Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Apr 30, 2016

You travel -
Through unknown stations,
passing empty paddy fields.
over quiet rivers that rest beneath you.

You bring a lot of earth along,
And smell of mud, fish scales and trains.

 You whisper and scream,
Put your nails in me,
occasionally call it love.
Other nights, we make peace.

Strangely at dawn,
When the Sun rises
and you see me sleeping, 
I hear your whisper, 

you travel ...

  ... Deep inside me.


Midnight Bath

>> Aug 9, 2015

Bricks and mortars aside,
Our separate doors
And combined windows

Can I talk to you tonight?

Can we bring two shovels
And dig through our floors,



Till we find the river
We once shared between us.


Brick by Brick

We met at a rainpark.
What is it anyway?
We could have met in the middle of a desert,
a fountain, a mountain,
a monument maybe.

We met and it did not rain that day.
Did it matter?
Seasons passed by us
And beheld the same old me,
but the flavour of you in six.

Namelessly as we scratch our names
on the shores,
I realize what I am thankful for.

When I was building our castle from mediocrity,
You stayed.



>> May 27, 2015

I will trade my dreams with you.
The way you fly high
and dive deep,
the moment you catch your breath
and let go of, the next.
The sunsets you soak in
and the nights you lie (to yourself).

I will trade my dreams with you.
The way I wait for you
and wait I do.

-- Soumya



>> Mar 1, 2015

It's been pragmatic for long.
The cobwebs and the dusts
have made their fragile colony.

The first letter is always special.
Sabbatical has ended after countless summers.
Shaky hand holds the pen,
writes and strikes.
Cigarettes burn. Wasted smokes dance
around dim lit lights.

White papers are to poets,
what love is to a tree.
It secretly wishes,
someday it would bend its arms and hold
the one she loves.
It would confess for forgotten springs.
But winters come and wrinkled papers stack.

Night trespasses and leaves.
The dawn comes,
What was the yield?

A poet wrote about how poets fall.



>> Jun 29, 2014

Dear love,

Highways and boulevards aside,
there have been sunshine and thunderstorms
to remind me of your ruffled hairs
and my unheld palms.

The sea has been calm,
it hasn't seen your footsteps on the sands.
The sea has been rough -
your absence, my abstinence, therefore.

Light drizzle on night glass,
whispering to my left, humming to my own
I had what leisure asked for
and pleasant offered.

as I write this letter and the candle burns,
I know how silly we are,
how blunt!

And that when the lightening strikes,
it rains somewhere.


In reply To

>> Dec 9, 2013

I have your letters -
The ones we wrote, sitting together.
and few that travelled miles.

I read them on winters
as they remind me of falling leaves.
In Summers, I sun bathe them.

Blue parchments, yellow postcards, hurried white -
Inks have been blotted in places.
And they have your touch, ridge skins, printed.

(They talk about)
The broken table lamp we had,
Constructive madness, correctional grammars and
faded restraints -
You have it all (here)
 said, unsaid, implied, avoided.

I have your letters -
The ones we burned together
and few that burned hundreds of miles.


Three Colours of Life

>> Sep 18, 2013

The Blind:

When it rains, I see a little boy, in torn pajama and with no shirt, running out of his small room. He stretches his hands to capture the drops -  all of them. When it becomes dense, unsolved puzzles play on his face - one for the success of the ones he could hold, one for the misses. He looks at the burial of each of them as the drops fade away on earth. He mourns as if it's his responsibility. His mother comes out, consoles, scolds. But the dutiful doesn't stop, can not stop. A few more, saline this time, fall and fade.

There is none to pray.

The Deaf:

There is an old woman, a pianist. She still plays the piano on weekends and creates new tunes for herself. She looks at her little audience, looks at their eyes - when they are becoming indifferent, showing a little reluctance, feeling engrossed, catching tears - she plays on -  for all. She knows the reeds by heart. What she doesn't know is how she sounds when she plays. At the end when people smile - in awe, in love, in respect - she stands up, slowly, very slowly bows in front of her crowd and tries to find unsatisfied faces in them. She gets none.

She is one.

The Mute:

Two are needed for marriage. So two they are - one who speaks, one who is mute. He speaks in different languages. Mostly they are loud, otherwise they remind her of snakes. Sometimes they are of anger, sometimes threats, sometimes they are of biological benefits, sometimes when they are not fulfilled. She reads him in silence.

Only her hand gestures scream.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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