mother, i`m scared

Mother, I`m scared.

I`m scared of tomorrow’s darkness.

Scared of things unknown.

I`m scared, mother.

Dress my knee when I stumble on a foolish decision.

Call me back when I`m lost playing foul.

Press my shoulder: shake me up,

When I stare life, in blank.

Mother, I`m scared.

I need your warm lap, when I`m tired of chasing.

Need your saree tassel to knot, when I`m dead wrong.

Need you, to hide my face when all laugh at me.

Need your smile to assure and reassure me, to myself.

Mother, I`m scared.

Cuddle me, when I cry.

Pat me, when I`m right.

Please be with me, when sticks fall apart;

To say there is nothing to get scared:

As you always did.



PS: I’d penned a faint idea of this poem months back, and had no brave to publish it. It was some days before that I had an interview for a job the next day. I had hell things to prepare and this stubborn one dragged me off all that, pestered to add more lines to it. And it won.

They say, poems aren`t written, they just happen and when they happen we only reserve the right to pen them down.


Loony castles called hostels

Boys’ hostel – the very word would dawn you with images like stinking cupboards, cluttered rooms with half open books spilled all over and ramshackle doors. And describing words of the residents here would include: bulling men with stark deodorant smell (preferably Axe!), punky outfits, ruffled hair and shoes which knew no water in their life course. Yes, this may be true to some extent but there is a lighter and more jovial side of hostel life. This is a chunk of a bigger picture.

People here may seem a bit ravenous, but at core are gentle. They may screech out there music players with hard pop, heavy metal or Lady gaga’s numbers, but croon for Chaurasia’s flute locking themselves   in their room, when roommates aren’t at room. Their tongue wouldn’t be parliamentary – I know parliamentary is a softer word to describe it – but would be the first to help out. They may glitter out dry machismo, but miss home food; are home sick. You know, an edible sweet fruit grows even in cactus beyond thorns!

But I must also admit our stupidity: most of us are duffers. We howl at a TV screen, when an Irish batsman hits a six against a Kenyan bowler. Fight hours for gummy bhindi, rubbery chapattis and coloured water with some vegetables floating in it (I don’t know why mess people call it sambar). Messages are worth mentioning. They come with suffix ‘happy’ for all occasions, including new moon day, Good Friday, polio Sunday and even bandhs. I wonder if Einstein visited a hostel when he wrote, human stupidity is infinite.

Other day, it was fine evening until a person came asking for a blood donor with a rare group. People usually rush to a hostel in such cases, because they would access many potential donors at once. People here were quick to find the blood in no time. I could read worry and anxiety in their frowns. I wondered if these are the same rude old duffers with whom I live. I was feeling prouder being a part of hostel that my phone tinkled showing a new message. Reading that, I concluded that we would never change and will continue to be good old duffers. The message read:  ‘Happy valentine’s day to you and your family:)’

Letter from the cow

Dear human, I’m the cow.
I really do not understand your language.
You say, you have supple smooth skin:
While i’ve durable tough hide.
You say, you eat different cuisines,
While I always eat dry fodder.
Why is that you call that curved iron piece
Nailed under my hooves as a ‘horse shoe’?
And finally, i still remember you saying,
That, I hold millions of gods within me:
That, am a supreme symbol of purity and holiness.
Yet, you left me all alone here;
Here, in this scary dark slaughter house.


We are magnets.
Born with little strength,
With less magnetic lines.
Grow up, strengthen ourselves,
Building the flux,
Entangling with the relations,
With powerful, out reaching magnetic lines.
Marry: couple with a magnet,
Induct mutually, grow and entangle more.
Feel bad when we don’t reach
A magnetic line.
Feel bad when a magnet breaks;
Or, we ourselves break.
Repel out some magnets:
Of which some try to attract.
Life goes on, and so does entangling.
And then a time comes;
When we realize we are just electromagnets.
Supply goes off.
Some magnets feel bad.
And the soft iron piece carrying current,
Will eventually rust off:
Leaving no sign of its existence.


“we must not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the place for the first time.”
-T. S. Eliot

I’m a 20 year old brat and life’s still to me is a mystery. Life to me is about discovering and rediscovering. It is life in twilight. It is twilife. A twilifae.

I should thank two people who inspired me to blog. Prabhu and Manish. Prabhu is my cousin and Manish my friend. Both are great bloggers and web designers. It was manish who made me strike with the idea of blogging, even after reading one of my  freaky dry poem. And Prabhu’s very blog is kindling, which makes me scratch my tissue of creativity. I owe great gratitude towards them.

See you then, with some blogposts in near future.
Please feel free to comment, prick and poke. Even praise in some rare cases:]
Take care.