Tuesday, 29 January 2013

The Sailor

If I was a sailor on the
Ocean of your skin
I’d be thrilled to be capsized
In your tides
To rise and fall with
Your thunder and love
Lost in the music of your storm
Wet with the tongue of the sea
Charting my own course to rest on
Unsure, but steady
Trusting the stars in your eyes
Turning and playing with your waves
And while you wash me with foam
I wish I’d drown.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013


Sometimes you just want hate to consume you. So much so, you wait for someone to wrong you. Pure white like fresh milk, that’s no way to describe hate, but it washes over you, until you and its shade are one.

Beyond the Line

White and grey, outside a blue facade
Of steel and concrete
A flurry of pigeons in the sun
Windows open like a gaping mouth
Or a million veiled eyes
Lost in the crowd.

Monday, 21 January 2013

Woman in the Waves

The face that soars above mine
With eyes brown as the earth beneath my feet
Is the one I whisper to
And hold.

Your lips, as wet as a sea shore
Moist from a resting tongue
That lashes like a wave
Awakens from slumber of the night

Uttering bitter truths
Parting ways and coming together
Like my answers,
Your tides come and leave.

Your hands enclosed in mine like a summer web
Must surely brave the weather
When the sun keeps its promise, and hides
When fine yarns come undone
And the sky is most vile.

Shivering in the cold shade
As the water rises, she whispers,
‘Meet me halfway’
And I pick up my roots
And walk.


I look at the ground more often than I used to. Looking up is not what it used to be when the sky looks the same everyday. Those who usually complain that people's faces look the same should look down more often, because their shoes certainly don't.

Tired Ocean

No ocean at her feet
Or waves that caress
Just birds from her eyes
That seek greener lands
Where roots and branches
Gently collide.

The purr of a cat
The roar of a lion
Swords of morning are drawn
In the shade of tomorrows
With nimble words that fade
Like whispers under a quilt.

Hesitant but sure of tomorrows,
Deaf to all but blind to some,
Lost in her music,
I begin to sing.

Friday, 18 January 2013


And then happiness rises to the fore, like flowers in a field after the rains have fallen. Sometimes, the yield is good when every inch of you has been invested in the crop. Then there are no regrets, just memories that make you who you are. And then, hopefully, you can reap what you sow, with a smile on your face.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013


Spiders or locusts or unknown beasts,
These frozen tears from the sky
Come down with a million names,
Scattered wisps of winter rain,
In a quiet part of town,
Where one hand reaches out,
For a gift of snow.

*Photo clicked by Udita Banerjee in Prestonfield, Edinburgh, Scotland, UK

Monday, 14 January 2013

Life of i

I never put the things i consider 'work' here, but this was something hopeful that i wrote after ages, and i guess there's nothing wrong with spreading a little hope as the new year begins...

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticise
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.

So sang Bob Dylan in his 1964 hit song, The Times They Are a-Changin’. It is strange how, after all these years, the lyrics still reverberate through time. If one is to place these words in the context of India, the world’s largest democracy having the largest group of youngest people, it rings truer than any other nation. As the fear and hoopla around the Mayan prophesy passes, the old order gives way to a new age and one thing becomes clear — the future belongs to the youth. Information technology breakthroughs, innovative entrepreneurship, incubating startups — aren’t just accomplishments of the old and wise, the young guns of our country now continue to persevere in such fields. The internet, a phenomena mirroring the various possibilities of the future, has helped the GenNext erase boundaries of religion, caste, creed and colour and connect like never before. Painters, poets, new age artists playing around with digital codes and algorithms, continue to pour out their ideas, their thoughts — their very souls — on the worldwide web. Thanks to the same, people have come together, no matter how burdened the times may be. The conscience of the youth has awakened a fervent spirit in India and the youngsters know staying silent would be cowardice, so they are making their voices heard. Not surrendering to the rigid, iron will of those who don’t want to change, the youngsters have ensured the future shall not be quiet — it will comprise of voices speaking as one. Man may have affirmed his carbon footprint on the planet thousands of years ago, but now our digital footprints fill the landscape of our lives like a river making its way through time. There is, undoubtedly, a humbling feeling as we traverse through time, one where we tend to feel small and sometimes, a little uncertain. Letting go of anchors is never easy, as one is left to paddle aimless, but we have learnt to find our own way. The waves never rest and our little vessel traverses through troubled waters — a little shaken and stirred, learning important lessons, growing stronger and more aware of the tides and giving back what it can on the way. But never before have we felt so alive, never have we had such an ability to break old shackles and shape our lives to make them the one we always wanted to have. We have conquered unimaginable grief and now its time to break the mould and carve all the knowledge we have gained in the contour of tomorrows. And as our humanity strives forward, looking beyond the horizon, knowing it’s always dark before the coming of dawn, there are a few lines we can go forth with:

Flower wither not
Brave the flames of the sun
Take the spears of the rain
Spread your roots and shine.

Sunday, 13 January 2013

The Debt

What debt must we repay with our own flesh

To you, who lurks in the shadows?

What do we owe to you?

My maker, my seeker

At last, my destroyer.

What garb must I adorn that you,

Cannot tear away?

Now that I’m naked within

your eyes?

Shall I melt my vengeance and make it rain

On this parched land of mine?

Where wishing wells of mothers have dried

And fathers bereft of wishes would rather,

Turn the other way?

Should I crush my retribution and

Plant it in a pot?

Watch it grow day by day

Watch its tendrils choke my throat, like sinister vines

Or have its roots feed me

And its shade enclose me

Till I forget myself,

And drown.

Know that I will repay this bruise

And the flesh you crave.

Shall I beat down my retaliation?

And throw it in a pot

Cook it for my unborn child

All the while,

Thousand eyes watching

And a thousand faces spew out

Their whispers of poison.

But no, I shall shape my revenge

Like the sickle your fathers

Used to wield.

Sharpen the blade with words,

Timid things on my tongue

Nurse my wounds,

Watch this body sow what

you decided

To reap violently,

Till it grows strong

With my iron will

Shackled no more,

Within this parched land of mine,

Where, one day, the clocks will stop keeping time,

Someday the reasons will realign

One day, you shall face what you design.

Monday, 7 January 2013

Arms of You

What, I ask, comes after the flood?
Do we drift, or do we drown?

As ripples become waves, and
Threads become ropes
And we find ourselves ashore
Where we never were
Let me keep your silence
And you can keep my words
I've far too many beyond repair.

And I will watch the sun
Of your eyes changing colour
Brown at dusk, black at night
Rest against its white
Till I drown, in the ocean of hair

Where I sang in the cold
And the fog were my words
The night was blind to all
And the lights were dead

It was there, I found a safe place
In the arms of you.