My body

To them, my body was
only a terracotta vessel,
daubed in attractive colours
of seasons and flowers

They came by as weary travellers
drinking away their thirst
And on quenching it all,
smashed clay pieces into the soil,
pursuing the remaining journey

My body however was like
fireflies, illuminating the woods
that belonged to the dark,
breathing in and out life



My dis-ease is like
a tattered autumn leaf
that come snapping off with
dead twigs of ailing branches,
bearing the onset of cold
in the weather

My dis-ease is like
a far-away boat in the
deep sea, shrinking in
size and sight in the
tangerine dusk sky, as if
consummating a funeral

My dis-ease is nothing
but a solicitor of pain
which they keep finding
in my liver, lungs, intestines,
and sometime spine, but
they always forget the heart


She gave her word
She gave her company
She gave it all,
in the name of friendship

He found himself an opportune
time, ripped her body
and massacred her soul

It was just too late
for friendship to come to rescue

There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.


~Silence; Billy Collins


Shore is an interesting place
of witnessing amalgamation-
the water gushes out to sand,
wreathing every particle wet,
metamorphosing droplets into sparkles,
hissing music of unknown territories

And yet, none loses its place,
none loses its source,
none loses itself

CST Local at quarter past ten

At quarter past ten,
the tubelight starts flickering,
somewhere between Sion and Dadar

There is unequivocal night silence,
except, the squeaky sound of train engine
All windows are up,
making space for monsoon winds

The man sitting beside me
plugs in his earphones,
silencing all the sounds,
including his voice

The day’s labour bleeds off faces
writhing in half sleep
As the train crosses by twinkling lights-
of bustling capital and buildings

The train halts at Dadar,
a swarm of people board into a silenced ride,
I deboard