?

Fanned expressions and the roving –

Eyes, catch momentary glimpses and

Nostalgia arrests concentration.

The fingers loosen, the mind drifts

To memories of bespectacled faces;

And a beautiful, deceptive eyelash,

Serenades into the nostalgic airs.

The song seems familiar, yet subtle –

The eyelash quivers in an approval,

Probably, balmy evenings are canny –

Hesitant eyelids give way, and meet.

I knew she was hiding – as usual.

My sad eyes gave that knowing smile,

She reciprocated with her eyelash.

‘Where were you’, demands the silence.

Guess, I was always here – by your side.

Clocks tick by inconsequentially..

Voices subside, the hearts close in.

Amidst clouds of smoke and colours

The afternoon rolls by with aplomb.

A few grey streaks have been in vain –

You still inspire the artist’s hand…

The brush seems alien to the bankers

Red, white, black and denominations

Engross me more than the warm green,

The shielded eyelash, which is, to me –


Saturday, December 15, 2007



Turn around.

Take death in your palms.

In the shield of darkness, hide the petals of a lotus.

Tear down the veins with the introvert’s rage.

See the battlefield below the moonstruck earth.

Wipe away the shards from the eyes.

Burn the oceans with the fire in your heart.

Let the waves be your unicorn.


You are not alone.



In these confines, the smell of insomnia is strong,

The unshaven walls sport an incongruous expression;

Even the doors and windows have their eyebrows stitched…

The furniture grunts relentlessly.


….and then when home seems alien,

The eyes zoom into a pallete of green.

No thirst for the throat,

No inquisitive voice –

The hand involuntarily soars into the blue.

I have mastered the language of the birds,

And man’s gestures and words seem illegible.

The lizard’s glare, the movement of the red ant,

The whiff in the air, are no mystery to me;

At midnight as the aged owl looks on,

The devil’s disciple gets in the ring….


Eyes fill up with anxiety as I am spotted.

In closed rooms, solitude or aimless loiter

Is all they have rationed for this even lesser mortal.

Chains have been spared out of pity;

I am deserted – an untouchable amidst

Father’s apprehension and mother’s silence.

Somnambulation is not a peaceful experience.


Like an illegitimate offspring,

Here lie my words –

On the bed – below the table – unruffled…

Time has clawed his nails into it.

An unknown beast devours it, before my helpless eyes.

But I can still hear it weep –

And then – the huen cry – a beheaded spirit –

-- the stench of the morgue –

And this nightmare remains my solitary guardian angel.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007


The red tuft rises on the grass,

The wind is making up his mind,

The firefly is itching for news..

A flame is all that we must find.

Radical changes are to occur

The voices uphold my stand –

The flame will soon begin to flicker,

And the spark will be lit in another land.

The rooster prophesizes in the dark,

The grass murmurs a new name

We’ve got to keep the eyelids still,

We’ve got to see the colours of the flame….