Monday, March 30, 2009

Nights' Past 10

It’s past ten pm,
On a regular weekday night.
While the weary rest
And the zealous rage,
The radio croons
Amid stark silence.

A voice is heard
As the tune ends.
Of a pristine rivulet
That giggles,
All the way through,
The air waves.

A refreshing zephyr
That breeds buoyancy,
Instills hope,
And keeps one rolling
Like a snow fed,
Perennial stream.

Perhaps, every voice
Has a face.
But I would say
This one’s peerless.
Maybe, because
It also bears a smile.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009


The sorrow was much bitter,
Than vinegar
mingled with gall.

The pain was a lot excruciating,
Than what she endured
During labour.

She wept incessantly,
Than any mother of this earth,
Seeing His son suffer for the world.

Perhaps, she prayed fervently
Than ever. That no mother
Should outlive to see an offspring breathe its last.

Friday, March 20, 2009


And the mirror reflected,

As she glanced.

"For once, I'd give up

On my purpose.

If you could, kindly

leave your image behind.

Now I wish to turn

Into a picture frame."

Ammamma, Puttu and the Bedroom Window

It was the weekend and the excitement had just begun.
Saturday morning breakfasts always used to be fun,
Never once did he ever miss this special occasion;

With legs folded he sat on the window ledge,
Looking out at the double road from Ammamma’s bedroom,
Holding onto the grills he peered through the fine mesh.

The world crisscrossed right before his eyes,
The two and four wheelers were his greatest entertainers.
Not many were in a hurry but a few sped in rage.

Ammamma came with a plate of scrumptious Dosas,
Cup of green chutney and a tumbler of hot coffee,
A weird combination, true, but its taste was heavenly.

Every single time a piece of Dosa took a dip into coffee,
Scooped some chutney as it swooped down,
And took off immediately to land safely into Puttu’s tiny mouth.

Munch, munch and munch, every taste bud got its share.
A sip of coffee followed to sup it all down to his lil tummy.
Wiping his mouth with a hanky, “Hmmmm!” said Puttu contently.

He questioned on and on, and she answered it all patiently.
In every moment he saw a “why?”,
And behind everything, he believed, there was a small story.

A million stories she had, from her good old childhood
To last night’s incomplete nightmare and anything he pointed at.
According to Puttu, she knew more than just about anyone in his world.

Puttu sat there on the ledge and she stood beside him,
At least, till it was noon and the road became nearly empty.
Those days, even Time stopped by to lend an ear to their stories.

Monday, March 09, 2009


A nibble of temptation,
A moment of hush, a feeling of void,
A rush of blood.

A tingle from the cranium,
Down rainbow bridge,
To the toe through the vertebrae.

Euphoria pierces deep within.
Silence shattered
Like brittle pottery;

Gravity grounded, reality imprisoned.
Senses six, levitate
Few inches off the ground.

Perception widens
Walls crumble without debris.
Inhibitions peeled, inner self revealed.

In sync with illusory symphony;
Technicolor dreams,
Collide with veracity.

Shimmers and ripples,
Turn into a visual treat.
Hallucinations triggered in near vicinity.

Glimpses from past,
Visions of future,
Flashes of insight, flights of fantasy.

Little boy and Fat man,
Have taken their toll.
Mushrooms eclipse psyche’s land.

Saturday, March 07, 2009


The window creaked open
Giving way to a forest, gray;
Luminous shone the sun
While a being sought refuge of a grey shade.

It’s either the view
from your cottage faraway.
Or what you’d find
From your abode in a high-rise.

Woodland that’s old,
Yet young at heart.
Or a concrete jungle,
That’s arid and dark.

A blissful, sun-drenched dawn
Of early summer.
Or the desolate, end of days,
Under the spell of an undying ball of fire.

A grasshopper rests, camouflaged,
Under a mushroom amidst the emerald green.
Or a lone scavenger devouring the remains
Under a frayed umbrella’s silhouette.

Your vision’s now torn between
The green and the bleak.
What you desire,
Is what, in future, you’ll see.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

Blizzard of OD

Facing a storm seemed easy before.
My eyes go sore.
Now, even to a single mote.

Wearing the hood of arrogance
I used to stand tall, looking down.
With a hunchback, now I wait to bite the dust.

Balmy summer nights seem to drain me out;
And the first drizzle of rain tends to pierce me deep.
An aversion I have developed, now to all seasons four.

Taking refuge in dimly lit corridors and opium dens, I would snort;
Where the alley of shadows welcomed me with wide open arms.
Now, I can’t even count on my own shadow for shade.

At the porch of perdition the world was a good old friend,
Who smoked weed giving me company, reclining on the couch.
Now all it has in store is a sigh of relief once I’m gone.