Sunday, November 25, 2018

Rusty threshold

Bag: mostly empty,
a rusty toy-truck in hand.
Old-age home's threshold.

Sunday, October 7, 2018


The buoyant waves,
swirling, twisting,
and swiveling festively,
crash at the shore.
The majestic tides,
those irresistible, raw,
liberating bursts of energy
The shore sand shines,
littered with beautiful
Those empty carcasses
with echoes of ocean
resounding in their depths,
reminiscent of a
life lived beautifully.
Such impermanence,
such transience,
such evanescence.
All temporal affairs
so short-lived.
All joys come to pass.
But in the wake
they leave behind
their indelible mark.
That beautiful ink stain,
bearing exquisite testimony
to the cliché,
not how long you live
but how well you do it.
What worth your life carries?

Photo prompt @ Sandra Crook

Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Friday, October 5, 2018

Poetically yours

She wrote in free verse. 
He suggested a tailed rhyme.
Choral thereafter.

Linking with Haiku Horizons: tail

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Baby steps

Small strides on a rough path
strewn with fireflies.
Small steps that lead
to beautiful roads, over the time.
Small short steps
that brought us this far.
Baby paced, each day, we walk
with a hope
that we will reach the destination,
that alluring terminus
which keeps us awake most nights.
Small baby steps each single day
praying all the while
that we walk in the right direction,
striving to carve our niche,
howsoever small,
in this majestic expanse.
Walking slowly
underneath the umbrellas
of very many blessings
feeling the bliss, living the moment.
lest the harmony is disrupted.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Friday, September 21, 2018


The waves crashing at shores.
The roar of hungry ocean,
consuming the remains of the day greedily.
The ferries anchored,
owners back to their nests.
Just like the sea-gulls
huddling in colonies.
The air-balloon descending,
hysteria lowering each minute.
You pull me close and hug me tight.
The ocean exhales energy.
Cold waves wash everything afresh,
dissolving the litter of yesterday.
Sea-gulls squawk in distance
readying for the flight.
Ferries rock gently,
setting momentum for the day.
A hot air-balloon rises,
hysteria growing each minute.
You hug me tight
as you leave for work.
A buoyant hug.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge : wash

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers - 183rd

Thursday, September 20, 2018


It was early.
Even for day-break.
But since you had to leave
for a business trip,
we woke up way before dawn.
I headed straight to the kitchen.
Luke warm water
with generous dollop of honey.
Your morning ritual.
Springs you right in action.
You skipped the tea today.
With deft hands,
sure and confident,
you readied yourself.
Had a silent scanty breakfast
and left.
I looked around at the empty room,
and breathed your presence.
In the registers you worked late.
In the uncapped pan you wrote with.
In the hand towel carelessly hung at the bed-head.
But mostly in the creases of the bedsheet.
I traced the contours,
the remnants of the night
and I guess I blushed.
Then without setting them straight,
I lied down on the unmade bed
and embraced the wrinkles.
And it was like you never left.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Here and now

Hoarding up,
stacking up the moments
in a cask
sealed with a Harrison nine-lever lock,
safeguarding and saving them
for an opportune moment.
But what if that moment never arrives?
What if all that we are given
is here and now?
When will we open the casket?
Will the treasures inside stay?
Or will they wither and wilt?
The remnants decaying and rotting;
Ruins of the days gone past
mocking us
for the right time.
“Now” is the miracle.
“Now” is the secret.
“Now” is all that you are given.
So why hoard?
Why save for an un-guaranteed “then”?

Thursday, September 6, 2018

Nescafe shaker

Today, my good old
Nescafe shaker died.
It was just 16.
My 16 year old shaker
died today.
From fatal injuries.
A crack at bottom,
and a crack in lid.
Both ill-fated.
Ah! If only,
the concept of bandage
worked for shakers.
May be not all shakers.
But for this one at least.
I would have bandaged
and nursed its wounds.
Antiseptics too
lest some infection developed.
Proteins for recovery.
Just like it made one for me.
Every morning.
I still remember the day
ma gave it to me.
For the sheer versatility it offered.
Sweetened shakes. Spiced buttermilk (Punjabi style). Lemonades.
Young in taste. Motherly in serving.
And I had evolved before it.
It had taught me to swirl.
To that “nescafe shake shake shake,
I wanna make make make”
It had born my change of tastes too. Silently.
Served me sincerely. Till yesterday.
And then it fell.
And breathed its last.
It is survived only by the stirrer attachment.
Rest in peace, my good old friend.
It is from you that I have drawn my strength.
Nutritionally speaking.
P. S. The new shaker does not have that familiar warmth.
Nor that stirrer attachment.
If you understand what I mean.

Monday, September 3, 2018

The flute plays

The flute plays.
The melody strums.
The cosmos resonates.
The ecosystem rejoices.
The vibrations stir.
The souls move.
Even the stones.
Out of sheer love.
The flute plays.
The flautist smiles.
A dazzling, radiant smile.
On a dazzling, radiant face.
Smug. Satisfied.
The pawns are dancing.
His will. His way.
Such is the control of love.
The flute plays.
That holed hollow bamboo.
Blessed by His touch.
And the rhythm sustains the universe.
Fast here. Slow there. High now. Low again.
The flute plays.
My faith stays.
Sincere. Sure. Strong..
The flute plays.
The silence speaks.
Loud and clear.

Saturday, August 25, 2018


From parents’ laps
to holding di’s hand,
and having fun with cousins,
I brought the entire trivia with me.
While you all were busy packing
my “trousseau”,
I was stuffing my heart
with our shenanigans .
And when it was time to say good bye,
I trusted myself totally to
the power and prayers of
the blood bonds, the “rakhi” bonds,
the friendship bonds,
and crossed the threshold.
One lifetime with you all
is so insufficient.
Distant now, ever in my heart,
I miss you all.
I literally order
the gathering clouds
and whispering winds,
to shower my hugs. Daily.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100-WORD-CHALLENGE- FUN

Monday, August 20, 2018

The color of night

What is the color of night?
Black. Obviously.
But isn’t it the red of passion?
Vibrant and exciting.
Or streak of orange,
releasing inhibitions.
exuding happiness, joy.
Perhaps uplifting yellow burst
of youthful energy.
The vulnerable pink?
Tender. Nurturing.
Wait! The loyal blue.
No! Verdant green.
For all one knows, black,
seductive and secretive.
Or may be it isn’t black at all.
Possibly the compassionate indigo.
Or the very sophisticated grey.
Perchance, warm and earthy brown.
May be it is a palette of colors.
A dash of this, a stroke of that.
But what truly is the color of night?

Sunday, August 12, 2018


Shallow, this dance of breath.
This inhalation. This exhalation.
In. Out. In. Out. Repeat.
Same pattern.
Same rise and fall of diaphragm.
Mostly gentle and soft,
fast and hard occasionally.
And then one fine day,
we stop breathing.
And we are no more.
And it’s all over. All done.
Just like that.
Without any warning.
Without any premonitory.
Tasks incomplete.
Appointments due.
Commitments gathering dust,
just like the picture on wall.
But until then,
you are alive.
And all that you get is this breath.
This inhalation. This exhalation.
Shallow! This dance of breath?
Or does every pulsation breathe life?

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge : Dance

Sunday, August 5, 2018


The roof.
Just a ceiling on four walls.
Underneath which we breathe.
We love. We laugh. We cry.
This chirpy living, this zest,
converts the brick and mortar
into a heaven called home.
And it is this
symphony of life,
complete in itself,
that pours like elixir
and rattles like raindrops
on the canopy,
underneath which we breathe.
The roof.
First thing in sight at sunrise,
the last one before we drift away in dreams.
Etched to perfection in heart.
Secure semblance to mind.
A yearning retreat for wandering feet.
This all and much more,
beneath the shelter of roof.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge : roof

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Monsoon cooking

Familiar fragrances
of the traditional monsoon platter
waft in the air.
The rain washes my grown-up heart,
breathing life
in the pores of my skin and soul.
“Do you know how to cook this?”
I nod in negative.
And there begin my lessons:
A dash of this, a pinch of that.
Some grilling. Some flipping.
Some abracadabra mom special magic.
Recipe, perfect in every way.
As I gorge upon the second helping greedily,
I wonder if I can master it. Ever.
I tell her I’ll need more lessons
but first
I rush out to greet
the fresh bout of rain.

Linking with 100 word challenge : Cook : Thin Spiral Notebook

Monday, July 23, 2018

Growing up

He made me see his presentation.
And boy! I was so amazed
with the use of animations and effects.
Some presentation.
One look at him, one at his project.
My eyes watered.
There was time when he used to sit in my lap
and learn paint.
Today I felt I could learn PowerPoint from him.
Earlier in the day too, he had surprised me.
I had asked him for a glass of water.
Not finding any unused glass in rack,
he washed the used ones.
Four of them. One for each person in the room.
One bottle of water.
Balanced the glasses on the bottle strategically.
And smilingly, he served us all.
My heart swelled with pride.
They do grow up fast.
Don’t they?

Tuesday, July 17, 2018


You were born.
And your birth made him so happy
that he cried.
He held you in his hands
with reverence.
And he spent every second
of his short break
looking after you with love.
But you were too small, too infantile,
to register the word father.
Then he left. For his duty.
Service to family over,
it was time to serve the nation.
He had served his family with love.
He served his nation with sacrifice.
When they brought him home,
wrapped in tricolour,
the sad commotion surprised
the wide eyed toddler in you.
When they laid him in lobby,
you crawled up to his motionless body,
gently shaking his shoulder,
as if he would wake up from his eternal slumber.
When they laid him in coffin with state honours,
you patted the wooden box, repeatedly,
to hear the dull thud
your small hands made against rough wood.
Recognition, zero. Outright organic innocence.
That stirred the souls of the entire nation.
You may not recall this when you grow up,
but we do hope that you become his shadow.
Conscientiously dutiful

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Yesterday night, he slept

Late again.
But her colleagues knew the reason.
So they did not seek explanations.
A middle aged woman,
experienced both in life and workplace,
stood at crossroads.
This was the least the office could do.
The patriarch of her family
had been admitted in semi-coma condition last month.
Only last week the doctors had sent them home.
“The hospital has done what it could do”.
It was prayer and serving and support now.
Prayers and life support machine.
His heart beating, eyes blinking
blood flowing in the veins,
if it is called living.
Yesterday we exchanged a word with her.
“We are waiting, someday now he will ask of us,
He will wish for his favourite food,
He will recognize us”.
Yesterday night he slept.
And never woke up.
Today she was on leave.
Will be for a few days.
We observed a two minute silence dutifully
and proceeded with the day.
But my thoughts keep drifting
to that kid in her
who was waiting for her father to get well soon.

Friday, July 13, 2018

The hawker

Between 7:30 to 8:00,
when the dusk blends in night,
I wait for his distinct shrill call,
loud and ringing,
Occasionally, I run out ,
to stop him,
preferably at the turn of the lane,
right beneath the streetlight,
so that I can select the right veggies in emergencies.
I see his hands, rough and soiled,
his old face withered,
his body leaning on his cart,
his legs damaged,
bent by the burdens and travails,
and I suppress a shiver.
As I pay him for my purchase,
I see a faint glint in his eyes.
The exchange over,
He moves away in the dusty dark lane.
As I bolt the gate, I can see his bent silhouette
dragging the cart by his body weight,
his call for vegetables fading.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Haiku: sweet & tart

You are like sweet tarts.
Buttery, crumbly goodness.
Scrumptious. Addictive.

Linking with: RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #190 Tart&Sweet


I think of you
spring fills my heart.
Long drives;
savoring vanilla
in the glorious eventide;
ambling hand in hand on rustling leafage,
oblivious to the surrounding cacophony,
thoroughly consumed in togetherness;
hushed whispers in the
nights slowly growing longer;
susurous rustles of your laughter;
cuddling in homely coziness.
I think of you
and you remind me of
the soothing breezy petrichor,
raw and intoxicating.
I see in you an infinite spring.
And maybe that is what you are made up of.
Spring, in heart and soul and mind.
And maybe that is what you are.
Vernal and verdant.

Linking with 

100 Word Challenge: Spring