Burnt curry
Misplaced reference
Prolonged smile
Fitful sleep
Incessant reveries
Sporadic tears
Overflowing bucket
Awkward timings
Serendipitous connections

All happened when I was lost in you
You are the reason for everything.

Life’s Landmarks

What are these landmarks to me
The lanes do not connect.
Never did I try to remember the way
The paths do not intersect.

Too narrow n congested
Too dusty n corroded
Too many n crowded

Air folds n thickens
Water gathers n stares

I guess this the reality then
Of ephemeral dreams
Of unrealised themes
Of divergent stories
Of perturbed memories.


No one cared to ask
Not even you
The rest is the rest
It is the easiest to forgive you

For you in my head
A series of contradictions
For you there blossoms
A spectrum of emotions

For love takes prominence the rest is forgotten
And there’s no way out from this world we’ve begotten
A world in your words
A glide in your rhythm
An intensely poignant pause
For an inventive innovative prism

Allusions and allegories galore
All too aware to unlearn
Too well read to be amused
Too experienced to try new
Too familiar to be startled
The world within words
Has it lost the common touch?

Is that smirk smile grimace or grin I see
No longer your muse I, too, should feel free.

Only if it were a happy world..

Habitual of beginning all her write-ups with a conditional clause, almost obsessively every time, Sia sat holding her laptop in her lap (no pun implied),wrote ‘Only if it were a happy world..’ ,almost blank, desperately looking at the ceiling, the occasional glances aimed at the much needed inspiration.

The pattern had become almost a month old now. Why could she not pen down those feelings as effortlessly and instinctively as earlier?

Writer’s block, she wondered.

But wait! Was she even a writer? All those rantings were cries and sighs of a disillusioned and fractured state of mind, conceived almost in a furious typing of words by quivering fingers. She does not even remember them.

And then it dawned on her. She does not remember her own works. Has she abandoned them?

No. The works had abandoned her rather. She cannot abandon them because they never belonged to her in the first place. They belonged to their unique individual moments.

She turned off the laptop, amazed at her absolute inability to write combined with the unique nature of this new crazy thought. Should she pen it down?

She smiled at herself.

Writing would die surely,

Only if it were a happy world.


A debris of emotions
And wreckage of thoughts
A rubble of incidents
And dregs of pasts

Refuse to fragment
Continue to rot
Accumulate to pile on

Forsaken feelings
Deserted dreams
Abandoned ambitions
Disowned destinations


May be

May be I should go back a little, take a few steps back
May be it was better yesterday, yes yesterday it was
I may have crossed a line again, invisible they always are
I may have flipped the pages too quickly, in eagerness or urgency
I may have read the signs wrong, signs they were to me

Where am I now,.. is now known to me?
How had we said it,.. did we intend it to be?
What will become of this,.. would this be eternity?

Redundant poetry

Holding the pen at two in the morning
Thoughts convolute at the fag end of the mind
Dots refuse to join
Fingers quiver in weary exhaustion
Eyes wander in desperate amazement
Blank sheets
Redundant poetry

And the same realization
Given it all
Too early