Saturday, December 30, 2017



A cup of comfort

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.

Reading The Cloud Messenger

Wasted by anguish
she would be lying on her bed of loneliness
drawing herself together on one side, 
seeming like the last sliver
of the waning moon on the eastern horizon. 
By my side her nights flew by
On winged moments in rapture's fullness; 
now they drag on, heavy with burning tears.
( Meghtadutam, Kalidasa)

May be it was the shape of his beloved's favourite beast
Bent down to butt a riverbed that inspired him to poesy.
May be it was the memory of his lover's sandalwood body
Or the grief of separation from her that made him sing so. 

Whatever the reason might have been for him to compose,
He thought of her long hair without adornments or flowers
Drawn together in a single sweep in the long absent months,
He sang this musical erotic message promising rejuvenation.

He thought of her beauty that made him err in his daily duties,
The early hours of the morning when he spent hours with her, 
Which he didn't want to forsake and plucked the holy lotuses,
Which he did before time just to get punished for one long year. 

When the rainclouds burst on her, he wants her to see his love
All written in the eight months of longing, just to be with her! 

Pic Courtesy: Blog at wordpress

Friday, December 29, 2017

Happy New Year


You come when your thought flashes my mind-
Your smile as you lean against my shoulders,
Or the way your face crinkles when you see,
The red henna pattern I'd made on my palm.

Your warm body as you lie curling against mine
As the rain pitter patters on the tin roof outside,
The lazy rainy mornings when we often run late
To greet more sunshine in our open wide arms.

Your moist lips that scrawl on my soft cheeks,
Your rough fingers that taunt my every desire,
Your cruel gaze that stirs me from deep within
In the soft ochre light of our dawns and dusks.

It's when I am set, all ready for this twilight,
That you seek me again with your warm eyes.


I have my ebbs
And my tides;
I change
My nature,
With the moon.
Yet my love
For you dearest
Comes back
In full circle.

A Subtle Truth

The universe




Wednesday, December 27, 2017


Related image

It was as if a long-forgotten dream had flashed right in front of my eyes that evening. A glimpse of that last day in December when you I saw you last, the day we spent hours at the bookstore just because you wanted to buy me a book, the last time you had held me close and the day you left so as to make our dream true.

What I saw was none of these but an opulent durbar, the dancers and the audience who were screaming praises of my own name when I looked at my demure queen with a quiet pride knowing her to be mine only. There she was, smiling at me. Though veiled, the silhouette of her cheeks could be seen against her red veil. 

As we walked side by side, the crowds roared. We climbed those ancient steps and looked in the huge mirrors as if it was part of an old dream, as if two broken pieces were put together in a perfect shape for an instant. With a strange wonder, I recognised an old home, a place of no return, one that I lost long back return as we stand chattering inside a palace that gives a strange sense of having lived here long before.


You took me for an obedient being one day, when you saw me obey every single word of my master. Not that this heart does not know rebellion, it knew how to burn down worlds in its fury or even bring down the mighty, in its good old days.

It once knew how to fly past the countless mazes even though that meant it had to carry charred wings throughout its later life. It knew how to live without a word of love or encouragement  and yet to look at criticism with equanimity.

Now,  I have lost my belief in prayers for they move no mountains or molehills but has not lost its habit of recognising miracles placed in its way.


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

A warrior of light

A warrior is as wise as a serpent and as innocent as a dove.When people gather to talk, he does not judge the behaviour of others; he knows that darkness uses an invisible net to spread its evil. This net catches any snippet of information floating in the air and transforms it into the intrigue and envy that infest the human soul.

Thus, everything that is said about someone reaches the ears of the enemies of that person, augmented by the dark weight of poison and malice.

For this reason, when the warrior speaks of his brother's opinions, he imagines that his brother is there present, listening to what he is saying.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Message in a Bottle

You drink me with your eyes
Your slices of brown bread
Your mugs of black coffee

You think of yesterdays
Worry about tomorrows
While there is only the now

Wrapped is the present,
This time where dreams
Reign over reason.

Forget the lies of snow,
Forget the lies of words
Think only of the now.

Rush not stay steady
Drink your coffee black
Your eyes on me...

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

The Zahir

It ends with a glimpse or a passing thought. It ends in obsession. I read the cover of The Zahir. Not impressed yet. It is not the first time that I have thought of buying it. I read the short summary at the end- it’s about a famous writer who discovers to his horror that his wife of many years has left without saying a word.

I start thinking. What can this story mean to me? The thought of a wife leaving a husband under mysterious circumstances is that  fascinating to me. Nothing. In fact, I think that it is in contrast to The Alchemist that was about following your dream, or to give a kiss to a woman waiting for you miles away just by blowing it to the desert wind.  I hesitate and read the epigraph. It is from the Gospel of St.Luke. Still not as interesting as to own a copy of it.

Then I turn two more pages and I read :

“According to the writer Jorge Louis Borges, the idea of the Zahir comes from the Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness”.

Immediately I understand that it holds an answer to something that I was searching for.  Obsessions-ideas, people, songs and books- that's something I really identify with.

There are only a few books that I have read burning the midnight oil. The gripping, un-put-downable handful like Anna Karenina, Memoirs of a Geisha and The French Lieutenant’s Woman. The Zahir was one such book.

It is not really a search for the absconding wife, just as The Alchemist is not about a shepherd boy’s journey for treasure. The Zahir is a tale of self-discovery after long years of wandering in search of love.

New Woman


This soul was once like a huge flame leaping to the skies,
Then it withered, dried and drooped to the very earth;
Sometimes, like Icarus, it leapt out of its many mazes,
But burnt out in the heady dash for total freedom.

Then she brought forth a new-born, a swaddled baby
She sang her magnificat of newly found motherhood;
The soul forgot its troubles for a joyous interval
And learnt how to escape the many mazes again.

Yet mostly this soul was a single-celled organism,
Cowardly and crawling in this huge universe,
Too silent, too shut out and too withdrawn,
Incapable of learning or making its way around,

Sometimes, it longs for the crazy days of yesterday,
When the sun of total freedom had burnt its wings.

Pic Courtesy: Icarus and the Sun by Serena-Moretti

The power of a smile

Saturday, December 02, 2017

Children's Day




Be yourself

The walk


Thank you





The story of my life

Invincible Summer

The purpose of life

Our earth

Letting go

Your feet


The Right Time

Four leaf clover

Our wings


The song of a bird

Cherry blossoms

The past

Perfect Love




The past

Ernest Hemingway

It was almost five decades ago,
Just before your 62nd birthday
That you played with your gun,
To write the end of your life.

Blessed with words by the muses,
You stood before their altar,
Writing and tearing out pages,
Till the best words did emerge.

Your life is a curious tale,
For every lover of your words,
Who wander upon your books,
Never to leave them again.

You did not wait for the fall,
To turn the green leaves yellow,
Only made the morning news flash,
With scattered bones and brains.

Your love for hills, the blue skies,
And words will remain forever.


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...