Swirling, melodious, wanton colours. Primary. They would now fill her room like opaque light. And an ancient smile that had been buried with an epitaph, would resurrect. Like wrinkled skin on grandmother’s loving hands and yellowed pages from a living book of poems. Like tears bitten back in haste. His memory would rise in her room. It would float by like invisible faith. Mingle with the dust and settle on some sleepy angel’s wing. He would then begin a conversation in a familiar voice. Bees buzz. Embarrassed flowers blush in an effort to hide their hues. An old graveyard overgrown with foliage. Livid. Pallid. Cassette tapes with love songs that crackle and wheeze. A dry cough. Pitter patter. He would go on. His smile consistent. She oblivious. It’s a song that’s playing in her forced thoughts trying to retrieve him from the abyss of her neverendingly cluttered memories. She irons out a crease here in her heart and smoothes out a crumpled thought lovingly. Little pieces of his memory hitherto thrown away carelessly. There is a famine now. She picks them fluttering bits. Faulty paper planes he threw in the bin. Like her.Some fly helter skelter and whirl like dustbunnies. She grabs them with practised hands. Stitches them up. A motley patchwork. Laughable and bizarre. Exotic. Haute. Hers. All hers. His smile twists into a meaningless curve. Precise. Lovable on his lips nevertheless. He climbs out the window and thinks he disappears into the night. But she has him captured. In the mirror of her soul. It’s her ancient love. She makes a pot of tea and sits his memories down. For another warm, cozy night filled with his many fragrances.

Strange Dream

You send me a card. It’s made of old discolored paper that has dry flowers and leaves stuck all over it like a criss-crossing cage of forbidden dreams. And then insects begin to crawl out of it. I scream and throw the card away as a rare brown grasshopper, a golden scarab beetle, and another strange beautiful insect come out. Then a black and red insect flies up like a magical helicopter. I hope it would hit the fan and die .. by now I hate you for sending me these little monstrosities when you know fully well that I’m frightened to death about them. And then I begin to love those very insects.. after all they are a gift from you. They must mean a lot to you.. yet you shared them with me. I ask my husband to collect them and put them in a box. He does it real quick because the insects are crawling into some hiding spaces. And then I find a gift package with the card. A satin collar in pastel pink, shaped like a huge delicate rose. A cuff in a similar fashion. As I wear these, they morph into a red and purple dress with a hat. I look stunning in it. I curse myself for suspecting your love but my husband is not very pleased about this whole turn of events. I pleadingly look to him for approval and the dream ends.

Eye of the Storm

After a hiatus of over 4 months I have returned. As a different person. This blog reminds me of the Bohemian past that I had once inhabited. Insanity, impulsiveness, rebellion and restlessness. That was me.

Now I have calmed down a great deal. Silenced all my histrionic narcissism and the need for drama. The inferno has been quelled and my mind is now a gentle oven for incubation of thoughts and secrets.

I have found a special world in secrets. In quietness. In control.

On the 8th of May I got married to a very lovable and gentle human being. Now I have found more time for life and less time for rants and raves.

The poetry that frothed and foamed like a wave is now contained like a mirror. And in its reflection I see tranquility and purpose. I am not a driftwood any more. A wandering soul picked me up from the shores of forgetfulness and gave me a name and a concept to personify.

Knowledge does not pain me. Predictability does not bore me. I have discovered that I too am living the human destiny of innocence, rebellion and eventual acceptance. Life is a beautiful religion.



How many times will I fall and how many more times will I rise.

People have been watching all my one-act plays. They wonder what color this creature would assume next and what metamorphosis this mutant would undergo next.

I thought compromise was a challenge but now I know I don’t care for that kind of a challenge.

I am not going to settle for anything less than the best that I knew and loved.

I know why I stop myself just before the last step.. it’s the fear of losing him. The day he leaves me for another would probably be the day I die.

I remember you said I will always have a corner in your heart… it means the world to me and I will live in that world.

Despite my many moulds and many seasons, he is the only thing that has kept me going. I have tried to make my mind believe that I have gotten over him… maybe I have gotten over his absence..

Why do I wake up in the morning and feel like nobody else can take your place in my life? Why does physicality seem irrelevant when I think of you… even your absence does not hurt any more…and I feel like I can live the rest of my life with the images inside my head.

Why do I go back to you when oppressed by superficiality?

What is it between you and me? Why do you haunt me?

Why does it pain so much…. and why do I try so hard to replace you with obnoxious others? I know I’m fighting a losing battle… you will win eventually…

The Death of Another Piano

They moved in with their equipment and dismantled the piano with perfect dexterity. Each piece was wrapped in crisp brown paper and duct taped. They were exporting the music to another land. To another hand.

Eventually, the pieces of the piano landed in a museum of sorts and all the pieces were assembled with great care.  A small placard announced that it had belonged to the greatest composer of all times Friedrich Hampton. A spotlight shone upon its ornamental carvings announcing its material value. Elite folk wandered in and out of the room. Some of them took pictures of the flawless piano and its grandeur after obtaining permission from the museum curator.

A glass case was constructed around the piano. A persian rug was spread beneath its legs. The whole room was exterminated to prevent termites from creeping into the piano’s wood. Janitors were placed at the entrance to guard the piano all through the day. A close-circuit camera watched the piano at all hours to ensure its safety. The glass case was dusted three times a day. Once a week the glass case was carefully opened and the piano was wiped thoroughly to retain its sheen.

Nobody spoke loud when they entered this room out of solemn respect for the great piano. They gasped and gently murmured to each other about the composer who had died recently and left the piano to be preserved by the museum in his hometown.

The piano stood there for several decades. Students did school projects on the piano. Musicians and scholars walked around it to weigh the kind of music it could produce. Artists and writers were disturbed by the mere story that surrounded the piano’s past. The nouveau riche approached the museum to enquire about its price.

Early one morning, a slight seismic disturbance was observed in the area. Subsequently, an earthquake rocked the whole place and brought down all the buildings. The glass case shattered into a hundred pieces and large chunks of debris fell upon the piano.

Rescue workers toiled day and night to trace corpses and save people who were stuck under huge piles of rubble. Bulldozers were brought in order to help clear out the land. The museum area was inaccessible to people. The government tried to salvage bits and pieces of all that remained of the museum’s exhibits of the glorious past. The piano had been completely wrecked. It was a great loss. It had invited a great deal of tourism into the town.

The last moments of the piano:

The townsfolk had made a zombie out of its soul and a whore out of its body. Everybody thought that the piano stopped existing when it was physically shattered but they had killed it decades ago. It had generously allowed the earth to consume its frame and the rubble to devastate its components. Nobody could have had a happier burial.

This is how I was killed .


I hide shocking pink under grays
Muting wails and strumming metal, I wear silence
Bustling shoals of fish under the still deep blue
Bursting hail sleeping in calm cold clouds
Eye of a storm
Unwritten story
Sky-bound I fail
Shackled by Promethean snakes
Undead I lie still
Quiet and unmoving
Under a bleached smile shroud
And coffins of unpronounced death.

Note: My sad poems have started again.