Friday, December 21, 2007

I simplified...

In the boisterous mirth, I find my smile again
In the screeching halt, I find my flux again
I stare at the sun, into the blinding light
To find the dark spot, where the darkness is bright

In the conversations of the nuns, I find pleasure
In the jungle, the discipline is evident
On the railway track, I stage a rendezvous
I hide the stars, to see the galaxy

In the consequences I find reason
I find a conclusion in the prelude
My words are never mine for I utter none
They look into my eyes and steal the context

In the gale I find the zephyr
I find love on a minefield
Plough it for the buried hatred
I discover the invention, admire the intention

In torture, I find resilience
In inebriety, I find freedom
In poetry I find form
In me, I find the world

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

The fall...

She stands before me, absorbing my sedate achievement
Her feet buried in gravity, eyes inflicted with bereavement
On the edge she stood, desperate to join her departed soul
Would she…wouldn’t she, I wonder how much is her dole

I kick a rock down the abyss, her ears follow the fall
She looks at me; she is serendipity, a windfall
I stand expressionless, incapable to console her, I join her
And we stand overlooking the contemplative hole

A gust of wind hits us from behind; I loose her eyes for once
I ballet on my toes, my hypnosis swivels inside me
She turns around, and takes my hand
I reached out to unravel her hair, to find my eyes in hers

She sinks in me, the profundity amazes me
For her flourish nourishes my discrimination
The fall is evident, for I have fallen for her eyes
The valley below calls, at least we fly for once

Sunday, November 25, 2007


There she is, a red spot on a moor of grey
I see her through the blood stained glass
The city lies in ruins, innocence fails its prey
Stones are hurled; some even kiss the cherubic lass

There he is, a rocket scientist in communist Russia
Never has he smelled the rose, never would he
For a bullet was to pierce his eye, replace it
The romantic moment was to escape him like always

The snow flakes wait; anticipation carries them
Cold feet, hard hearts; they walk towards each other
The trees convoke to whisper a secret
The eyes; they have no sympathy, they blush with admiration

My hands are numb; my soul lacks its opinion
I guess there is nothing to choose among 'them'
A few moments and 'they' fly across the universe, if they dare
My ears ache for the gunshot, eyes envisage the release


What could I pay for your innocence; you repudiate pride
What could I write, you’ll burn my letters
What could I play, you’ve forgotten the hymns
What could I give, you’ve savoured the world

Into the sun I look, I know you look back
I throw pebbles at you; at least I can touch you
Every face talks, as if you speak to me
Every flower blooms as if you reach out

I sing to you, my echo resonates
I scream to you, and you thunder
You allow the rain on me to hide my tears
I have a friend I believe, who doesn’t say much

Every morning, you are my diamond
You are my liaison, my hope at night
You are my cinema, my airplane
You are the window in my prison cell

Tuesday, October 02, 2007


Existentialism and wine do not have much in common except that they complement each other. For both are head turners in their own exquisite ways, both are prized collections of those who harbor them. An existentialist on a dinner table can bestow the finesse and taste of excellent wine, while wine can enamor existentialist sentiment without provocation. Wine and existentialism, though both are exceptional representations of intellectual sensibility of long and distinguished pedigree, it was only in post–World War II France that existentialism transcended philosophical and literary circles to become a full-blown cultural movement appended by the winemaking which burgeoned into an art.

The reason for this phenomenon is not difficult to discern. During the Nazi occupation of France, which was facilitated by the collaboration of many of France’s leading citizens, even the most seemingly innocuous actions could have life-and-death consequences. Under these highly pressurized conditions, France became a kind of social laboratory within which, it seemed, the basic structures underlying human existence—crudely, what Heidegger called “existentials”—were more starkly revealed in everyday life.

The public mood that these conditions fostered, moreover, did not dissipate in the war’s aftermath, but was reinforced by virtue of a painful national self-examination, the use of the atomic bomb, and the burgeoning cold war. Existential themes—even though grasped only intuitively by many who spent a fair bit of their time at the cafe´ talking about “the meaning of life”—were the cultural fare of the day.

It was in this context, appropriately enough, that the term “existentialism” itself was first coined by Jean- Paul Sartre, who was, nevertheless, leery of it. And although, in addition to Sartre, such French thinkers as Gabriel Marcel, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Simone de Beauvoir, and Albert Camus were also deemed existentialists, all of them sought, in varying degrees, to distance themselves from the label. Still, because all of these thinkers were motivated by a concern for the individual’s plight in the modern age, which is the conventional hallmark of the longstanding intellectual sensibility to which the term “existentialism” came to refer, it is not unreasonable to speak of them as existentialists.

And, because the distinctive intellectual commitments that they shared were motivated by the particulars of both the French philosophical tradition and the socio-historical conditions through which they were living, it is not unreasonable to speak of French existentialism as a unique philosophical phenomenon.

A bottle of wine is actually alive. It's constantly evolving and gaining complexity, until it peaks and begins its steady, inevitable decline. And it tastes so fucking good. And all it cares about is people who can afford it. Existentialist to the core, a proponent to the theory – I am, therefore people drink.
While winemaking preserves its reputation as a coveted art and delicate skill, existentialism as a cult has fulfilled impoverished minds and souls. So while the bottle on the table that standeth aloof waiting for deserving hands to caress its cork, the existentialist in his nonchalance smiles as he waits for the desperation to creep in.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Meteor Shower...

It dented my roof, it dented my picture frame
It shone in my eyes, shimmering as it came
Vanguard, they were the brightest, eager to vary
Slowly the lights crashed, shunning off the soiree

I looked out from over the sill, my eyes inebriated in the dark
The rain had never been so bright, night never seen the lark
She touched me on the shoulder, or was it déjà vu
Amidst the eruption, I froze like the morning dew

When the lights came back, my champagne was smoking
The house danced amidst the raze, my girlfriend was choking
I felt distant; resurgent in me is a third person, a piece of mind
The flames buy the alcohol; I keep some for me behind

For she comes knockin’ again, this time with her entourage
It’s impressive, her attempts, the tempts and her beckoning barge
I am kindled, the tattoo shines from the heat; my lips anticipate the dower
Encumbered, I fall dazed, caught in her meteor shower

Monday, September 17, 2007

Shoes i i wish

The rose smells of her, the thorns draw my blood
The rain falls gently, the drizzle smears the mud
I sit by the pond, an odd trout leaps in the air
My fists clinch the earth, her memories are rare

I wait for her to speak, wait for the temper to peak
The fish hook pierces the skin, poignant memories reek
My search for earthworms makes me dig more
My wrist carries tattoos from my misplaced yore

She doesn’t speak to me, her anxiety elusive as the fish
The ripples in the water give me hope, float my wish
I see them become water again, I feel the as if she knows
Then, I feel the wind on my cheeks, feel as if she blows

The line pulls at me; I am tempted to pull too
I hesitate; I twitch, for I might catch another shoe
I recall the moments when we rendered ourselves bare
She always happened to lose the colourful shoes she would wear

Sunday, September 02, 2007


I have spent the last hour listening to Avril Lavigne(yeah i fall into those moods too), wondering about why I don't feel like flying back to Mumbai tomorrow. What makes Delhi such a indulging peccadillo, such as elbow nudging your girlfriends', picking your nose, stepping on every crunchy leaf on the ground.

Besides the obvious nostalgia because of loving parents(I see it as a priveledge), Delhi offers a unique warmth, charm...enamour(yes, this too).

Be it the waitor at a posh restaurant who promises to get you beer in your car for 10 extra bucks, or the bus conductor who excuses you a ticket because he's on his plush looking gold skinned mobile phone, delhi still believes in exchange of smiles.

Midnights are still lonely, and the fine for drunken driving is still rupees 50, all you need to do is say papa is a government officer. Pubs are still flooded with guys, girls rest at home, a lot more of them are taking the metro though, most of them with shades.

I am making metro trips too, damn often, positioning myself(with a lot of attitude, and no shades) such that my nonchalance gets noticed. Though you cannot tell, one approach and you get slapped or kicked(they do you in groups these days)....girl power(nice, where were you all when I was 18).

The malls are exceptionally busy too, baggy clothes hang loose...
Family visits are in...a lot of girls with long oiled hair playing ringa ringa roses...amusing
And they want to know why Bose is so cheap...

The cults still on the roads of vasant vihar, saket, south ex and punjabi bagh. A lot of foreigners, in open
India Habitat center rocks too, so does NSD and ofcourse who can forget Khan chahcha and his mouthwatering kebabs, and Bengali Market...awsum

People are committing too fast....or maybe its friends dont have time for you you ruin there party...gatecrash...delhi rocks


Thursday, August 30, 2007


Through the bloody boulevard she walks, with broken glass under her feet
The smoking weapons watch enraptured, as her naked body sweats with deceit
The children run behind her, her grace ignites in their eyes
Temptation is strong, the guns go wet and dead souls arise

The blackness, breached by the white of her skin
Now holds the candle as she kisses her kin
A tear rolls down her cheek, for they do not smile
Hugged by storm, she exposes her the veiled vile

I can see her offer her breast, enticing the child
Terror, grips me, for I realize we need to abide
The men weak from the blow, loose their heads
She wants them to submit, allow entrance to their beds

I don’t want your bread; I don’t want your breast
I don’t want your love; I don’t want your debt
I would probably fuck you for the sake of ‘glory’
And forget your face, for the sake of history

I see her smiling; she knows we shall give in to her charm
How weak could we be, why do we resort to harm
I stand alone, in a crowd of refugees, resisting empathy
I watch helpless, as they yield to Sympathy

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Declaration of Pregnancy...

She affects a pose; her thin fingers strum a guitar
The music caged in her eyes, flows; two souls stand ajar
Dexterity is evident, both in the hands and the eyes
They know the games they play, wise against the vice

Her legs have a secret admirer, among the lurid glares
The sinking ship carries sinking people, and unlighted flares
Pregnant with hope, the admiring eyes absorb the quandary
He had met love, on a sinking boat, with flares still in the chandlery

The ‘innocent’ men reveled in false delight, the women opened to bitter hands
All he could lose was everything; he dug out his memories from under the sands
She would not look at him, maybe absorbed in her own memories of them
He could let desire sully his will, or he could shine in the mayhem

In the store, the flares were wet, waiting to be discovered
On the deck, misdeeds danced naked in the moonlight, waiting to be covered
Within him, love burned, so did his desires, his skin red from rashes
Within her tranquility reigned, she follows him collecting his ‘ashes’

She is resolute; she would not burn, though she does not shudder
For she carries the reason, his reason, their reason in her
The diamond ring on her navel shines in the light of the fire
She admires the prevarication of the diamond; her ‘Love’ was an equally good liar

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Parallel Stripes

The stripes run parallel, the moustache rides the lip
His hair shine in neon, the eye lashes the whip
The man surveys the atmosphere, absorbing the gaze
The poise yields to a smile, as he graces the haze

Twenty years ago, his soft hands had delighted many
The spirits had run wild, libido alighted in outrageoud felony
The girls lost hope and the icecubes their shape
Back then they could hear virginity plan its escape

Those times still mirrored in his eyes
Images trapped, revels of the past, burnt cries
He would cry fowl, howl in desperate longing
Today he would sacrifice all for a sense of belonging

The photogragh on the wall, it is the only truth he knows
He wipes the Time with his coat sleeve, to revive the Memories he blows
He then remembers the first time they had met
Don't fall in love with me, the only condition she had set

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Cafe' Tart...

Four o’ clock in a jazz bar, the coffee is served
A stiff upper lip; a strand behind the ear is curled
She sits in nonchalance, her legs are crossed
Cigarettes burn the vengeance, the music notes get tossed

The images flash in the corner, volume is turned down
The atmosphere is benumbing, conversations float, sugar cubes drown
Her floral dress delights in the wind it catches from the door
She feels teased, as the lecherous eyes crave for more

The music finally finds a rhythm, discarding the discord
The eastern rider on the wall, unleashes the sword
The sword gleams as her eyes do
They tell stories, both of them, of the people they have cut through

The coffee shivers, cold with disrespect
It accuses me of my infidelity; I realize I am the suspect
For all this while, I have been evaluated, by a furtive heart
Coffee, a sipping game and an unzipping art

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Saturday Night...

Two souls, in a deserted gallery stand admiring the art
Pleats gather on a forehead, appeals a disturbed heart
The eyes on the painting unknowingly stare
As the girl with pleats, renders herself bare

The immaculate beauty induces the lifeless eyes to blink
Her lips douse a cigarette, the Rosy furnishes them pink
The agile hands house a trigger, the belly is tight
The pleats waver in fervent dialogue, the tongues bite

“What are you doing tonight”, calls a voice
Seldom is getting involved a matter of choice
The man speaks, for the paintings plead
He emerges from the shadows, his instincts lead

The man is a contrast, white in black
Confident he walks, there is no turning back
The girl stands motionless, denuded and parched
“Committing suicide”, she replies “not long before I passed”

She blows the smoke at him, clouding his vision
He seems to rejoice, inhaling all with decision
The girl is suddenly is touched with déjà vu
But the notorious mind recalls nothing she knew

For the first time fear strikes her, the air goes still
She lashes on to the man, determined to kill
Her grasp though clutches thin air
He is her savior, life’s not fair

I see love in your eyes he sighs
And Love can’t let you die, if He does he lies
The opportunities will come and go, time right to alight
Stay with me tonight, for tonight is Saturday Night

Monday, June 25, 2007

a horse called love...

A horse gallops across the moor, and a steady gaze ‘rides’ it
The dew hangs from the leaves; stars make a humble exit
The ‘eyes which stare’, are not one but two
Naked and unveiled, they caress, they solicit, they woo

The water – wheel gyrates, the stream maunders a din
The wet hair cuddle together, the moist embraces the skin
Nestled in love, the spirit floats a boat
The boat catches the current, makes the heart dote

Green eyes, they survey the sky, beseech and entreat
A stunt awaits, a story in the making, an unaccomplished feat
The clouds part, the sun ushers in
Explores and discovers - blanched eyes soaked with gin

Those eyes, the blood rises to them, for they are no longer white
They grapple with the ardor, the candles of zeal burn bright
The horse is by now out of sight, it was never about the equine
The eyes, they rise to seek love, these infidel eyes of mine

Now the green eyes revel in secret delight
For the gaze is acknowledged in equivocal fright
Two hearts miss a beat, for they rush to bosom
The ripe melons crack, the buds bloom, the lips blossom

The burgeoning desires clash in the sugarcanes
Enveloped in a sugary bodice, love reigns
With a gentle keenness, and a fervent indiscretion
Two souls blend without admonition

The eyes refuse to budge, for there is nothing else to be seen
She searches for colour, while my world is all green
We hold hands, promise to part never
For the white equine now returns to carry us forever

Sunday, June 03, 2007

when god sinn'd...

the firmament seems to crack, the imperial stars reveal themselves
on the road below , two nuns walk, in the night, besides two ‘elves’
a light shimmers at a distance, the church bells catch the wind
the darkness bears down, the devil smiles, for today ‘god’ sinned

the ladies are silent, they hear the lunatic sing a lullaby
the road meanders through the corpses, the debauched souls cry
the owl sees them bend over the cross, cant in unison
the mist descends, the elves wait, their eyes bear a longing vision

under their feet are no prints, their voices can’t be heard
the eyes, they shine, tell a story, never told, never heard
suddenly the lightening crashes, a baby cries
the trees sashay, the wet leaves fall from the highs

the boy smiles, that smile demands affection
the elves relax, their hands bloody from the vivisection
the lunatic kisses His forehead, he can now renounce his forsaken disguise
for the kingdom cometh, right under devil’s eyes

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

mumbai local...

The observant and the discerning would know when the glass cracks, the fissures beeline through the weakest path. I would argue emotions which inflict our heart follow the same conduct. More so they find the weakest link in our chain of endurance and debilitate our self assurance.

The fortunate ones who have had the opportunity to come in intimate contact with the Mumbai local would deduce with me that besides being physically exhausting, the experience induces emotional objectivity, for there is no weakest link, or even if there is it is so dynamic that to locate it with precision is next to impossible. This might sound like an abstruse theory to placate the intellectually starved, but it isn’t; as almost a million participate in similar ordeals everyday, and they would easily validate my hypothesis.

Imagine yourself still in the uterus, with all your faculties developed to identify and discriminate the planetary odors and gestures. Now distort the setting to share the space with four thousand sweating bastards, each trying to be the first to be alighted. Now understand the connections, the strand which provides the context its emotional brilliance. Every bastard has a family to celebrate his homecoming. The big momma loves all.

With the bodies congealing to form a putrid mass which is expelled at every station, we have on our hands an orgy every time the emotion overflows. However the emotion never follows a definite path as there is only one path and that leads ‘home’, the final link in the chain, independent and infallible.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

discovery in bedlam...

the eyes liaison with the heart, the tambourine follows the beat
the houris perform the samba, the bartenders regale those who meet
i spot a man, who stands alone, a tweed jacket adorns him
the silhouttes rob him from my sight, as the lights fade to dim

the burning towers light up, the piano roars up a carnival
the faces are redolent as if seen everyday, my curiosity stages a rivival
i look through the crowd, sifting through every visage, every vestige
a whimsical desire rages in me, conspiring against my prestige

ensconced in me the spirits take charge, the gopher set to barge
my mind so depraved, but my tongue so chaste, i cache all surge of urge
as a man on business i survey, my faculties fixed on the man
with a sudden turn, a ingenious manoeuvre, i trap him, holler in elan

the beats fall into decadence, the atmosphere descends the slide
denied the orgasm, they now stare, wrath burns them from inside
i hold my pose, bewildered, for i realize i stare at a mirror
i owe one to the ecdysiast, her panache redirects their fervor

they take me for a lunatic, my friend on the stage deserves the attention now
the music rolls back again, the strippers orchestrate a wow
i feel flinched of my pride, feel like counterfeit, like sham
i still like to think, that day i found myself, in the bedlam...

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Dewdrops!! - a tribute..

He came along at ‘sunrise’
Replete with enthusiasm of his own devise.
He did greet with open arms
What pulchritude, what mesmerizing charms.

An attitude so charming so distinct
The spark of energy, the killer instinct.
He would sometimes get lost in his own appeal
Inducing in us a jovial jaunty feel.
However I have a confession to make
His jokes gave me a bit of a headache.

Then came the fall of the 'axe'
Fate’s words penetrated through tons of 'wax'.
A deliberate thought made me realize
I had been fooled into a surprise.

Adi was a revelation
Powerhouse of energy, cynosure of all celebration
Just when I thought the climax had come
The next moment better he would become.

Seldom had I been in such exclusive company
Someone who could emulate Himesh’s symphony
A man with a beautiful heart, radiant face
Who was far and near, generally all around the place.

Those hot debates, those lunch sessions
Those frenetic moments, those lasting impressions
Those songs we sang, those games we played
And times when strings of 'sanity' were frayed.
I carry them all like beads on a string
They’ll inspire me like 'dewdrops' in spring.

Monday, March 26, 2007

B & W

Dressed in jet black I stand, behind a façade of mirrors
My ego bites me, yet I stand, bearing my ‘scissors’.
Dressed in jet black I stand, and blackness stands beside me
It pours down hard, drenching me, dousing me, cleansing me.

I know not I would see her today, I know not the night will pass
My body emits a flagrant odor, my heart yearns to trespass.
I have an urge to cry, to burn every home, to intrude, to pry
She is heartless, does not love…does not lie…does not die…sigh.

I kneel to the ground, smear my forehead with dust
Blind myself to obviate looking at Lust.
She wears white, delineating a perfect contrast
She too stands still, though her ego lists on the mast.

The waters shimmer under the moon, hurricanes as bystanders expect
Time with its copacetic charm is patient, the engine serenades for effect.
The ship is on fire, burning bright, the ‘scared’ run with no land in sight
I kiss her, my grasp is tight, the blackness yields to the white.

Friday, February 09, 2007


Strawberries are raw, vineyards are bare and I’m broke
The wind blows in the sorrows, time apportions my dole.
On the highway the lunatic struggles with his cloak
By the fireplace, my impulse burns with the coal.

My pursuits lie lifeless, I am their assassin
The dregs of whiskey emanate the stench of death.
I have followers - the eyes on the wall, the shadows of my kin
The cat whiskers are taut as the extinction approaches in stealth.

The pages of the diary flutter, my heart follows beat
The bareness is evident, the fecundity turns demure.
My immaculate dreams persuade me, demonstrate fleet
I descend into the realms of the unknown, seduced into immure.

Enveloped in my pride, I lied to me
The fangs of death I could never see
Now I wait, impounded, incarcerated
To be written off , out dated.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

a page from the diary...

I love her. I don’t know how or when did it happen. There are a myriad things i don't know undeserved ego bout...the vapid night out..

I have another confession to make, I don’t like defining things, so don’t expect my writings to have many names. I personally don’t like names. They are so damn mundane, banalities of a well defined world, where everything is tagged, priced and sold. Well for some the date itself is auspicious; I have no particular fascination I must say with any kind of detail or definition.

I love digressions, which I guess is a natural result of the whims of my capricious mind. Love is also a definition, some would argue. Love is a denial of individualism, when else does a man or woman deny their capacity to sustain themselves without each other. I see love in a different light though, for me it captures the essence of what I aspire to be
, I fall in love with what I aspire.

I must tell you something else…I don’t take my love to bed…I essentially sleep alone. Somehow sleep is the only reality I understand…the only reality I can define…I find it synonymous to death…which is certain…inevitable. Should I say I like going to sleep, but not if I haven’t deserved it.

I like getting tired before I retire, it gives me form, fulfillment and a definition I can live with, probably the only one I can live with that I am tired.

I am no achiever and I don’t dream. The fact that you read this is simply because I found writing exhaustive. Getting tired can be challenging…and you know it.

This ain’t my story, for I gave up myself long back.