Sunday, September 18, 2011



We are hanging by the trees. A frail, slight attachment. Grated over time. On the hill-tops, we live. Not your regular tiled roof. Naah none of that. We have white, hoary hair of an old woman above our heads. We refer to them as clouds in our language.

As far as my eyes can travel, I see my village. Mind, however, time-travels. Where there was green, now there is brown. The people from the plains came with their phallic machines and raped the ground. They blasted through her honour. That quarry site is now all that remains.

Monday, September 12, 2011



When you fall hard, you don't want to get up, you want to stay down and waffle in self-pity. Exhaustion can bring melt down upon the most steely nerves. Yes, they can jangle.

Then you stretch your hand and another dude pulls you out. Even the urge to smear your tee with marks of your glory cannot keep you pinned on the ground. The black and white football is more colourful to you than a bone to the dog. It's a bit like life, isn't it?

Sunday, September 4, 2011



फसिं हैं डाल पे, 
जूलज़ रहीं हैं तूफान से,
नीचे गांस की लपटे,
करतीं हैं इंतज़ार उसका |

ओन्स की बूंदो की तरह, 
जो लहराके, फिसलती हैं,
आँखों की किसी पीची की तरह, 
आनेवाले तूफान का पहला फरमान सुनाती हैं |

देखते ही देखते, रेंगते ही रेंगते,
सारे बंधन तोड़के, टूट पड़ी हैं बूंदे,
उस ओन्स को ढूँढने |

थक के, हार के,
इमली छोड़ चुकी पेड़ का हाथ,
पर उसीकी छाओं में काटती,
वोह अपनी आखरी रात |