Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized


Yellow is my favorite colour.
I can see no more,
but I feel.

I feel it
when I eat ‘dal’ and suck on mangoes.
The taste tells me if it is yellow.
I am a slow eater now,
I try to savour the colours more.

I feel it,
when I sit by the window
and the warm sun washes my face.
I close my closed eyes, absorb the warmth, wondering if it’s more orange today!

I feel it,
in the warm and fresh laundry heap on my bed.
I hug them and bury my head.
I rub my nose on them- wondering what
smells yellow has.

I feel it,
When I touch my old books.
They say- torn and old pages
turn yellow.
I trace my fingers all over-
wondering if yellow feels like
forgotten and dusty.

Was my dog’s collar yellow?
And the kitchen door?
or was it the marble floor?
Who knows?

If I try really hard,
I think I see yellow everywhere.
Yellow little spots dancing in all the black.
They gradually grow,
and engulfs everything.
Maybe the black absorbs all.
Maybe yellow adds to the blackness.

Yellow, now, is a boat
slowly moving away from the shore.
Appearing tinier and tinier
until I remember no more.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized


Why do you pull down that top?
Pull up that skirt?
And suck in your tummy,
when you look at me?
Why do you stand
with disappointment,
hoping to be someone you are not?

Why do you cover your scars
with expensive cream and concealer?
And press your rebellious hair to make it straight?
Why you smile your smile differently,
and wonder which one makes you more pretty?

Why do you
go far,
come closer,
turn back,
turn sideways, and
then turn front again?
Art of pleasing,
is not my forte.

What I show
will always be
a reflection of
how you see you.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

HS Episode #1

The ride from the station

is always a special one.

My memory of the place

leads my emotions home first;

I just follow it.

The ride to the station

is always difficult.

Heart sits back stubbornly,

feet reluctant to leave; already

wanting to come back soon.

The days in between —

pass like winter afternoon;

it had hardly begun

when it’s half gone.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

The other way

I decided to move on with a heavy heart,

for I knew our love was torn apart.

Here lay my heart,

with feelings suppressed;

All the memories we have shared,

have only left me in a mess.

Never knowing if we’d have a chance to get back together,

Just tried to forget what we had with one another.

Pretending that what I felt was through.

I went around telling people I’m over you.

I’m tired of hearing and telling [those] lies,

Because every time I try part of my heart dies.

We both have reasons, both know why

Let’s let things go before I start to cry”.

I wrote this poem on 5th of July, 2012. I had forgotten all about it, until a friend mentioned it to me. I don’t make a copy of things that I write. Sometimes I mail them to friends, and sometimes I just lost them. And years later when I try to recollect the words that I had written, I fail. Nothing comes to my mind. I was looking for this poem for a long time, but couldn’t find it. I am grateful to my friend who searched it and gave it to me. This is not just a long lost peom, it’s a part of me too. A part I no longer am, I longer carry. But, once in a while, it’s good to be reminded who I was, what I felt and what I fought for. Thank you so much.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized


Every year, unfailingly, on 15th of August,
we retell the tales of our freedom struggle.
71 years ago, on this day,
newspapers carried headlines in bold,
_’Independence Dawn’_

_’The battle won’_

_’Sovereign India born’_.

But ask about freedom of religion to the 17 year old, whose life was subjected to his religious preferences. The mob did not even see it as an offence. The 17 year old, who wasn’t even given a chance to say his last goodbye. With whose dead body, the hope of a secular India died.

Ask about freedom of speech, to those whose souls burn with guilt every night, for not fighting against violence and injustices. Who let their voices get suppressed, for they have a family waiting to be fed.

Ask about freedom of profession to the Muslim father who soiled his whole day to feed his child! Only to find in the evening that his home was burnt down alive. Because in front of his residence, a malnourished cow had died.

Who is to guarantee freedom, when our law and order is itself corrupt? When culprits roam around unarrested and victims get ostracized?When justice is delayed and sometimes denied?

They say children are the pillars of our nation. Ask them if they can achieve freedom when they grow up. When they are robbed off their childhood and are deprived of education. When they roam around begging on the street, without even a sandal on their tiny feet.
Even after 71 years, why it is still a distant dream? Why don’t for these issues the so called ‘nationalistic enthusiasts’ scream?

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

On crying

A poem on crying.
Cry like a candle

softly on the ground,

like a mother holding her

firstborn and overwhelmed by its sound.
Cry like a pack of wolfs

crying from afar,

like a kid tending

skinned knee’s scar.
Cry like the silence

preceeding a storm,

like someone for the

first time leaving home.
Cry like the ice-

metling but numb,

like a wife placing

flowers on her husband’s tomb.
Cry like a river

slowly running dry,

like once a heart wrenching

memory is now slipping by.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

If newspaper headlines could speak!

I am just a body

in the crowd.


and hurriedly scanned.

No different

from others,

until you read my content.

You strip me with your

eyes, like million others.

And try to see,

if I am

what you’re looking for. If I am,

what I look on the exterior.
I am, what I am not.

I am neutral.

I am brutal.

I am a truth.

I am a lie.

I am a shout, an outcry.

I am an announcement.

I am an advertisement.

I am an agenda.

I am a propaganda.

I am information.

I am an exaggeration.

I am masses’ emotion.

And sometimes, a catchy caption.
No matter in which form

you find me,

I am not

how I would like to be.

For, burden of validating

other’s account, I can

no longer carry.

I want to break way from

these shakles, and go looking for my own story.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

5 steps to be a human.

An ordinary pencil that we all have held, at least once,
in between our fingers, could give us a teaching of
a lifetime on how to be a human, if only we give it a chance.

Firstly, it teaches us that we can fabricate-
greatness, masterpieces. We can give shape
to ideas that come to our head.
But, we must never forget, that
we all have a guiding hand. To show us
the way, to remove obstacles. To conspire
with the Universe to create miracles.

Secondly, as we embark on our journey
we may get tired, exhausted or lose our shine.
But that’s absolutely fine. For we must sharpen our
self, time and again. Put our endurance to test.
Equally go through happiness, pain and sorrow,
To be a better version of us, tomorrow.



(Image taken from <; Copyright infringement not intended.)

Thirdly, it teaches us humility.
Value our worth. Accept that
we are not always right and may make mistakes.
Allow our wrong doings to get erased.
For our misfortunes, bad experience- never feel sorry.
For we are capable of writing a better story.

Fourthly, that we have different shells.
Black, brown, white or red.
But we all are same, if the clothes and skin- we shed.
Have the same blood, flesh and bones.
So no use working on how we look on the outside,
if inside we have no love, kindness and compassion.

Lastly, no matter how small or big we dream.
How important or unimportant we are.
How significant or insignificant we feel.
We all will leave a mark- with our thoughts, actions and deeds.
Keeping that in mind, we should sow what we want to reap.

(This poem is inspired by ‘The story of a pencil’ by Paulo Coelho, as appears in the book Like the Flowing River.)

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized


You can be who you choose to be.
Depends on how you grew up,
and what kind of society you saw?
You can be a lover,
caring and kind.
Welcomed, praised and embraced
with a heart and open mind.
One that reaches to one’s soul,
makes one happy and washes away
scars and gives a reason to smile.
One that is a friend first, and understand
what are one’s needs.
Whose touch speaks of love,
and overwhelms one’s entire being.
Which starts a fire in someone’s core
and when you leave, one craves for more.

Or you can be an intruder,
uncaring and unkind.
Your touch,
unwanted, feared and abhorred.
Yet relentlessly and with domination, you try.
From you, they run away and look for shelter to hide.
Because of you, they bleed and cry.
You can be an intruder, who just seeks to
satiate lust. One, who just sees a body
and the vulnerability it holds.
Pity! How of love, you have never heard nor told.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

For the twelve year old me

You no longer enjoy playing in the Sun,

nor I see you shout, cycle or run.
Basketball, volley ball-
doesn’t interest you anymore.
You just seem to be searching for
a new sky to soar.
Dear twelve year old me,
you’re going through a change, I could see.
I saw you sitting quietly
at the corner of the living room, today.
Your curly haired head buried
in the book that you had on your lap.
You were oblivious to the sounds
coming from the TV, and of mom’s
continuous call.
As if, everything in the world had come to a stall.
I saw you happy that Sunday,
when it was raining profusely.
And mom said,
“You must not go out to play.”
And, you curled up in the bed
with a book in your hand, instead.
Many a times, your eyes lit up,
and you laughed out too.
What you’re reading and
which words made you laugh, who knew?
Your excitement was visible,
when dad took you to the book fair.
I saw you, slowly scanning
every shelf of every store.
Until you found what you’re looking for!
Your annoyance was visible,
when dad asked you to buy a science book.
And you tired to explain, how only to
fiction and poetry- you get hooked.
Later, you’re smiling ear to ear
holding your new possession.
(And in few years, you’d proudly
show them as your collection.)
You read when there is
no one around.
You read to settle your
inner chaos and sound.
Books acted as a window
to a different world.
Slowly but surely, your
view and thoughts- unfurled.
I saw you falling in love
with words, stories and fictional character.
How in one moment you cry
and in another, go into a feat of laughter!
Dear twelve year old me,
it gives me immense pleasure to see,
that you’ve discovered in such a tender age
that literature and words,
will help us break the cage.
And do you know,
what gives me utmost delight?
When I see you lovingly tucking a book
under the pillow every night.
Dear twelve year old me,
I totally love the bookworm,
you’d grow up to be.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

What this picture say?

Prayer flags at George Everest point, Mussoorie.

This picture will not tell,
how pretty pictures of this place
on those fancy travel websites, lured me.
And I set on to explore it, with much glee.
This picture will not tell,
the stories of those mighty ranges,
from whose foothill I started.
Nor about those beautiful winding road,
covering the Himalayas
like a serpent holding its prey,
that faithfully showed us the way.

This picture will not tell,
how many times I wished
there was someone beside me
in the backseat of the cab,
to whom I would’ve pointed out
the deepest shades of blue in the sky,
or the breathtaking view of the
Doon valley below, as we passed by.
and how I longed for someone
to fall onto, laughing and shrieking,
in each sharp turn.
This picture will not tell,
how the driver almost took a wrong turn
on the way, and we had to stop
in a picturesque but deserted hill top.
And I got out of the cab, and clicked pictures
of the surreal surrounding I was in,
to show it to my friends later, where I’d been.
And about all the climbing I did,
cautiously keeping my foot,
overcoming fear with every step that I took.
And how many times I stopped,
to catch my breath, bent
down with hands on my waist,

But I hope it tells you,
how ecstatic I was, when I finally reached
to be alive, to be standing there
with the wind on my face.
How significant and insignificant
I felt all at once, just to behold
the mountains, about which stories
must have been told and retold.
How my heart fluttered,
like these prayer flags
dancing in the breeze,
and I wondered, where they will fly to,
which path they will choose,
if they ever happen to break loose?

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Nimi’s birthday

I can’t tell you for sure
for how long I’ve known her,
and since when we’re friends.
What I can tell you is,
what this friendship means to me,
and how beautiful a soul is she!
My constant,
store-house of all my secrets, and
roll-on-the-floor-and-laugh partner.
She joins me, unfailingly,
in all the illogical things I do.
And, later on helps me to reason with it too.
She laughs at my bad dating history,
and I at her.
We think and sigh together
and think, how we could’ve done it better.
She fills my otherwise ‘monotonous’ life,
with her melodramas. And every time,
I think I am done listening to her.
She indulges in something funnier.
(But, I just hope she stops
sending me that ‘if friendship lasted 7 years,
it will last forever’


Today is her birthday
and, I just want to say-
I will be there, to help you
enjoy and tackle every craziness
that comes your way.

A very happy birthday!

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Time and again

The first time I fell in love, I fell
because he was tall, fair and handsome.
And wore good perfume.
He wrote to me
my first romantic letter
saying, “Without you, I feel like
what Alexander the great
might have felt while crossing
the Gedrosian desert”.
And reading it, I almost heard
my ‘fluttering’ heart.
And when over coffee,
he introduced me
to Bryan Adams and
Erich Segal.
My mind acted all nonsensical.

The second time I fell in love,
I was sixteen.
When on a sunny afternoon,
He looked into my eyes and
said he loves me,
I thought that’s what ‘true love’ means.

For third time, I totally blame Sparks.
For, by this time (thanks to his work),
I had already became the
‘hopeless romantic’ kind.
I walked hand-in-hand
On the edge of the sea;
and smiled at every flattery.

Fourth time,
I was trying not to.
Yet, it came in the most
unexpected way.
And swept me off my feet
And made me sway.

I fell in love again. This time
Joyful and simple, it seemed.
For, in his eyes I saw
How I mean the world to him.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Meant to fly

Enlightening the mind without

enlightening the heart, serves no purpose at all.

What good is the will,

which afraid to stand

after experiencing a fall?

Defeat, failures are only events,

which shall definitely pass.

Do not let it define you,

and do not fuss.

Keep your spirit up,

stand tall and hold your head high;

because we’are meant to fly.

Posted in Poetry

My heart aches to see

My heart aches to see
People questioning humanity
How to define it clearly,
It is you and it is me.
Stop once and contemplate
How God decides our fate
Today it is them, tomorrow might be you
So, what is torn let us sew.
Come forward and take a step
For those who are crying for help
Have the heart that initiate
Instead of blaming and cursing the fate!
My heart aches to see
People questioning humanity
How to define it unfailingly?
It is them and it is thee.
In times of human misery
If you are soaked in luxury
Seeing the death and destruction
If your heart is devoid of emotion.
Even at times of such calamity
If nothing ignited your humanity.
I feel sorry for you my friend
That you don’t have a helping hand.

25th of April, 2015 is an unforgettable date for many. A massive earthquake disrupted life in Nepal and destroyed a million homes. It’s listed as one of a the 10 most deadliest earthquake that shook the earth. I had a friend in my class, who was from Nepal. I remember how miserable she was the next day in college. She was sad at the news of the calamity. We all were. For the first time in life, I saw someone in the pain of seeing one’s hometown in rubble.

Sitting on the staircase just outside our classroom, we brainstormed ways to help Nepal and the people who were deeply affected. Amidst the discussions, one of my classmate asked, “Why should we help? Let the government do their job. We have our exams to study for.” I was shocked to hear this question. I opened my mouth to give him a fitting reply, but no words came out. It haunted me for days.

Finally, I wrote this poem as an answer. I wrote it in the metro on my way to the Nepal Embassy, where me and many of my friends volunteered for the cause.