Secluded here in my room I think of you.

Stepping aside my worries a while,

I have come to you.

I won’t bother you much, worry not:

And this cuppa hot tea is just an ally to the drizzle outside.


I must say this in the very beginning: I’ve come to you

Knowing not, where else to go.

I have come to say, that I always felt:

Hidden amid the words you speak,

Faintly laid, are the connecting dots to a hidden puzzle.

Puzzle which I could (may be, ought to) solve;

Puzzle which would lead me back to the treasure trove.

I always regained a missing part of myself:

When you spoke, I listened, and the world would just stop.

Guess the treasure trove, in real, was all about that.


Remember, we spoke and laughed for long hours?

Gossiped, all along, as if we were the only true people:

And all others vanquished in vain.

All hues of joy would then slyly enfold us and,

Conspire with the time passing by, to make it irrelevant.

Roughly, it was a game of hide-and-seek every time,

You would always hide something curious, priceless.

I would always go beyond what I knew.

To get what I never had before.


Things fall apart: not all things are true,                                         

You fade away and my cup of tea goes empty.

Sky clears itself and it no longer rains.

For all I know…

So much to say, so not much to say:

The aura of music like false cynicism,

The realm of sheer care and sanity, and

The blend of hard strife and a gliding soothe.

Guess, even the paradox joins in itself:

As a missing chunk of the whole!

So much to say, so not much to say:

For all I know is, the conviction grows firmer in itself, for

The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of ”.

PS: Sometimes the ‘way you feel for a poem’ precedes ‘the actual meaning of the poem’. To put in other words some verses do not have an implication. Or say, they don’t have a solitary meaning, but you can draw your own versions of the meaning for them.
I believe this is one of those kinds. What say?

loose ends


Scary cold night it is, lonely way to walk.
The thick chills fill shivery roads aloft.
Filled in my brains are eddy viscous thoughts:
Slyly plotted to resemble the setting that cloaks.

These paths, though long, had a valid destination:
They will make me home, after my tiring day.
But deep down my axons are the lanes of my thought course,
Soon exhausting to logical dead ends, leading nowhere.

Lined on my left are deep dark teak trees,
And on my right are lean, lighter eucalyptuses.
Connecting distance in between ridicules on being right and wrong.
I hush these thought within, unable to discern what’s right and otherwise.

Thoughts and roads entwine subsequently, to baffle:
Never did they bother for the ends nor exhaustion.
Ceaseless they are with their crude stubborn battle,
Racing ahead of conception, aiming beyond my cognition.

Moon shines abode in high sky, full and bright.
She is the only one to cast me some dim warm light:
To make me comfort against that cold night.
Also to console me implying, things shall drift to be all right.

Photo courtesy: Tanaya Surve

PS: Poems can be fatal at times. And I mean it literally when I say fatal. A speeding bike almost dashed me while I strolled back home absent minded scripting this one in my mind. I owe a lot to the person who invented brake pedals!

Though I know no technical’s of music, tried to bring in a musical stroke. Starting with sparse random notes, raising  them in coherence,  all through and ending at a cadence.

As with all posts, what you got to say?


words unsaid

Did we fail to see the square elegant professionalism,

In the eyes of that scantily clad model?

Did we miss to see the glint of raw hunger,

In the eyes of that stealthy cat in the rush of shooing it off?

Did we see the hint of her ailing backbone,

Hid behind the cosmetic smile of that circus girl?

Did we see the beggar failing to contain his embarrassment,

With his trembling hands held out to us?

Did we fail to hear the word which went unsaid,

In the innocent festival of words said?

Standing at the Green Delta

Sea of compelling truths ahead,

River of tied knots behind.

More silt of beliefs, the more you dig.

I stand here at the delta of my life, letting myself:

Open to the mighty brine of unknown.

PS: The transit from cosy college-life to a unknown job-life can be a mixture of awe, thrill and expectations. My attempt to depict the same. My friend says, it is important to be open to the new world, yet holding on to  the ties left behind. So true.

[A note on Green DeltaIt is that transit where the fresh waters of the Ganges meet the salt waters of Bay of Bengal, famously known as Sundarbans. Thick forests, rare animals and birds, waterways and mudflats come together to form this beautiful ending note of nature’s musical phrase. A peculiar thing about silt found here is that, tiny grains of soil collected all through the journey of the river, right from its birth, is collected forming a mudflat/silt reserve, staying there for ever. More description is here and more images here]

The Crusades of Recuperation

Things come striking back,

And, all small ideas swarm around you.


You must come back to me,

To solve the puzzles you created.

You must come back, for me to proliferate.

Come back to return things you never returned.

Come back, to reason out the reasons beyond my reasoning.

Come to witness my failing attempts to witness you in words.


Seek your stare while I pick and sketch,

Intricacy studded amid daily chores.

Be at my shoulders and I’ll paint,

All shades of grey to federal-blue.

Be there and get my equations right,

In return I’ve nothing but more equations, though.


Things come striking back,

And, everything else swarms around you.

assorted life

Press the bundle of grey ribbons in:

Leaving bright yellow loose ends, dangling out.

Strut out the shambling voice:

A weak crutch of loudness would also do.

Do not believe the tear glinted eyes, in the mirror:

Even when you know they are too naive to lie.

Nor let the sniffle out, off the puckered eyes.

For it may dilute the long harboured sting.

Press the bundle of grey ribbons in:

Leaving bright yellow loose ends, dangling out.

(photo courtesy; paris2london)

P.S: “Life is somewhere else is just a myth”, life is here, life is now.

Sometimes a simple grammar tense, can change the whole way you think.

P.P.S: Have my apologies, if PS doesn’t exactly go with the poem. Assorted lines with an assorted life; the title says it all. What say?

residing monk

Here I’m collecting wreckages of an unsought battle.

Half covered in the sands of time.

I shudder back at a wreck which reflects my implicit fear.

My reflective squirm is too low to be heard.

Or is it the wind that is howling fast?

Autumn wind continues to blow,

Filling me with essence, and drying away my tears.


I mustn’t deter nor should I stop,

For the wrecks are strewn far and wide:

So is the desert.

P.S: We cannot understand certain things for the only reason, they being simple.


It was a festive eve.

Everything around sifted to a placid uniformity,

Except for that girl, with eyes stained of kajal.

She was a welcome flick of flare,

Amid that cold foggy darkness.

She talked relentlessly, with all smiles and joy.


Oddly, many things complemented.

My frayed, unkempt hair, as against,

Her kempt, well combed hair.

A perfect grace she had, as against,

My hands scratching back of my hairs.

A captivating, mild smile, spilling

Scented mirth around, against my clumsy grin.

I was like an angular definition,

She, a well writ: curvy poem.


And then it happened that,

Our eyes met for a moment.

She bore right through my eyes

For a moment.

I felt as if the words she spoke

Tumbled, to reach me ultimately.

One moment more, her eyes still locked on me.

I really don’t know if she curved

Her lips to a smile, this time.

I tried hard to  broaden my grin:

To reply. No, nothing happened.

One moment more: this was more

Than a usual gaze.

I felt everything around went dawdling,

Except for her lashes, which flicked once.

It was only the next moment, that

She broke her gaze: as subtle, as again.


I don’t know or remember what happened next.

May be everything merged back to uniform:

Careless of what happened.

And she left me with all, but answers,

And left my eyes desolate, longing and lonely.

replug: she makes it so easy to live


PS: I guess, it is hard to draw a line between reality and a poem sometimes. You never know where reality ends and where begins the poem.