Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Invisible Ocean Of Fire | BBC Invisible World

You burn even before the flames touch you
The air’s quietly lit; The invisible air you breathe
The coolness is on fire transforming into hotness
And chars you away even before you realize its treachery
Proximity kills; Even breathing the air where something
Has set itself on fire; Catching up on you even before you know it
People who set themselves on fire; Body n soul
Flame your bones, your heart, your skin
Even before you know it and just like that
You’re burning; With them
And all your myths of distances and their tyrannies
Stories of falling apart and out of love
Melt with the heat waves only you can feel
Wrapping your bones, your heart, your skin
And you know the secret then; Only then
How we are all islands in the ocean
Separated on the surface; Connected in the deep


Monday Musings


Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Talking | A Heart Needs Words To Be Heard

Talking and talking comfortably, is liking someone?
Is asking for satisfaction, that is necessarily physical
Or sexual, a mirage or a single breath of pleasure?
But talking was about longer breaths of words
And emotions and stories of our bones and wounds
Talking was reading with your the soul-book of another
It was silent and always just beneath the layer of words
But still forever in need of words as its excuses
It was reaching out to the heart quivering ‘neath their smiles
An afraid, unsure, ashamed yet relentless heart
That beat drums so loud you could see in their red ears
But ever so soft that they need conversations to be heard


Monday Musings

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Mountain Blues | Letting Go

I sit in the bus looking at the mountains and let him go.
I wear my big blues shoes out on rocky roads and let him go. 
I swear never to walk down slippery roads in the dark and let him go.
I keep him in teary eyes after the church sermons.
I keep in the eyes of every mischievous child clinging to his mama. 
I keep him in the memories of another world, a fantasy world, a long gone world. 
They say memories are our personal fiction. 
I keep him in all the forms of my fiction. 
It is in my realities that I let him go. 





Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

First Day | A Poem About Meeting The Others

It was beautiful but not immediately. I was afraid  but not for long. I was longing for something I did get eventually.

It is funny town. People here want to learn Hindi so they can survive in the rest of the India. We in the rest of the India are taught English so we can survive in school that is in the next neighborhood.

They go to big cities to breathe a new air. Air of opportunities to prove oneself, to showcase their myriad talents that have till now been packed up in tiny boxes of their people’s minds.

We come to their small cities to breathe a fresh air where nobody is a stranger and everybody is a friend. Where we meet ourselves in the tiny boxes that are their houses.

Our distracted big city minds find solace in their cozy walls that come down on us wrapping us into their arms, showering us with so much attention, we almost cannot bear it.

Their trapped small city minds want to jump into the vast oceans of the big city. They find peace in being truly seen for all the talents they have been nurturing discreetly, usually in plain sight.

One such lover of small towns like me, bent down to exchange a cigarette from his village with a cigarette from the small towner. Exchanging whiffs of the worlds they belong(ed) to.

That is what binds us all, the wish to leave our homes, the will to hunt for whiffs of other worlds.


Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Last Night You Were Here With Me | Tears Are Words Waiting For To Be Written Down

Last night, that is early in the morning today, I lied down next to you and cried.

You were right here in my single bed, next to me, cuddling.

Soft warmth of your skin coming from the texture of your grey shirt, touched my right cheek.

A river flowed in my heart coming out in streams of tears, in absolute free fall.

Pain, fear, rage, hurt – nothing was a traceable cause of this stream.

For they were like real rivers flowing only because they must, because it was who they were.

It is in their nature to respond, to gravity.

I could feel the gravity of this love flowing between you and me.

I could feel it taking with it all the words that remained unsaid, to you.

I was loving in that moment, swooning at your soft skin and complaining all in the same breath.

Yes you were with me last night, I cannot accept any other version of reality.

We breathed in the same breath, we held the same beating heart in our chests.

I flowed down to you and you took me in so graceful, so wonderful.

I cried without any pain for you were right here with me.

I cried without any hurt for you healed all my wounds.

I cried without any hatred for your love filled me to the brim.

I cried without any reason for it was the only way my body responded to you.

The crinkled forehead and the crinkled sides of your eyes told me you understood.

You knew what these tears were, how happy sad they were, all at the same time.

You knew for this was the way I cried for My Lord, the one I am meeting at the end of this Life.

Knowing how long the journey had been, how painful, how tearful.

And yet every bit worthy of the end it gets, in your arms, by your side.


Tears are words waiting to be written down – Paulo Coelho

Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

I still cannot make love to his mind | Two Facets of Love

I still cannot make love to his mind.

I could not put to sleep his mind on the last time that I tried to do it.

I wonder now, was I ever able to put his mind to sleep? Or was it always done for my by something else, like alcohol or weed? Or just his pain and grief overpowering his logical mind.

When I got the chance to hold his bright and burning brain in my naked hands, I was afraid of the light emanating from it.

I confess this to myself. I cannot make love to his mind as yet.

And as long it is so, I better stay out of his life. I better refrain from claiming that I love him. Because his brain is a huge part of who he is. And if I am unable to make love to it, I am unable to love him either.

My love is quite simply incomplete. My love is gravely lacking somewhere. And somewhere critical.

It is an uphill ride ahead and I want to climb. This mountain of love.

Because I know it in my bones, I love him the way I love myself.

I am yet to make love to my own brain and logical self. I am yet to fall in love with the physical and the material of my own existence.

The wild self in me has only been summoned in moments of weakened logical abilities.

It is yet to be summoned in utter conscious involvement.

I am yet to fall in love with a logical system finding its way to the illogical.

I am yet to fall in love with the process of logical notes creating an illogically beautiful melody.

I am yet to fall in love with the process of having the biological meet the emotional.

Emotional is where I have thrived till now.

Merging it with the physical is where I gotta go.



Poetic Musings’ Monday



Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Who Am I? | The Million Dollar and A Billion Poems Worth Question


Who am I?

I am a shapeshifter. A chameleon soul. I change colors and hide myself in plain sight.

I am the water. I am the wood. I am the shadow of the mighty sun, lurking in the hood.

I flow like the river, twisting, turning, but forever onwards, to wherever gravity takes me.

When collected in depressions, I embrace the silence of deep lakes.

When tipping off cliff edges, I become the waterfall, raining down in outrageous beauty.

I am a silver stream in the morning. And a golden ball of water rolling at midday.

I am the lover’s mouth at night. Making love to the ocean, disappearing into its dark delight.

I am the black ink of my pen, as it dances from my heart, onto the pages of this diary.

I am the dance of the ink, matching the rhythms of the river, that is being traced in its words.

I am the source of those rhythms, the radiator, the tuning fork. Head to toe.

That vibrates to the slightest of stimuli. A photograph. A raindrop. A sunrise. A sunset.

I am a whore to the stimuli. Moved by slightest promises of delight, of love, of pleasure divine.

I am a devoted mother nurturing the fantasies these stimuli give birth to within me.

I create words and melodies and paintings and a warm web of love to keep them safe.

I am each strand of that web built with the drying of my spit and sweat and blood and tears.

I am the spider woman building that web with my spit and sweat and blood and tears.

I am the spider baby nesting in the spider woman’s web. I also  know how to take love and care.

Learning the delicate art of balancing, of stucking and un-stucking on the web’s strands, myriad.

I am the glass eyes of watery dreams in the spider baby’s eyes, reflecting the whole universe.

I am the tears that fall when the storm comes. Tears of fear, of loss and great disillusion.

I am the storm, collecting all the webs of the world, swallowing them up to vomit out in disgust.

I am the disgust, the churning stomach, the exulted river that leaves the mouth in reflex.

I am the silence. The numb depths of despair where rest these rivers of forgotten filth.

I am the resting dove of pure white feathers, walking the mountains of filthy death.

I am the egg created on this filth, in a nested web, out of love, and exaltedness.

I am the little paws clawing at the hard egg shell. I am the strong will of the little one inside.

I am the promising beauty of the universe that dares welcome the little one into the filth without.

I am the quivering pulsating will of life. I am the creation song, urging breaths of wistful air into it.

I am the unforgiving unrelenting unasked for and unwelcome plight of death.

I am the beginning, the end and everything in between.

I am the morning that follows the night that follows the morning that follows the night.

I am one. I am all. And one again. I am everything.