Ode To Moderation

It is the night of a plateau overlooking a plain
Of small stars short trees little pain
Of numbered dreams fathomable main

And the cluttered clouds – medium sized –
Promising a moderate rain.

It is the night of feasible promises
Of minor gains and minor misses
Of hand-holdings and forehead-kisses

And the rambling radio – fairly prized –
Playing whatever it is.

It is the night of nothing special
Of a burnt rope and a blunt scalpel
Of a divine absence solid dull

And the mumbling silence – organized –
Saving the raving skull.



I cannot write prose today
Cannot form sentences of meaning
Draw murders, make people
Fall in love.

I cannot squeeze the heaviness away
Cannot shred and serve it in neat lines
Constructed – without adverbs –

I cannot tell you the story which I told you
When I often told you stories – as they were all lies
And it is difficult to remember them all today
I’d not lie.

(Do you ever feel like that dark banality that gets written between flashes of meaning? That talks of mountains, rivers, palaces, hedges, horses, windows and whatnot, that seems would go on forever. Do you ever? Do you remember once you told me something very profound so I would kiss you – or was it me? ‘This world will end in desperation of a frantic imitation where each day, hour, second wants to be some other day, hour, second not respectively and everything wants to be something it is not and cannot be.’ I kissed you then – or was it you?)

I cannot write prose today.
I do not have the words for it.

Come, Let’s Play

Come, let us play
I’ll be myself for a day
And you be what you were
Before the war.

Conscience is a tricky thing to have in love –
Let’s not call it love, then.
Let’s be a little more scrupulous, have some conscience –
Drops arms for a day –
Shake hands and say
We ought to do this more often.
Let’s be civil .

Please let me – I’ll pay the bill.

I write with my hand.
I dance with my legs.
I had a dog. I had a cat.
This, this and that.

Let’s talk of weather.
And talk of things living, dead –
And of ways to use them.
And do what our ancestors before us did.
Let’s die together –
In each other.
Let’s kill.

Please let me – I’ll play the bill.

A Pledge To Ignorance

I’d live the pretence
Of having been ditched
For someone far more charming than me – I’d be the image of
Sisyphus rolling the hopeless rock, done in for loving too much.
I would love to dream of being cheated upon –
Wallowing in self-pity would just be my thing.
I’d listen to long songs, donning a longer face –

I’d roam damned.

I’d never let time, the infamous thickener of things, thicken my share of misery – I’d be invariably miffed –
I’d be the one looking, as if, crying from within – I’d make a living out of looking sad. That’ll be my forte. I’d love to bear the cross – I’d be honoured to have killed the bird.

I’d find ways.

The smouldering sugarcane fields, will not fail to evoke in me, feelings most literary – the stinking spectacle would surely find a fine metaphor.

I’d write mediocre poems.

I’d look for mirrors – in rivers, in window-panes – of buses, trains. I will never go out in rain. I’d search for answers. I’d play the despairing detective. I’d never solve the case.

I’d live in clichés.

Confessions Of A Train Rat

Though food is good, a hefty meal –
Its thrown at you, no need to steal –
Rotten apples, stray nut,

The mushiest sliver of some fruit,
Banana, mango, or beetroot
Fairly sumptuous, but,

It warbles, screams, shakes with gall,
Inconvenient, cold – not pleasant at all –
A pestilence, a rut,

And though it really does smell good,
Like shit, like piss, like it should,
It seems like death: shut;

Unlike the cell of similar days, unlike known nights, unlike known ways, unlike the quiet, hellish life
There’s a torrid turbulence of a finicky floundering fate,
A journey long defying sense – one thing I really hate.

On My Completing Twenty Three Years

A gift of thunder and a blurry eye.
I stand amidst the cool showers
My sweat cold and sticky, dry
Throat – drier, for nothing
Else is.

Let me tell you

There is an ugly dog that lives
Rather, comes and goes, looks
Beneath the cars, on the walls,
Looks sincerely, looks hard
Looks precisely for a place
To piss.

Don’t you see?

There’s more to it than what gives
An ugly dog and man, lulling,
Against the wind, beneath the sky
Feigning a solemnity than there is,
Mulling, “Is anything greater
Than this?”

Song Of A Lizard

Scoliodentosaurophobia. It has a name, yes. The fear of lizards. Have it as long as I can remember. But that’s past. It is. How? you would curiously ask. Simple, I would smugly retort. Firstly, keep in mind the theory of Remus Lupin. Imagine the thing you fear most in a trivial, almost banal, and if you can, in a comedic situation. Neville Longbottom dreaded Severus and imagined him in a somewhat garish, yet brilliant outfit of his grandmother. Ron imagined a giant spider in skates. And Lupin riddikuled the full moon to a balloon. But then, there was Harry’s fear. How can one imagine a dead, cold Dementor to be something other than a dead, cold Dementor? And what if, like other muggles, you don’t know the handy charm Riddikulus?

Then, try something that helps me. Find a thing common with your source of dread. For example, if you are scared of spiders, think they like wrapped food as much as you do. If scared of sea, think how both of you adore Sindabad! If scared of a fogey Head-Master, think he too must remember a fitfully funny dirty joke. If scared of one’s father, think he too has been slapped by mother. If scared of heights, think of how you both love stories (You see what I did there? Apologies for that.) If scared of ghosts, think they too were once in love.

As for my fear of Lizards, I have it settled for now. They love solitude and hate winters. More than I could ask for.


Four months of winter,
Rains wintersome;
The wall cold,
Food scarce.
I think of my
Serpent tongue,
Rolling round
In summers kind,
A full belly, fulsome
Spots on my back
Round and fine.

It isn’t summer but.
I fold, shriveled
In my own skin,
Searching warmth
In a cold world.

Though feared,
(A good thing)
Hated by all;
Though lithe,
Resurgent, divine,
Adept in a fiery crawl;
I must concede
(In winters)
It’s tough carrying a wall.


The Scandalous Secret Of The Shoe-Maker

There lives a man, a mender 
Of the shoes, never tender,
Angry as they pour!

There lives a man, an expert
Of the lost art, really hurt
At injustices galore!

“Be it a hooked specimen, or one numbingly stinking 
One that didn’t seem to be one, a sad paltry poor thing.

Be it the one that had been nailed before twice,
Or the one, in which too shortly, there lived a mice.

The one which had trod a mile more than a camel,
Or the one leaking muck (more often than a mammal!)

Oh! I have seen all kinds, all sweaty states of these,
And Oh! I have bound, and sewed and clogged
And nailed, and still do as much as I please.

But a thing that hurts and duly stings, a secret full of grief
I will tell you the saddest truth, and I swear I’ll be brief.
I must tell you (Who else I would? You seem a lad, you do!) –
I do, Sir, mend and make and nail, but I haven’t got a shoe!”


I wrote this to cheer up my friend (Kaku!) He felt the contrary! Do tell me what you feel. And also if you want, read a new short story I’ve written, The Bridge-Keeper:

Once upon a time a boy decided to die. It was a brave decision, a product of poignant propositions and grim persuasions. Achilles knew he would die young which made living a tad less complex to him. This boy was to end his complexities too. There was no Patroclus here who had been killed, there was no Briseis here who had been wronged, and there was no glory here after death. Yet it seemed to him the only answer..


Where Grannies Don’t Die

Take me to a place,
Where minstrels sing,
Where flags are maroon, 
And there’s no king.
Where dogs are blue,
And purple too.
Where eyes do meet – 
A lovely feat!

Take me to a place,
Where roads go deep,
With a river at side,
Where calm winds sleep.
Where lost love is found,
A lost book is around.
Where hugs do matter –
All’s a little better.

Take me to a place, 
Where it means a lot to sigh,
And tales come to life,
Where Grannies don’t die.
Where it isn’t a sin to be
Lost in a reverie.
Where elders do dream –
An Owl and a Stream.

Take me to a place,
Where animals talk,
And frogs are civil,
Where lamp-posts walk.
Where crows are sign,
For something divine!
Where cats do steal – 
Some grief and some eel!

Take me to a place 
Where poets are born,
And there is a new song,
For every new morn.
Where gaily gifts are due
A scarf and a fancy shoe.
Where people do smile –
Heart warming, sans guile.


To everyone who’s still a kid. Bless you. And Happy Children’s Day!

The Importance Of Being Sad

Hello fellow beings!

Yes, I have started blogging. “What a damn new thing to do!!”, you must say. Well I know it is customary for a vigilant Indian of my age to have an impressive blog by now, but as to the same case, I have been somewhat hesitant hitherto. You know, the general questions perturb me. What new possibly can I tell you guys? You already know Oscar Wilde was homosexual. You already know Fitzgerald wanted to be in Hollywood. You know Milton was against the monarchy. You know Marlowe was killed in a brawl. You know about the great religions and great civilizations. You have heard of wars and deaths. Maybe you have watched “All Quiet on the Western Front” and rued the loss of youth and innocence. Maybe you were impressed by it’s aesthetic beauty. You know about slavery and apartheid. You know about terrorism. You know that people die. You know the futility of death in today’s age. More so, you know the futility of life in today’s age.

What’s left, then? You know that destruction and sadness are most photogenic. You know that  pain makes for aesthetic brilliance. You know that a remorseful man pictures far better than a happy man. You know these things. You have been keen observer of grief and anger. You know it looks beautiful.


My friend has urged me to write something everyday. Keeping in mind that I am a Gemini it wouldn’t be possible, but still, I will bother you guys and gals with something every now and then. Do subscribe! (See, that’s why I hate it, I have already started looking like a sulky marketing guy.)


“It’s important that I look beautiful,
Paint me so, paint me to such effect..”

“Make me look wonderful,
Quick Sir! Make it prompt, act!”

“Should I affect pensive airs, 
Or do you deem it fit,

I stand beside the stairs?
Quick Sir! Babble, speak it!”

“Or some place ruinous would do?
A ruined fort, a ruined palace, a ruined city!

I have a ruined gown too!
Blurt it out Sir! Have some pity!”

“How should I look?” She asked him,
Pursing her lips, and shaking her head.

The painter, thoughtful, old and grim
Pronounced peacefully, “Look sad.”