Sunday, 20 October 2013


It is a clock, a clock as old as the antique hotel,
Which ascertained the abominable fact that
Two certain hours stood before me for sunrise,
I searched for Earthly motions, for a rustle of bats
Or the incessant chirp of a sleepless cricket, but
The blessed streets of Benares remained in a world
Filled with dreams, desperation and divinity.
In an hour where even Gods in the temples
Took a nod tired out of their daily chores of
Hearing swears and prayers, I stepped out of
The hotel that remained as dead as my thoughts.

Feathers you find on wings of pigeons were falling
From the skies, I shivered at the thought of dead
Pigeons flying around for salvation, a suspicious eye
Searched for answers of a meaningless sight,
My body ached with the rush of adrenaline, my
Legs found the pace that it forgot after the genuine
Rush of hormones during an unforgettable youth,
I ran where my feet led me to and dismantled all
Directions pumped by a frigid brain.

The clock in the alley still show five hours to sunrise,
I woke up, leaving my memories to sleep peacefully
On a delicate bed. Passing through the streets of
Benares which chanted their final prayers of the day,
I felt urged to sing a swansong before the destined hour,
Deep Gharanas and un-cremated bodies blended into
A classical Hindustani tale, salvation begins here.

My thoughts, immune to seeds of rage now boiled
With a fervor unmatched, untamed, it inflamed my
Body and senses. It burned the veins, and boiled
The blood. With a spew of hatred I launched all of
My physical existence at all life nearby who mocked
At my tranquility, who laughed at my innate nature
Of transforming into a man-eating, blood sucking
Aghori. I walked home with a group of paralysed
Humans, and caged them along with my pigeons.

I went back to my bed and threw my head straight
To the wood of the cot. A pain rushed through,
Which reached my brain faster than the noise.

In the context of the poem, Gharana is a Hindustani style of music which originated in Benares and  Aghori is a fanatical devotee of the Hindu god Shiva.

Wednesday, 16 October 2013


Each passing second of a prosaic life
Showered me with scorns for not stopping by
At abodes where dreams flew like feathers.

I'm an eternal traveler now, through orbits of
Dreams, on top of balloons made out of canvas
Stitched tight with threads of noxious hope.

An artist was born amidst, he pricked the balloons
With a pin, taking out the strands of hope,
And sinking my life on seas of random celebrations.

Prompted by Kim Nelson on Verse First at Poets United . The noun artist ended up with celebrations.

Monday, 14 October 2013

Religion and Addiction

This is an old one, written probably a year back. Sharing it now. I always believed that the problem with an average Indian is his addiction to alcohol and exhibition of religion.

A hungry stomach burned,
The drop that sustains life
Remained mutilated,
Smog hid the Sun
From a weeping slum.

To feed her child,
A mother unbuttoned her gown,
A covetous mosquito flew about,
Sucked the mother's last drops
Of blood with pride.

The child stood alone in the hash,
He gazed at a world up high,
Amazed at the sight of flight,
An eagle soured to greater heights,
The world of clouds he caressed.

His father wriggled in at night,
One of his hands held the drink
That ceased all earthly strife,
The other grasped faithfully
On a jade Buddha,
Covered in pure gold and fat,
With lips that forever sneered.!

Sunday, 13 October 2013

Thank you for the Memories

Rahul Dravid a.k.a The Wall : Indian Cricketer
He retired from cricket recently

Since the time when I developed the intelligence to count, I remember counting the balls this man has guarded off during his selfless workmanship that many adorn by the meager word 'batting' in cricket. And to think that I would no longer see him play again shatters my heart. I know the heart is no longer guarded by the Wall, but, I am sure the memories shall live on.

Back when the motto of the days
Where fun and endless hours of
Undisturbed attention on the screen
Where men clothed in whites or blue
Would be seen submerged in a crusade
Against falling chances to salvage
Pride, I saw a man who looked
Behest with faith. Sometimes, the
Moment you remember forever is not
The one that made you cry,
Nor is it your last smile, for me
It is when I realized I found a person
Who could lift me up whenever I fall.

His battles where won and lost
Within his mind, his skills proved
Paramount, his glory echoed along
All corners of the miniscule globe
And his prowess induced fear in
The minds of the foe. Yet his
Smile entertained my lonely heart
His unbowed head made my soul
Leap further than all possibilities,
His unending selflessness built
An aura of supreme devotion
Within my wavering thoughts.

To forget the times is beyond
Possibilities that he taught me to
Climb. To bid adieu takes strength
Both from within and form outside.
Here I am alone again, the Wall
Shall remain as a silhouette guarding
My emotions as he did with the stumps,
And I know that with time all moments
Become memories, but I shall live
With you in my dreams, and you
Shall have your bat raised to new heights.

Sunday, 6 October 2013


This picture is drawn and painted by my friend Aishidha Rajeev.
Thanks to her sincere efforts I could pen the poem which almost came as an inspiration from the painting.
Kudos to her and her subliminal effort.

Killed once and dead thrice, pain is no longer
Rushing through my frozen veins, it has stopped
Somewhere between the terribly broken heart
And the viciously cleaved head. Thinking out
On the torridly lonesome after-life, it is not
Hatred that comes into the unscathed nerves,
Which still relay protected feelings of coming
Back to a human abode and living a new life,
Rather it is an ethereal passion to forgive and
Thank the destiny which made the evenings
Longer, days calmer and feelings narrower.

The worlds I travel are distant, the people
I meet are few. I searched forever on the shores
Where dead souls come to see rare cosmic
Lights that for a moment bring colors from
Earth, but never found a single face that
I laid upon in my disturbing Earthen times.
To die is indeed a moment's job, but killing the
Time after will take an eternity's patient wait.

Being born again is not my wish,
Violets smell in this suspended world,
And maybe the love of them keeps me
Bound to the vivid specter of minds passing
From the other world to mine. It is a promising
Sight. When dreams are now a part of nostalgia
And life is a word thrown around by depressed
Souls that wander forever, I still wait for
The cosmic shores to bring the color of you,
And then I will close my vision and the image
Shall drown inside my eyes and settle
Peacefully for all the eternities to see.

Friday, 4 October 2013


Artwork : 'Metamorphosis' by Cris Vector on Deviant Art

People pass beside me with an imagination
Drowned into a shallow pool of vestigial thoughts,
Induced emotions relentlessly fluctuate in their
Illustrative faces which when colored by lies
Gives you a mightier weapon than camouflage.

I see proclamations of fake monsters beside me,
I stop, look and fall apart as a worshiper of evil,
I utter profanity that the hero was always a coward
Who grew devoted to the laws of an insane world,
And destroys the monsters before they break away
Both from within and outside the unbearable inertia.

Keep moving along and the scent of flowers, grown
By a thankless woman who puts her uterus for sale
Every once in a year, greets me back to Earth,
Where stories mix evenly onto the air like the
Unmistakable melancholy of the forgetful scent.

People complain when the innate depression
In their shallow pools are brought onto the surface
Buoyed by my nonchalant allowance of truths,
Maybe it is hard to die away from your pools,
Or maybe the skepticism of my theory is what you
Regret now, whatever be it, the change is yours.