Tuesday, July 28, 2009


Those slender lines of crimson
That glisten both in twilight and sunshine.
Between the oceanic soul and the fistful world
Lies this chalice where love brims and overflows.
Where silence dwells as a resident
And happiness is a visitor, frequent.
Where even the breeze would pause,
For eternity, if given a choice.
Don't let it arch, ever,
This Scribbler's on a quest
To find the right words
To define this divine sign.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

I Spy

How often have you gaped
Gawked, stared or gazed?
Whatever you may call that;
Well, it’s all the same.

Watched someone gently smile,
Busy in conversation with themselves,
Heaving a sigh or looking skywards.
Yawning, laughing or lost in thoughts;

Sulking, grumbling, mourning, rambling,
Weeping inwardly with lips all parched,
Contemplating, preying on their nails;
Battling odds within, wearing a trite fa├žade.

How often have you observed people
Without ever being noticed?
And while at it, have you ever thought,
You’re one of them who’s also being watched?

Monday, July 13, 2009

Puttu's Prayer

The tie hung from the bedpost with a badge pierced to its heart.
The school uniform lay buried in a place no one could find;
His pairs of white canvas and black leather shoes
Stared from the rack, with jaws dropped and soiled faces.
And the school bag sulked at a forsaken corner like some lost baggage.

To watch the orange sun peep into his window,
See dad and mom get ready to leave for work,
He would wake up real early everyday.
Seeing this Puttu’s folks would simply wonder,
Why he tried so hard to do the same during schooldays.

“Uppooo, Uppoooya” the Salt Seller would call out loud in the streets,
Pulling his two wheeled cart with a big sack of salt on it.
A sling pouch with rupee notes and paises, dangled from his shoulder.
Puttu would echo back from atop and hide behind the balcony grill.
Just to make him stop and look up with an “I-know-these-tricks” smirk.

Gradually, the street would start to hum
With veggies, fruits and flowers sellers;
And people at the ration depot with thundering kerosene cans.
Standing on a single foot he would watch them,
Drooping over the grill and hands stretched outwards.

Freda Aunty would give him company after mom left to the factory.
Serve him breakfast, from the hot case, and a glass full of Complan.
Softly narrate stories or incidents, and chuckle at jokes heartily.
Making sure Puttu had his fill and didn’t get into to any trouble
Till Ammamma would return from her age-old school.

A short nap would follow the post lunch storytelling session,
After which he would fly kites from his balcony.
Swaying left and right it would tickle the cloud’s belly,
Wiggling its lengthy, thin tail in a serpent’s fashion.
Till the summer rain would begin with tiny ice chunks.

Rushing back inside, he would return with an umbrella open.
Inverted and towards the sky he would stretch it forth
To collect the ice chunks that would disappear right then.
Some he would pop into his mouth and some into a film roll box.
But before his folks returned, into plain water, the chunks would thaw.

The fun and frolic didn't end till it turned dark,
He feared it mostly, whenever there was a power cut.
Diligently kneeling down with hands together, by his bed,
Before going to sleep, everyday he would pray and plead;
Asking God “Holidays are for us to play. Could you please say
Let there be light all through the day?”

Wednesday, July 01, 2009


Love letters and songs are too containing,
With words borrowed from what has gone before.
And I find them all too confining
When I wish to share my love.

Come a lil closer,
Lend me your ear,
Let me whisper a secret.
Without uttering a word out loud.

Feel the warmth of my breath,
Brushing your neck as I draw near.
Let me kiss your dusty skin,
And bury my face in your tranquil tress.

Let me take silence
And weave you a lullaby.
Tuck you in the snug serenity
And slide you into slumber deep.

Let me calm those raging storms
With a prayer for peace.
And wake you up in a morrow
That's just the way we once dreamed.

These mortals may believe
We unite at a surreal streak;
Fools, they know not that
We even pause time when we decide to meet.

Ironical yet true is this secret.
Today, I had to settle for a measly scribble
To usher my love to you through a zephyr,
By playing the muse of this nomadic Scribbler.