Childhood as a lost dream.

The freedom with which you could dance, even to the tunes politically incorrect, the joy that came with doing stupid things, they don't last for long. Not caring is too damn difficult once you grow up. Each day, you come across infinite moments of having to do some tedious mental exercise for the sake of … Continue reading Childhood as a lost dream.


Paper planes that crash.

When, on a thick, smoggy Autumn early morning, hanging on a cliche balcony, we deftly craft our paper planes and blow their rear ends with the warm vapor that we exhale and hope that we'll sail through the imaginary fences, we don't quite yet realize - the wind is an epiphany. Often, with much thought, … Continue reading Paper planes that crash.

An Ode to our sessile friends.

If you think about it, plants are a funny breed. I wonder if they have their own secret world of fascinations and dreams and stories. What would this tiny wildflower long for? If it could walk, would it let go the company of this old rotting tree trunk and move somewhere else? How would it … Continue reading An Ode to our sessile friends.

When I sometimes look up.

What does that bird know? If you lay on your back on the soon-to-be bald lawns of this rustic, grey and unsmiling building named Akbar Bhawan, there's a high chance that you will contemplate many things like this. I always wondered why they wouldn't rear rabbits here. Now I know - summers don't last forever. … Continue reading When I sometimes look up.

The woman I don’t meet on the Internet

I know she’s there. She’s always been there.   On the nooks of my psyche Where I’ve pulled dark drapes To save her from the overwhelming light That the world tries to cast on me -and hence on her.   I try to gather her images, I try to outline her face- A mole by … Continue reading The woman I don’t meet on the Internet

Hope is a funny thing.

Clocks tick and rivers run pages flip and days shun whistles blow wheels roll, dust and mud bang and thud winds flow, in a blow all goes- to nothing from nothing what lasts, no one knows. Who cares, friends or foes? Yet, hope lives beneath woes.      

Perishable Poems

The Bittersweet Post

It’s strange,
how we cheer with the tunes
even when the songs are too short.
It’s lovely
how we create moments,
even when they slip
we find shapes in the clouds
and in running water
though they shift in minutes.
It’s strange
how we create
how we recreate
even when we get nothing in return.
and it’s stranger
how we celebrate
more for the things that don’t give back.
It’s strange,
but it’s beautiful
how we fall in and out
of the stanzas
of these perishable poems
that our lives often scribble.

View original post