Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Invader of Souls

And you invade my soul again.
How do you do it?

You echo my thoughts like a pensieve.
Hold them like glistening silver smoke,turn them over at will.
And hold them out for display.

But you are not supposed to.
Then why do you do it?
How do you do it?

I, like a drop of rain,
on a dry window pane,
watch the sun kill me.
Yet, you make me live.

Can you for once, give me your essence.
Unwrap it from the gold foil,
and give yourself up to me.
Vulnerable, weak.

I'll give you love.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Mists Beckon.

September is about to die. Yet words fail me.
Of late , i have been tempted.
By darkness, new and old.

He atleast has his words, though i have lost mine.

I tell you, we must run away.
Throw the world to inconsequence, and walk to the mountains at twilight.
As the golden orb mellows, we must walk hand in hand.
I tell you , we must.

Let foreheads turn red. And songs turn blue.
We will sing to our tune.

Mists beckon.
Hold my hand, dear, and let's run.

Friday, August 3, 2007

Spring Blooms

Spring Blooms

Two wounds,
etched by jet-planes,
on the buttery moon.
Signatures and strokes,
on my cascading gloom.
Puny earnestness dies,
beneath the spring blooms.
Were they gladiola?
Shrieking souls,
on cursed celluloid , and
rampaging silhouettes,
spell doom.
I swoon.
You croon.
Did the dog kill the meteor?

Thursday, July 26, 2007


The birds laid an egg one afternoon. The following morning it multiplied to two.
Two incomplete dreams on a straw bed ogle at my discomfort each day.
I hope for fruition.

A well-loved teacher taught me a lesson last evening.
In unmeasured gait, he strode like a king. I followed in hapless wonder.
Pleasure and pain. In equal measure.

I made love to the thunderstorm.
‘He fucked up his part’ …. And my love was in vain.
It lay in dirty puddles.
The rain drenched me again.

We made love later. On the rainy streets.
Under umbrellas we held hands. We spoke of Shallow Hal.
And Nini.

I dream of fruition.

Thursday, July 19, 2007


a year has passed in haste.

yet not much has changed. but everything has.
in essence we are the same. in perspective we are not.
i believe we have not compromised (since you hate that so much).
i hope we haven't.

do we love ?
yes, we do.
more than ever, now.

we still fight. we still blabber. we still cry.
we still walk. we still wonder. we still want.
we still fidget. we still rant. we still hug.
we still hate.
we still love.

one year on,
it still is you and I,
in our rainy sky.

Happy Anniversary.

Monday, July 9, 2007

The coffee stains

A sugar cube. A sweet Lump.
A sweet lump of sorrow.

She mulled over the coffee.
The bitter coffee. Unsweetened. Made inexpertly by young hands.

It could have been anything.Anger. Jealousy. Sorrow.

But it was sweet. And it melted into a brown, piece of cloth.
Stained by the coffee.
But she , unlike her, didn't rip the cloth apart.

She loves the fire. She , like him, loves to be singed.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Small Death

The cockroach flutters
and pirroutes,
sways to the beat.
The light-bulb flickers
beneath it's wings,
and bursts with the heat.
Gases ooze out
when it over-turns,
like a car hit on a highway.
The cockroach flails
its appendages,
in deathly disarray.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

As They Like It

You Would Be a Pet Dog

You're friendly, loyal, and an all around good sport. People love to be near you.

You are very open with your feelings, and you're quite vocal in expressing them.

You are sincere and kind. You love many people - without any sort of agenda.

Why you would make a great pet: You're content to chill out with your friends

Why you would make a bad pet: You always find yourself getting into trouble

What you would love about being a dog: Running around and playing

What you would hate about being a dog: Being left home alone while everyone else is out having fun

You Are Rain

You can be warm and sexy. Or cold and unwelcoming.

Either way, you slowly bring out the beauty around you.

You are best known for: your touch

Your dominant state: changing

Your Power Color Is Teal

At Your Highest:

You feel accomplished and optimistic about the future.

At Your Lowest:

You feel in a slump and lack creativity.

In Love:

You tend to be many people's ideal partner.

How You're Attractive:

You make people feel confident and accepted.

Your Eternal Question:

"What Impression Am I Giving?"

You Are a Sensitive Kisser

For you, kissing is a way to connect

And you need lot of care, attention, and privacy

It may take you a while to kiss someone...

But when you do, it's total fireworks

Your Mind is 69% Cluttered

Your mind is quite cluttered. And like most clutter, it's a bunch of crap you don't need.

Try writing down your worst problems and fears. And then put them out of your mind for a while.

You Are 89% Tortured Genius

You totally fit the profile of a tortured genius. You're uniquely brilliant - and completely misunderstood.

Not like you really want anyone to understand you anyway. You're pretty happy being an island.

Your Hidden Talent

Your natural talent is interpersonal relations and dealing with people.

You communicate well and are able to bring disparate groups together.

Your calming presence helps everything go more smoothly.

People crave your praise and complements.

Your Love Song Is

Yellow by Coldplay

"Look at the stars,

Look how they shine for you,

And everything you do,

Yeah they were all yellow"

You're so in love, it's like a drug.

You Are 30 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

No Wonder!!

Your Theme Song is Born to Be Wild by Steppenwolf

"I like smoke and lightning

Heavy metal thunder

Racin' with the wind

And the feelin' that I'm under"

A total independent spirit, you can't be held down or fenced in.

You crave the feeling of wind on your face... and totally freedom.

haha ha ha

You Are An ENFP

The Inspirer

You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.

You are also unconventional, irreverent, and unimpressed by authority and rules.

Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.

You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're quite the storyteller!

In love, you are quite the charmer. And you are definitely willing to risk your heart.

You often don't follow through with your flirting or professed feelings. And you do break a lot of hearts.

At work, you are driven but not a workaholic. You just always seem to enjoy what you do.

You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist.

How you see yourself: compassionate, unselfish, and understanding

When other people don't get you, they see you as: gushy, emotional, and unfocused

I rest my case!

Sunday, June 3, 2007

My City

A middle-aged woman haggled over second hand CD’s outside the station. She was buying love-songs.

A pair of newly-weds quarreled over Pepsi v/s 7 UP.

She was alone in the bus in the midst of fifty-nine men. She did not blink at all.

A young boy selling balloons stood outside a shop catching the water dripping from an AC overhead in his little palm. Maybe he was feeling terribly hot. Perhaps he was thirsty.

She stood clutching the kurta in the middle of darkened alley. Head-to-heart. The honking rickshaw broke them apart.

She stood behind her halogen-veil,
Exquisitely dressed for them.
They passed her by,
Without a glance,
So, she danced instead.

Acknowledgement: Picture courtesy Bedatri Datta Chowdhury

Friday, May 25, 2007


The Sun descended on a tree,
To sell orgasms for free,
Kunti took one,
And thus begot a son,
Then followed History.

Thursday, May 24, 2007


I smelt his shirt. Then i smelt his hankerchief.

I wagged my finger in his face for smoking on the sly.
You almost quit, i rued.

He grinned sheepishly. His smile wreaking of guilt, much like his kerchief.

I kissed him then. And made up, nonetheless.

Wifely. Wife-y.

Monday, May 7, 2007


She danced like the weather – wane,
Drove the wind insane,
And laughed till she bled.

Inside the mounting storm,
A glow-worm was born,
On the petal-cade.

Cherry trees blossomed in the shadows of the moon,
White tears glazed the lost tune,
And she cried till he said.

“ Hide thy wounds, Midnight- girl,
Thy dance torments God’s Pearl,
Into the Morning-star thou must fade!”

Thursday, May 3, 2007


" Chirp chirp...twitter..twitter..chirp chirrrp?"

" Twitter twitter twitter chirp chirp twit twit!"

" Why can't you love me as much as she loves him?"

"Because i can't!"

- The love birds - Petro and Savvy

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

A Rainless Storm

One dissects poems when one can't write any,
One dissects people when one can't feel any.

Yesterdays storm brought sand and dust.
It brought lightning, and a gale.
It brought a gnawing ache.
It brought no rain.

a peck on a neck - the novel to be read in one night, to be forgotten the day after.

i might take a job, i might run away.
i might tell a lie, i might tell the truth.

i will have infinite joy.

Monday, April 30, 2007

Still Blue

Since i have stopped writing poetry, i have decided to write out my thoughts now so that my dear blog doesn't die a quite death of neglect.

Recently you and i have started to fight a bit too often. It happens i think when we are missing each other more than is normally acceptable. We set up dates to fight.

It rained for days last week. And rhododendrons blossomed.
This week the scorching sun reminds me of glistening cold sand.

I wish i could write again. It hurts when i cant. Now that i have lost poetry, shall i lose you too in my sleep? i dream nightmares when i am alone. Of violet moons and blue rain.

Don't let me drown.

Sunday, April 22, 2007


The sun vanished into the clouds of smoke. The twilight , overshadowed by the flaming shacks, submerged into the orange sky. They started to run. The screams began later. First, they started to run. The guns thudding against their backs as they ran. They carried sticks and flaming torches in their hands. The air smelt red.


She had waited all afternoon. He came in when she was watching the birds fly home at twilight. From her balcony, she could see the sun vanishing into the grey clouds of rain. Below she could hear the noises of the city . He came in and called out to her. She went in, leaving the twilight to the birds. He was waiting for her.


The cars and vans began to arrive. Sirens split the air. They were waiting. They were ready. The policemen descended on the waiting farmers. The screams began then. Like a sea of white, uniformed men with guns, sticks and swords, roared into battle. Like the barren brown earth, disheveled villagers with scythes, sticks and pistols, began the fight.
The grass caught fire from the flaming torches. The shouts interrupted the gunfire. A bullet found its mark. Blood pumped out into the lack pond. The evening stood witness to the spilt blood as it coloured the water red. It failed to clot.


The dark red colour of the wine reminded her of the dying roses. He handed her the glass. He looked at her while she spoke of inconsequent things. He banged down his glass on the table to achieve silence. The glass broke spilling the wine on to the carpet. The stain resembled blood clotting. She started to clean it up but he didn’t let her. His hand, like a claw, grasped her arm. His fingers cutting into her flesh. He refused to give her the comfort of domesticity. They stood face to face. His chlorominted breath hitting her face. Her bewildered eyes looking into his. He asked, “ Scared?”.


He stood face to face now. Yards away from a uniformed man. Their guns pointing at each other. He thought of killing his enemy. But his hands shook. They failed to pull the trigger. He was just twenty.
Thoughts did not hold back the other. His hands didn’t shake. Duty pulled the trigger. The bullet froze time as his body rose in air, defying gravity, for moments. He heard silence before he died. The moment unfroze as the limp , lifeless body fell to the parched earth.
Duty moves swiftly. He heard no silence. His ears were almost deaf from the blood curdling screams of the living and the dying.


It started to rain. The sky heaving with sorrow and grief. She was sitting on the couch, shaking. He kneeled at her feet. His tears scared her. They were full of anger. They held no grief. He asked her about him. He coaxed, cajoled and cried. She was as still as a stone statue. She sat concentrating on the rain. She watched the drops falling on the window sill. The tears suddenly dried up. He shook her. He slapped her infuriating face. His hot anger made him shout. He screamed as he threw the lamp she had once bought. The flickering bulb spelt an end. The shards of a broken lamp finally made her cry.


It was almost empty now. The screams muffled to a whisper. Bodies with bullet holes littered the burnt grass. Ponds full of dead blood. The uniforms climbed back into their cars and vans. The sirens retreated in victory. They left behind loss. The stench of death and fear coloured the air. The flaming torches blown out. The night was darkly black broken only by the orange flames at a distance. Was it the funeral pyre for communism?

They carried blood on their boots as they strode back to their vans and cars.


Her silence denied nothing. Her silence admitted nothing. She hardly moved. He couldn’t bear it. He had to know.
The cold metal of the gun felt comfortable against his burning skin. He aimed it at her. At her belly swollen with life. Her cold eyes matched the cold steel of his gun. “ Do it”, her voice calmly ordered. He did. The first shot killed the child.
Her mouth opened in surprise and pain. The words escaped her mouth but her voice remained behind. Her silent scream hung in mid-air. The second bullet found her heart.
The warm blood dripped on the carpet, beside the wine stains. She almost laughed as she died.
He watched it in slow motion. He suddenly heard the rain. He wiped the gun and put it back into her purse. He picked up the wine bottle, closed the door with a click.

The rain washed away the blood on his boots.

Friday, March 9, 2007

Roses turned Plastic

Plastic roses do not die,
they remain frozen in timeless dust.

The dust that heralded our death.

And, as we drowned,
they sat watching.

They watched it whole.

The purple dust of dreams.
The blue dust of breath.
The white dust of stifled words.

Our rainbow death,
coloured the plastic roses red.

Then the rain came from the hills,
and the plastic flowers cried,
dusty tears.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

A life Dreamt

I dreamt of thunder, I dreamt of light ,
And of tremulous rain.
The enchantress enchanted roved the night,
As the gruesome sun went insane.
The valley of dreams was lit up by fireflies,
While I sat with the storming winds.
And the river spoke of a lover’s cries,
Destroyed by the foolish grin.
Then you woke me with a touch and a smile,
As a song played across the street.
The weed that I stole from the river on the sly,
Caught fire from our heartbeat.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Seers Grin

Why did you grin that day? When i called you a grinning fool.

Perhaps because you could see the future while i was still stuck in the past.
Perhaps because what i had dreamed into existance was but a ticking time-bomb that was only waiting to go off.
Perhaps because you knew that it would all turn to dust in a few minutes, like it did.
Perhaps because you could see what i refused to.

And so you grinned. From behind the clouds.

Thursday, February 8, 2007


Pots and pans and the Tinman,
they all drowned that night.
When roses bled,
into the watershed,
And clouds joined the fight.

I looked into a hollow eye,
that held fingers of sunshine.
It reminised the death of pilion dreams,
and stifled screams,
No pilion dream, nor bleeding rose, tinmen make headlines.

Friday, February 2, 2007

if only...

If only roses bled.
They would lie in a pool of deep red blood, where green thorns would drown.
Drown and die. In a lake, dark red, green thorns would drown and die.
A red death.

If only roses bled.
They would not burn on autumn nights. Burn and turn to grey-black ash on deep blue nights.
Their hearts would not turn to dust, that floats on the dry air.
They would not die on blue nights, choked by grey-black ash.
A grey-black death.

And the police officer didn't register the complaint of the death of the roses.
The grey-black death of the roses on the blue autumn night.
Perhaps he would have registered a red death of roses in a pool of red blood.

Maybe.....if only roses bled.

Thursday, February 1, 2007

yet again..

yet again... i think of you.

For no reason at all. Just like then. Just as i loved you. Without reason.

Was it the mid - winter rain?Or perhaps the brown afternoon light.
The song on the radio or the white flowers that i see everyday on my way?

You are not here. Just like then. Without reason.

And yet again... i laugh at the dying sky.