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.


  1. wow. intense, particularly the second part....the anger at the mocking of your tranquility....the anger that makes you take them captive and even the self harm there in the end makes the pain tangible for this person....glad it is an alter ego...but in circumstances could be a reality

  2. This is really gripping - the sky of falling feathers really struck me....and I felt a sympathetic pain when the narrator's head hit the wood of the bed. Ouch.

  3. I loved this journey you took us through. Very well penned. And I like the thought in the end, can't decide if the noise would be better than pain.

  4. Intense, deep, powerful writing...

    Such a pleasure to read this!

    balance it out