Intoxicated Musings

Stutter like a pirate on the glorious
wild seas as the skies approach you
from the superficial depths
of the crying waves, emerging
out of the horizon, materialising
from the womb of the sun,
and, caressing the sand on your feet,
take vision of your mighty composure
as the halo of a noon-cloud
rests glorifyingly adorned on your
dreadlock-haired head out of constant,
deliberate acts of letting them unkempt.

Stutter like a pirate on the calm
dreamy waters of the ocean
as the stars sing an inaudible lullaby
solely by their glittering- unceremoniously,
randomly and lovingly- over and above
the mighty heavens, on a cloudless night,
when the reflection of the celestial beings
is the solitary company which nature
could afford you in the fathomless void
that you may term as post-day darkness,
albeit with discretion, for although the stars
are humble… the accused ocean isn’t.

Stutter like a pirate on a monsoon
evening that roars from among the
drops of heavily pouring nature,
rocking the boat as a cradle of death-
however inevitable- in the ballroom
of what appears to a layman as a storm
but hardly lightens the feet
of those caught between the salty air
kissing the gently waving posture
of men hardened with decades
of being mastered into the art of life
and ruled by the mighty Poseidon,

Stutter like a pirate, immensely drunk
on the nectar of the gods, poured down
his dry throat, and watering his appetite
for insanity, and headlessness in action
that commands his steady being
and demands to be respected
as an elixir of life- that is hardly ever
experienced on unstable grounds,
for sane words die in ocean airs
but that which is uttered in the intoxication
of the ocean, the rain, life and thought
incites the interest of gods as well.

About Time

A man clad in white
roams around free…
no chains, no bounds
but wild as the ocean.

A man clad in white
walks ceaselessly
mocking any attempt
of barricades en route.

A man clad in white
juggles between his
lanky bony fingers
a woman of three.

His face is of gloom
but eyes emit gaiety
as the depth in them
echoes one’s vision.

He spins a yarn that,
though dark, crude,
imprisons lifetimes
of mere jolly mortals.

A man clad in white
has been for eternity;
a man clad in white
calls himself- Time.

Playing God.


It was a year between seven
and nine of the second decade
a smile saw her closing in on it.

Few of the souls around her with
pointed shoes in her direction
stood contrasting her bare feet.

The curtains prisoned them all
from the light that was between
the window pane and the clouds.

The heavens shouted aloud
to her to blink a thousand times
and all will be anew, all afresh.

She shut her vision, but once
and turned her neck to view
the darkness that was heaven.

And she parted her eyelids
to light. She played God today.
All pain of hers betrayed her.

She had carved herself a future-
an armour to protect her.
She was a mother today.


Can I shut my eyes
now that it is night?
The grills on the window
that stare on to the night
have me bleeding through
my thoughts, and scars
have opened my memories.

Can I shut my eyes
now that the rays of sunlight
have bid me farewell-
skeptical, whether they’ll
greet me in the morrow?

Can I shut my eyes
now that I have no words
that come to my mind
nor any picture that paints
the landscape of emotions
nor a sound keeping
my crying heart company?

Can I shut my eyes
now that they’re hurting?
Can I shut my eyes
now that there’s no vision?
Can I shut my eyes
now that I never wish
to open and shut them again?
Can I shut my eyes
now that I care not whether
you’ll term it my demise?

Freeing The Art

I have laid vision upon many a painting
hued by engineers and lawyers.

The impeccable touch of detail
that ornamented the clean strokes;
the careful selection of edges
as they danced- skirting the theme;
the white that was deliberately left…
all mocked the critique, appreciating it.

The contrast which flirted with the lights
that provided it with a performing-stage;
the colours that bound themselves
amid the four walls of the canvas;
the veil that the thoughts wear,
steal their vision from the connoisseur.

I wouldn’t call myself a critique of art,
but I have seen freer art colored on paper.

About a Sexton

I live in the city of graves
of stale thoughts and dead dreams,
where hope snores away,
in the glory of deliberate ignorance.

I live on the premises
where love was emulated
and its celebration saw tears
decorated with loud cries and red hue.

I live in the city where the worth
of man is killed with each new birth
and the laugh of a toddler
is veiled by the slyness of time.

I live in the town of blind culture
and narrow roads of ideology
that fail to light my path back home,
where orthodoxy awaits me.

I live in the city that is bordered
by high walls of hypocrisy
and I live here alone; the others,
they breathe dead around me.




The Naked Canvas

She stood there, the top two buttons
of her shirt- cotton, as she selected
mine, for this evening- undone,
and a few at the end, loose.

The collar was un-pursed, the shoulders
visible, as the fabric hung to the sides;
her neck was as naked as my thoughts
and it was beautiful. My thoughts, not.

One of her legs lay harboured
on the sheesham chair; her skirt failed
to modest her thighs. Her knees
were strong, and her thighs, elegant.

The flora on her skirt gardened the legs
as they- motionlessly- bloomed
in the dim-lit cluttered room of my studio
and I just looked at her: gazed, in fact.

I held my brushes close to my heart,
clutching the wood as blood rushed
to my fingers, in an attempt to present
colours to my thoughts and dirty the canvas.

My eyes were barely open; hers, wide, dark,
kajal-ornamented, happy, excited.
She was like the sea, I, a whirlpool.
She was fire, I was the world- engulfed.

I saw the universe with my almost-shut eyes,
and, yet, failed to muster up an image
of her on the sheet. She, wide-eyed,
could not sense my inability to sketch her.

Blissful Sorrows

Sometimes I smiled,
the other, wept.
I never wore a straight face,
for an emotionless face
is a waste of beauty.
But, I had found the bliss
in a few drops of tears.

Every once in a while,
I would soil my handkerchief,
but smiled behind it,
whenever I failed
to take note of the sorrows.

And in the midst
of this melodrama,
I killed the mockingbird,
and no one noticed.
Optimism, till then,
was never my forte.

The Setting Sun


“We need to move…”
she said, earnestly,
“the airs here
have grown old
and lament the past.”

“A new place awaits us
to cohabit our smiles
and listen to our songs,”
she added, soulfully,
“as we dance wild.”

“Our clothes wither
in the white corners
of this wood-block,”
scanning the vision,
“and blanket with dust.”

“Sour curd blinks
from inside the dark,
warm refrigerator,”
her eyes shut, now,
“and request us leave.”

“And the door fails
to shut to the edge
shedding a shine,”
her voice tiring,
“showing us escape.”

“Where’ll we go?”
he asked her.
“Somewhere you’ll face
me, sleeping. The sun’ll
set beautifully, there.”

A Deserted Village


I’ll visit my village once…
I have heard of it,
a few times from my folks
other while, in books.

They all say similar
that it is a sight to behold,
with green backdrop
and yellow adorning it.

With buildings as old
as legends, and legends
seemingly being narrated
by withering bricks.

And air as fresh as minds
and water as cool
as the hearts residing there
apparently flow through it.

I’ll visit my village once…
the village I have heard of
from those that came here
and never went back.