Tuesday, March 31, 2015


Will you leave me
A sign, a few lines
Here and there
Utter words to bring
Me back to life.

Bring you back here
Bring you back here
Once again again
A crumble inside
A broken heart.

Never knew I'd find
Again myself caught
In a world of strife
Where thoughts are
Spelt in skywriting.

Where the misery
Of meetings partings
Leaving behind
Botched goodbyes
Have histories

When the sense sinks
Bores into this parting
That says of silences
I realise that you were mine
For so long and I didn't care

Thursday, March 26, 2015


For you and me, the numbers are important. We spent most of our days counting and performing the basic acts of arithmetic. Neither your joy nor your sorrows reach me except as vague waves of depression that may be carried into the next age as well.

It has happened more than a single time that the numbers showed how between the cup and the lip, a victory was lost and a dream was crushed into nothingness.

This mad heart still loves to make vague calculations that makes it easy to swallow the hurt and the pain of the past and the present that never lets it be. This dream might appear after a century or never but the days are full of expectations and the nights full of longing.

Whatever time may bring, the days are spent in tying a few words together that appear without embellishments but form a perfect crown of flowers for my king. These are seen by many as calculations meant to trap or attract but this heart knows well that they are calculations to write away a foolish love.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


Every time I put henna on my hands I hum that song
Where I write your name on the palm of my hand,
Hidden in the intricate shapes, curves and designs
The story of the day we met or the day we spoke.

We have walked countless times around the fire
We have uttered so many different sacred chants
Of holding a bond so close just by keeping it safe
Deeply tied to the sense of our sacred silences.

We have celebrated in rhymes, absences felt,
The emotions that run wild and the colours
We have sang of the endless days we wandered
Listlessly, aimlessly and perfectly in silence.

Yet when I put mehndi on these hands of mine,
You smell them, as if it’s our first time together.

Monday, March 23, 2015

My River Green

The river flows, the first memory in mind,
A huge sheet of green glass; not blue hue,
Like they do in usual children’s watercolours,
A shade of muddy green with trees around. 

It’s Onam, the spring is here, day bright,
We run to the songs from the snakeboats;
We forget our food and rush to the middle
Much to the angst of our seething mother.

Again, we run to watch the fast snakeboats
Rushing to the beat of the peppy boatsong,
The sun shining against our tired eyes,
Then playing in the water for hours long.

A taste of childhood, onasadyas from home,
So long, so far, from the present lone time.

Saturday, March 21, 2015


My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable. 

When the snows fall and the cold bites hard
When the winds are rough in dark wintry nights,
He walks in the moors calling out her name,
One who loved him like the rocks underneath;

When her father brought him home one day
He was just a wild-haired gypsy child; sullen,
He loved her and rose up in life just to gain her,
While her own brother brought him up low.

He loved her more than his own dark self;
She chose not him but a wealthy gentleman;
He came back and drove her to madness
And lies buried next to her and her mate.

Many have heard them together laugh and sing
In dark wintry nights, gathering snowflakes.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Vantage Point

It feels like God who watches from the clouds,

To look at distant mountains and tall towers,

The blue and violet of the spectrum scattered;  

Which stand so blue in the summer drizzle.

We have fitted together two broken halves,

Watching the sunrises and sunsets together,

With limbs, run and coil against each other

Strengths and foibles of two separate lives.

We have picked up a few purple clovers,

To divine what the future has in store for us,

Colours that run amok in twilight dreams,

Of a full spectrum scattered in an afterglow.

When a pale sun sets along its blue horizon,

May it have love that’s like halves fitted again.

Friday, March 06, 2015

Garden of Eden

Hold my hand and let’s walk in the garden

Look around for the four-leafed clovers;

Walk around till we find the mystique

Of a clover much-searched for and found.

One leaf for faith, hope, love and good luck,

Good luck, the most needed of them all,

From morning till night, we could pluck

And learn from the leaves of a four-leaf,

When the magic of the purple riot falls off life,

In a sunless garden where the flowers are dead,

A four-leaf clover might bring in a warm smile

Memories of bright sunshine and summer rain;

An Eve in the Garden of Eden plucked a clover

To know if her Adam is her one true faithful lover.

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Skeletons in the Cupboard

There is nothing left in the cupboard
Except the daily household items,
Coffee, sugar, bread and tea,
A few broken loves from the past,
A dysfunctional family of inferno
In time replaced by another

While time is spent in words
A precious gems that began
A few songs of silence followed
A few songs of remembrance
A purple riot that ran and bled
And the silence that it brewed.

Days of humdrum and misdom,
Always balanced by fantasies,
In colours of midnight blue
That brought out all old stories
The years that buried the dreams
And no secrets left except you.