Two hearts

Entangled tresses could
foretell umpteen stories,
unlike the bindi which
adorned only silent glories

Kajal bolded the eyes,
blurring foresight in parts
Payal worn in one ankle,
strumming music in the

two hearts



It was in June
When we left behind us
the city, to find ourselves
in the woods

It is June again
And we’ve left everything behind
to those woods,
losing each other
in the maze of time

Black Hole


Everytime when you fail
to see what you must see
And start to write a mail,
in a delusion to set yourself free


Everytime when you fail
to act the way you must act
And smother yourself into the ringed smoke trail,
relinquishing every self-established fact


Everytime when you fail
to stop the pain that clings your chest
And the winter dew that pale
the lips, stitching the unspoken words into unrest


By this time,
you must know-


an invincible black hole
slyly breeds your heart,
puncturing your breath
and venomously engulfing your soul

The Art of Departing

The Art of Departing


Perhaps departing is an art-
sheepishly incorrigible and confrontational
for there will always be
a relationship becoming inexplicably sour
a project becoming toilsomely barren
a job becoming unapologetically gruelling
a house becoming undesirably small
a city becoming obliviously repulsive
a body becoming inevitably unresponsive


So much so,
that there won’t be any plausible escape,
but a departure-inopportune and abrupt
mindless and brutal-amidst
floating disappointments and uncertainties
quashing all hopes and desires
associations and promises
causing the mind to languish
in inane decisions and fiery epilogues


But the art of departing isn’t just an art,
rather an intimate conversation with the self-
necessitating a hiatus from the context
The palette is a discernible combination of
an astute reflection and tender words,
followed by a thoughtful action with a
tinge of patience and empathy


As much as it is unnatural and
de rigueur for absolution, the whole of
art of departing however lies in closing-
scars and wounds, doors and conversations
files and work, chapters and phases-
and sometimes weaving brokenness
of promises and possibilities


And no matter how persistent the pursuit is,
yet, there is sometimes no
consolation in the art of departing,
even in the time

And there is something I don’t know!

And there is something I don’t know!


And there is something that I don’t know,
Something that makes me go blue
If only I could comprehend these enigmas,
Then the wait would have never been so true


And there is something that I don’t know,
Why the cold outside suddenly feels so cold inside
A subtle silence pricks my heart,
Asks me to become a spectator of my own ride


And there is something that I don’t know,
For this is a bigger blessing to tell you
For knowing all is shutting down possibilities,
Not knowing is a token to that little hope too

My lover’s girlfriend


I wished long enough
to see it only as a
fallacy or a half-truth
or may be a half-lie
But it wasn’t as simple
as a usual perception and
as complex as most truths;
Just a miscalibrated
phenomenon of unsolicited
feelings and desires-
or rather everything
that sent me off
to obscure places


Encounters were swamped
in conversations interrupted
by surreptitious observations-
long tresses, atleast longer
than mine that fell on her
one shoulder, her wide
eyes heedfully rolling
in consonance with my
scruple syllables and
ingenuous grins springing
from her piquant phrases
followed by a flummoxing
mental shift- an elevation
past her womanly abode-
something that had
amusingly gripped me
in anxiety of everything
that a love is supposed
to be or not be;
for the mind didn’t know
well enough of what
dwelled in the heart


And as much as I wished
for her non-existence in
the life that I shared with
my lover, I discreetly
wished nurturing the
affinity of our unsought
encounters- probably
an offering only in
some alternate universe

Lamp post

Lamp post


A dark sky, a barren road
Amidst all, stands a lamp post-
quietly romancing with the sidewalk
and the tree-blossoms around,
illuminating the possibilities
of a wanderer whose closest
consorts are the moon, the trees
and the ceaseless lone walk


The night sky comes to a standstill,
with stars nestling in the clouds
As the wind rushes pasts my hair,
my eyes rolls back to him-
to his glittering eyes and face,
lit up with yellow light
beaming from the lamp post


A smile breaks up the silence,
to emanate another silence,
enamoured in timeless-ness
The lamp post stands upright,
forging timeless stories