Life, right now.

I am busy again.
Chop. Chop. Tick. Tick.
Work work.
Lets – get – it
Done. Done.

It was day when I left
and I haven’t looked out my window since.
Its already night fall
Past 9.
What a life.
I have none, they say.
I like it.
I like it.
Chop chop. Some more.
A little more. Lets get it.
Done. done.

Tick. Tick.
I sit.
Staring at the screen,
the blue light that its emanating.
All my world,
the meaning, the comprehension,
the joke and the leisure.
Its all here.
And I can see it,
through this blue light that’s emanating.

No. no.
That wasn’t the point of it all.
Was it?

Chop –
No. Wait. Stop!
I don’t want to chop anymore.
Do I?
Don’t I?
Adrenaline rushing.
Click. Click.
Happy – sad?
Don’t know. Don’t know.
Shhhh. I wanna think.
I think?


Tick. Tick.


Fuck it.
I am busy again.
Chop, chop.
Tick. Tick.
Lets get it.
Done. done.


In the deep tresses of my mind

In the deep tresses of my mind,
I scream for a let out.
I scream for a door
in a room full of colorful windows.

In the deep tresses of my mind,
I loathe this dreadfully, pragmatic life.
The dawn beneath my curtains,
this blue world promising me its light.

I rush back in my head,
to years of childhood that are far left behind.
I weep for the grasses untouched,
and feelings forgotten in my mind.

I beg for my freedom.
I beg for a life more accustomed to regrets
than the meaningless applauses,
made for a night.

In the deep tresses of my mind,
I wish for a life lived again-
with less fear in my heart to begin,
and within, a burning fire until the end.

A free world?

Its a free world they say.
A much better world than what it used to be.
They had regulated television
and we have the freedom of internet.
Their sedition was crime.
Ours is anonymity.

Its a free world and yet not, they say.
We are loud and clear
so why are we not heard, they ask.
Change the subject, they say.
Distract with terms and decorated faces,
that mean nothing and yet our attention is theirs.

Who am I to crib, I wonder.
So many things waiting to be sketched from words
and yet no courage to spill the paint.
The voice is afraid
and so the change is yet to come.
They say. They say and they say.
And I put a stop to this.
My pen, my sword thumps on the ground
with a thud not so loud.
And I weep, weep without tears of hopelessness
but foreseeing the tragedy of the inevitable end.

I chose quiet.
Quieter than I thought I would be.
Only words that sum up
and have no meaning stay.
So, how does it matter
if I said something over nothing at all.
The uncanny chains remain the same.



How easy it used to be for me to criticise her. To make her feel that she wasn’t good enough; that she could have done much better but stuck herself to my father, to the “meaningless family life”.

Today while we were taking a walk in the morning, she pulled out my dad’s phone that she had specially bought to just click pictures of the flowers in the garden where we walk. I usually find it silly when she sends me a good morning message everyday at 8’o clock. I know she sends it to ‘all’ in her list. But what struck me this morning was not that she was clicking pictures of flowers to continue her religious commitment of her ‘good morning’ ritual – it was the look in her face when she was watching the flowers. She loved them. The colours, their shapes – the way she chose pure white ones to off-white ones, the way her face lit up when she saw a small garden patch of marigold flowers. ‘Aren’t they beautiful, bebu?’, she asked me. I said, yes. Truly, I did not even know what was so beautiful about them. And I felt so jealous. I thought I had been doing it all right. I was living my life to the fullest while she could not. That, she got ‘stuck’. And here I was, not even understanding her awe at the beauty of those bright orange globe-concentric shaped flowers.

I have usually been critical of her ever-so-happy demeanour. I would wonder how much she keeps inside her and criticise even more whenever in anger, I would hear some spite. I would tell her that she is better than that. I wonder, if she doesn’t want to be better than that. And whatever she has done so far, what I call the facade – is because I and people like me in her life kept telling her that she is better than that. I wonder, how much she has suffered, how much she has let go of. I wonder, if she has ever hated me and loved me at the same time by not letting me know so.

Today while she was watching the roses, more than sadness, I felt disgust for myself. I realised how I have put the people I love in boxes of my critical court and hammered them with my own insecurities of who I am and how they must be, to be with me. You would say that I must not be too hard on myself, but the truth is that I am not at all being hard on myself. This is me. My energy comes from critically accessing all parts of my being in the constant need to renew myself from who I am to who I want to be. But to subject people who love me on the same dais as mine, is just not fair.

I wonder why they do not complain. I wonder why she does not complain. Or, maybe she does but I can’t hear it, because I am too busy being convinced how she knows so little and I know so much more. That I am not disgusted with, though. I think all children at some point or the other feel that they are much smarter than their parents. And that is usually true – given that they come from them and have better adaptation to the present world and its obsessions more than their parents. They care about the world and their parents care about them. Children are smarter – definitely. But that’s not what am worried about. I am worried about, how little I know of the real world, of real people, of real things and of real feelings. If I show this write – up to my mother, she would wonder what I am talking about, probably even say that its amazing while never comprehending what I actually mean. She wouldn’t understand that I am jealous of her. And that is what am most jealous of – the fact that she doesn’t know what it feels to not feel about the real, tiny happiness existing in bright yellow petals out there.


The new beginning

‘Its gonna be fine’
I told myself.
Like Aamir Khan consoled himself
‘All is well’?
Its gonna be all fine.
I told myself.

‘Are you going to leave again?’
My heart asked.
Yes. Yes, please.
I need to, don’t I?
‘But you will be a wreck again!’
I know, I know!
But, it doesn’t feel right.
Not any more. Not any more.

‘Have you tried letting go of your ego yet?’
Yes, I did. Didn’t I?
Not all the way though.
Not this time.
No, not this time.

‘How do you manage to inflict so much pain upon yourself?’

I wish it didn’t hurt so much.
I wish it was easier like it should be.
Such a blessed life with no worries, no problems to flee.
And yet, so much desperation, so much self inflicted pain to deal with.
I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.

‘Are you gonna be fine?’

Aren’t you gonna be there for me?

‘Yes.. Yes, ofcourse I am. Ofcourse I am..’

And we walked away.
Very slowly,
‘cos there’s no hurry.


Still, steady and all that throbs.

And there goes a dream,
a child’s fantasy of a fairy tale
and the perfect ending.
How would I have known that it was only a chapter.
Regret and sorrows all drying
in forlorn branches of wisdom and lore
I wonder what all is left
for this tiny hyper heart to implore.

Somehow its living
and yet its not.
This constant. Oh, this constant.
and yet not knowing what’s really alive.
Left, right, top, bottom,
diagonally aligned? Is it? My heart?
No. No.
Its all in the centre.
Oh, so steady.
I like it here.
I like it here?

Is it an ending
or a blank page before a new beginning?
Maybe its that chapter that I did not expect to come
but has already begun.



There is no calm, there is no peace.
My poems –
just restless afterthoughts.
Is it the withdrawal symptom of a changing weather,
maybe after a day or two,
my heart will find its mystical ease.

I wish it was effortless,
To be so many and not just one.
A tiny bit taken from all good souls,
understanding deeply the core of my own.
But I am so restless,
even tears need reasons to implore.

What a blithe cry of melancholy again,
the emptiness of being, creeping on my mattress again.
Go away, I beg.
The good souls need to do what they do the best.
I will pray for a little longer,
in a hope to silence the devil in my head.