Sunday, 8 November 2015


I drift away. Inside suffocating train carriages that overflow with people one minute and are hauntingly empty the next. The voices echo regardless of that. The scenario is a constant blur of buildings merging right into the meadows, glimpses of sunsets somewhere and black clouds of smoke rising from the various brick kilns that dot the landscape. Sometimes a sheet of fog to obscure your vision, so perfect. As if nothing beyond exists.

I drift away, sitting on a crazy ride, right before emotions clash. The world is a bokeh of lights, through my eyes. Not a thing is clear besides the feeling of being seated surrounded by people who mutter incoherence. And then, exhilaration, excitement, fear, regret and wills clash as if it’s a war for life. And it is, in a way. Even the colorful bokeh of lights spin into a crazy whirlwind that shows patches of light. Hanging upside down, spinning 360 degrees in a constant struggle to breathe and live with an aching body and a spinning head.

I drift away in darkened rooms that are illuminated only by the light that escapes the huge screen casting shadows on the faces that cower in fear of the horror that suddenly flashes on the screen and shakes their hearts violently. They turn eagerly towards each other to make sure they are in the same company and no one has turned into the dreadfulness on the screen. It’s a futile reassurance, but one that satisfies.

Through all, I catch glimpses of myself, through my own eyes, not caught in reflections of mirrors, but rather that of the mind; staring out the window, hanging upside down, screaming my lungs out and staring blankly at the screen. Just glimpses that last for a split seconds, before I lose myself in the crowd.


Monday, 7 September 2015

Un-contained Crescents

She let goes through words,

That cascade over on paper

A mess of ink, 

Spilling over and un-contained,

Discreetly patched.


Crescent shaped scabs, adorning

The edge of her palms.


Monday, 11 May 2015


The little girl sneaks into the kitchen, rolls up her sleeves, washes her hands. She silently draws out a bowl and sieves in the flour; making a tiny well she lets the water fill it to the brim and then continues to sort through the flour with it, kneading it into a firm dough. 

She drags the flat pan onto the hot stove and her tiny hands begin to roll out balls of dough, flattened and placed on the hot plate. Her hands burn. Her dupatta chafes her neck, overhead the fan spins in lazy circles, sifting through the already hot air. Her eyes seek the time and nervousness beads on her forehead. The mistress doesn’t appreciates late service or burned chapattis. 

Her back aches, her head hurts. She places all the items on the grand table, bowls of different dishes set across it, gilt edged crockery and shining cutlery. Everything is up to perfection. Except perhaps that single burnt chapatti with a side of lentils, served on the broken plastic plate, awaiting her in the kitchen. 


Tuesday, 24 February 2015


An assortment of bottles,

A pot of well brewed Chai.

Long stemmed glasses,

And a dainty little tea cup.

Filled to their brims,

And then refilled, again.

They sipped at their addictions

And he drank in her sight.


Thursday, 5 February 2015

Dying Night, Broken Sighs.

It was only in the very last wee hour of the morning that slumber began to even tingle her senses. It drew her out of her reckless stupor and begged to be not cast aside, like an innocent yet irritating child, it tugged on her sleeve until she finally looked up from staring at the blank screen, where a sole tiny vertical line blinked with no words on either side of it.

She drank in her surroundings; the many sheets of paper with scribbles lying on her left, and the three mismatched cups lined alongside her right, each with a similar rim of brown liquid floating at the bottom. The ear phones lay abandoned, a little far away, faint music still escaping the tiny holes that adorned it. The laptop sat in her lap, waiting, the screen flickering back to life after every fifteen minutes as she swiped her finger impatiently on the mouse pad.

As the light started filtering outside, past the dark curtains of the night, and the stars stayed on for only a few eyes, her fingers flicked. Words poured out of her as her hands flew gracefully over the keys, knowing where to press; as if they had reached a familiar place, as if they had reached home. And her eyes fixated to the screen, watched on as the word after words materialized, marking the blank space. The silence, now replaced by the excited and impatient click of the keys, applauded in the seldom silence of the symphonies of the typed words.

While the sun began to rise, the colors of dawn began to cascade upon God’s canvas and the stars began to hide for the day, she typed away. She stared at the screen, the silence had been broken, and words had paved their way once again. She smiled out of sheer bliss, looked up at the sky, as the last of the stars faded away.