Saturday, September 29, 2012



Her stare ambles through the train. Her son impervious to his mother's reverie sucks on his index and middle finger.
She is bobbing her head back and forth. Perhaps, a lullaby echoes in her mind. Not that it is time to sleep or he is restless; a maternal instinct must have been triggered when his soft buttocks touched her thighs.
She realises his presence and caresses his head. "Are you okay my boy?" she dabs his head to check his temperature.
He doesn't respond. She takes it as his approval of current affairs.
She uproots him from the warmth of her body and seats him next to her.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Sea siesta


The sea that flows,
No rhyme, no reason,
The howl grows,
Its not the seaoson.

With no push or shove it carries on,
Silica in the air settles on cheeks,
The sun blazes, sweat colours the textile lawn,
Wet shirt; I could be one among the freaks.

Sky lights up,
Crows the unusual entertainers,
Its a full story, not a stub,
Head rests on my hands; just the manners.

Thursday, August 2, 2012



Plate, rate, ate, satiate,
Bloke, smoke, choke, hope,
Chick, hot, legs, ass, slick,
Eyes, contact, smile, check out my style,
Don't go, wait, stay, that heels can't go for another mile,
The itch, the stutter, they wish to rest, stand by my sneakers,
My hand, your waist, the curves are too clever,
Your lips, my lips, cigarette is not there, was never,
I don't smoke, the key chain, end of deception, friends' laughter,
Her puckered lips, no kiss, pissed, the match stick, lights cigarette, mouth taut, no talk, my face, smoke, I choke, she struts off.

Monday, July 30, 2012



In a rush, in a rush,
Am hurtling towards a dead-end,
But devil may care,
No time to be a do-gooder,
I leave beggars in my wake,
In a rush, in a rush.

All you slow coaches,
Move away or be derailed,
This train needs to make time,
She arrives in some minutes,
In a rush, in a rush.

Nobody please don't expect much,
Mind the back of your shoes,
My strides will crush them,
Longer than the Big-Foot,
In a rush, in a rush.

The pauses are pain in my ***,
I writhe on my seat,
At every stop this bus makes,
Conductor yank no more,
Let it cruise, let it cruise,
Because I am in a rush, in a rush.

Let bygones be bygones,
They can return,
But they are not welcomed,
Kick on their backs is all they can expect,
Like quagmire they embrace you,
I need to swim, I need to swim,
Because I am in a rush, in a rush.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012



She had no inkling that her world was about to change. The bubbly nature was about to burst. In the early morning; just like every other morning, she was jogging in the neighbourhood park.
She was violated. From nowhere, a rotund man, in his twilight years, pats her behind and just keeps walking.
She cringes, when the impact is felt. She glares at this lecherous creature. But her arms nestle under her breast, her feet weigh down the ground; she transforms into a peeved statue.
He exits the garden as she sits on a marble bench to cool down her frayed nerves.
She retrospects and wonders what could have been? How she could have slapped the man. Sure, he was strong but she could have given out a yelp, which would have gathered the people in the park.
But she could not imagine this old man's predicament, albeit well-deserved, without pangs in her abdomen. She now thinks: The man is going to die very soon. Let me be happy for being a pleasant memory in the man's last few days.
With her mind at peace, she lumbers to her home.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Next station is rutland


Next station Andheri,
She announces,
In her dispassioned voice.

I know your tonsils have gone dry, And like all the work that turns rut, You have saved your life by staying dead.

You trill off one announcement after another,
I know you mock me as my eyelids try to stay afloat,
Sleep; the temporary death,
Is the only respite of the nondescript worker.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Dancing stars (Part I)


Having a ball in Trivandrum. I didn't expect it to be anything other than an isolated, marooned place only enjoyed by anachronistic souls. But I was wrong about the souls as much as the place.
15 km from Kovalam beach, overlooking the Velayini lake,  owners of this bungalow have appropriately named it as Land's end.
They are no ordinary owners. They have adopted a pg and have made her part of the family. This teen forgave all her formal education in the hope of becoming an accomplished dancer. So she left Mumbai for Kerala to train with a well-known dance company.
But just like everything famous, the founder of this company was bloated with ego. Not to mention the home-cooked guju food, which made valid contribution to her girth.
Now, this lithsome student had the knack of picking up things. Within a month she learnt many routines. This blew away the teacher's mind but not in any good sense of the word.
Her daughter is the principal dancer of this company. The teacher started seeing this young girl as a threat for her daughter.
Obsession is a sentiment that can be triggered by love as much by hate. She made it her personal business to keep this girl isolated from any new routine. Instead, she was made to all menial work like cleaning the dance floor and asked to take really long walks. The purported logic was walking helps to strengthen the feet. However, the real reason was to keep her  lightyears away from any form of dancing.
Her real learning only began, when she started living with this family as a pg. A dance company only trains one to be a background dancer and not a dancing scholar. Those serious about dance would do well to avoid the closed boundaries of a company. So the girl started realising this and slowly drifted away from the group. Luckily the couple she was living with were both broad-minded and warm people. The husband, who is ship captain by profession, started taking personal interest in the child's growth. He created a space within the house, where the girl can have some real learning. Within months the girl grew exponentially. She was doing 8th grade ballet in a couple of months. When she started she was 4th grade. Her Bharathanatiyam levels were that of a BA 1st year student. She was learning Mohiniattam from a teacher, Carnatic singing and was playing Baatz and Beethoven on the  piano.
The wife herself MA in Bharathanatiyam taught her the intricacies of the form. Her ballet was looked after by the husband, who deeply researched on the form and resourced all the literature and music for her training.
The girl is continuing her high school through the National Open University. She is also learning astrology from her landlord, who is also MA in the subject.

Sunday, March 11, 2012



What about her is attractive? Or rather what about me is attractive?
Her eyes tell me that she wants me. Am I reading too much?
She has some fat but then they make her curves. I rather be with imperfection, which seems sexy.
Her ass may be a treasure trove or why else would she fold her hands behind her ass as she leaves me in her wake?
She is dark, really dark.
And I am fair.
I think we both would complement each other well.
But only I wonder if I must let this pass or dive into the whirpool they call love or the trap they call love?
I only wonder...



I guess there are lot of people in this world, who are disturbed. Behind the cloak of happiness, somewhere there is a flickering sadness.
It is there every time we laugh and every time we smile. Probably all our joys have a scintilla of darkness.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Femme Fatale


Life in the subaltern reality is very different from that in uptown Manhattan. Now what is the difference? Well, there is some and then there is a blur and that blur is the similarity. So what happened when the crime took place? Well, there is always the criminal on the loose and there is always a victim. But then how was this act more grotesque, more gruesome, more ghastly than the other glaring acts of the gut. Haha, it wasn't. It was the same instinct. The instinct that makes us do things for no precise reason. And that is the very reason why we don't trust this instinct.
Reason, as it were, has become the raison d’être of our lives. Everything should be explained, defined and measured. That is why we have so many theories. And that is why I am crystalising this. Blah Blah and Blah. Now getting back to the crime. The girl who was worshiped. Well, she was defied one day. And the followers went on a rampage. But in reality she was never defiled. She told a lie. A lie to her lovers. Well, she has made a dozen of men her lovers. And men, well, I don't think we think from our brains. Ahem, I shall not spell it out.
So the lie was told and the lovers were provoked and the victim was sized by the girl. Yes, she was hot. She was what men call maal. And women call slut. What did he do to draw the girl's wrath. Well, you can't be more rude and disrespectful to an apple, then when you reject it from eating. And so he did. He was not willing to fall for her. He fended of all her advances and all her flirtations were flushed down the drain. And the wrath simmered and simmered forth to lick the man.
And after 12 nights it was all over. During the period the man lost his friends, his job, started having problems in his marriage. And one thing led to another and he was admitted to a psychiatric ward.
As he looks afar in the distance, his eyes glaring at the space, hollowness shining forth his pupils and grey lips stretching from ear to ear illustrate everything.