Tuesday, July 26, 2016


Deliberately she wipes the clothesline,
with a dusting cloth,
to remove the specks of dust that might have gathered
on the thin iron wires
drawn taut and tight between three angeled iron holders.
But sitting in my balcony and leafing through case file,
I sense her anxiety.
Her daughter has been standing at the corner of road,
for over 15 minutes now
and that rickety yellow school bus has not picked her up yet.
The girl's school bag is sagging with the weight of curriculum
and shoulders, perhaps with the weight of expectations.
She sneaks another look at her daughter,
her hands pausing for a moment
and then she returns inside,
probably to attend to her laundry,
only to come back in less than a minute
and peep again.
Her visit this time is synchronized
with a screeching halt of Tata Winger.
Her daughter boards the bus,
just as she hangs the first cloth to dry,
grey skirt from her daughter's school uniform.

Saturday, July 23, 2016


The walls came crumbling
at mere sight of you.
And I stumbled
into that freefall
I had always been scared of.
And now that I have conquered
this fear of falling,
another fear seizes me.
What if we wake up someday,
and you find me undeserving,
unworthy of your love.
What if you don't find
a reason to stay with me, forever.
What if you don't find
a home in my heart.
But then I hear you laugh
at my stories,
an infectious laughter,
irresistible, disarming and totally contagious,
and in that moment,
howsoever fleeting,
all my fears are allayed.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Fear

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

A waking dream

Just before the sky breaks,
in to the riotous shades of blue,
clear and unclouded,
I breathe myself against your chest,
and I can feel that subtle rise and fall of your diaphragm,
too soft to hear, too close to experience.
In those godly hours,
I breathe you like oxygen,
vital and indispensable.
I memorize you like sermons,
every single contour.
And I drink you like ocean,
quenched, yet unsatiated.
And then with daylight,
when I think of you,
I hear you or I feel your presence,
I scribble you frantically, my love.
But I don't dream of you,
for you are a constant companion,
a thought that never goes away.
And I hope you don't trust me when I say,
I don't dream at night,
for my endless dreaming begins with dawning,
when I imagine you stirring lazily on disarrrayed bedclothes.
No, I don't dream of you at all.

What am I to you

A rhythmic silence?
Lullaby singing to sleep?
Wildflower bursting?

Linking with #Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: Sing & Flower