Wednesday, October 5, 2011

The Jester!

And thus again will time fly by,
through seasons of change, wet and dry,
Hopes have been pushed off the cliff of High,
Smiles will have faded from a face to cry,

And sometime in the darkness you shall find me try,
to bring back memories that sprint on the sly,
Do not pity my misery for there is no lie,
I chose to play the Jester & alone I shall cry!

Thursday, September 15, 2011

For Hank Moody

A life bereft of love
a new braird of sin
The distance of miles too far
but this sinful heart seems to have wings
Some things I cannot undo
The consequence is all I see

Yet I gammon the heart to forget,
yet dreams run to your doorstep
I know the door will be shut
for I'm just an unwelcome guest

Friday, July 22, 2011

The farce behind 'Salaam Bombay'

In some family homes tonight will be the darkest;
taking away someones everything;
footsteps that stepped out of doors, never to return;
small cherished hopes that returned home every evening will now perhaps always remain dream like memories;
"numbers" shall be read out, casualties forgotten;
just like always superficial sympathies will pour in...

In some family homes tonight will be the darkest;
a heartless rainy evening would have changed everything;
And soon one day when we will have new reasons for headlines, somewhere wrapped in the folds of newspapers shall be stories covering this night
of peoples gruesome ends and some painful beginnings...

Friday, June 10, 2011

in the aftermath of "THE" Fire

On the 5th of June, unfortunately a fire destroyed our dream that we had only begun to build. This is the photograph of the aftermath.

To mourn what?
The passage of precious dreams
Dreams, dreams that only seem to fly away...

To mourn what?
Memories that are often snatched away
Memories, memories made on some beautiful days...

To mourn what?
The loss of those dreamy memories
Oh! up they were engulfed in angry red flames...
Flames, flames that flared and raged,

Raging flames that burnt everything...
Every cent, penny worth of collective memory...
And now we sit here wondering what do we....
Count truly as our belonging???

Saturday, April 23, 2011

In search of nothingness...

And do what but to think of time...

Time, time that flies away...
And rushes back to come and tell...
"All I did was play hide and seek"

Friday, April 8, 2011


There is that fear you know,Of those moments that snatched away,
Aeons of time;
Time that meant everything to me...

The fear which makes me stay away,
from those lanes, places and familiar memories...
Someone else walked on my path,
Touched my blooming buds and took away novelty...

From all the novice painted pictures, dreams and hopes...
The fear begets hatred, anger and jeopardy...
Will I ever get over this pain..
This heart wrenching feeling of misery???

And now a voice deep inside me tells,
That this fear needs to come out once in  conclusive end
Some time I will need to tell myself,
That my dream is right here, with me and in my hands...

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Frequent Lives

I walked into the Mithaiwala's store on my way back home, trudging in my new formal footwear purchase. I knew these just dint fit comfortably but the salesman had convinced me otherwise. It had been a quick purchase in my 15 minute lunch break.
I crossed the road and was near the entrance of the sweetmeat shop, named after a prominent princely tourist destination in the desert state of India.
The sight of an open trash bin right there with soiled paper plates and house flies over it repulsed me, momentarily. This was India. And matters of hygiene were probably somewhere in between the soiled plates in that bin.
I checked the snack counter. Nothing appealed. 'Kachoris', 'Mirchi Badas', 'Punjabi Samosas' and obviously stale 'Dhoklas'.
Then I moved towards the counters of 'Gulab Jamuns' and 'Kaala Jamuns' and 'Rasgullas'....
Something caught my eye. A 'ten-er' (ten rupee note) and a loud voice.
The sales boy was loud to distract my attention.
"How many? One? Having it here?"
Across the counter was a man with a walking wooden stick, snow white hair, 'kurta payjama' and 'dessert hunger'.
I kept starring at that 'ten-er'. Then the old man. A part of me reminded me of my maternal grand-dad, who stayed with us till my widowed mother, little sister and me could manage on our own. I recollected the way he would get frozen packets of 'kababs' and I would be too foolish to not share it with him then, until Mom taught me the required 'ethics'.
Does it always happen this way?!?! Life always reduced to its lowest common multiple of money and our hearts little but infrequent desires when its nearing its end?!?
The old man now only shook his head with a yes, wanting to have the sweet there itself.
I wondered, how many times and in what circumstance's would I have to go to a Mithawala, with a ten-er, when my time arrives...