Performer’s Dilemma

Panicking, nauseating, bewildered,
Caught in a loop of acts,
What should he do, how should he act
What should he perform which would please the rest?


Should he narrate a story?
Or should he create something new?
Will they accept it, as it is?
Or they will need something suiting their views.


Should he tell them, should he unveil?
His beliefs, his wishes, his dreams, his wants,
Or should he make jokes about his seemingly real life,
And stick to their predictable demands?


What if they like the character more than him?
What if his feelings, his plights, his emotions are lost,
And all they can see is
Nasty painted laughter and the fake glee?


What if they fail to see?
What he wants to show them behind the scenes,
And they get blown away by those mere made-up unreal plots,
When hidden beneath them is the actual story yet unseen.


Ever wondered why you like few places?
Which make you visit them again and again,
Let it be harsh summers,
Or windy nights of rains.
Ever wondered why few small things are so precious?
That you look for them every moment,
Whether you will be jolting out in excitement,
Or sitting across the room sobbing in pain.
Ever wondered why you get an instant connection with those people so strange?
That you feel longing for them without even knowing their past, their present, their future,
You create a space for them in your thought space, unknowingly,
And keep nurturing them again and again.
You know, our mind is a closely knit pandemonium,
It often looks for similar structures around, let it be places, things, or people insane,
It tries to put everything in, to fit the world in its well-defined frame.
If it fits, bravo! If it doesn’t, it never exists for you in this running chain.


The Canvas

I am not an artist,
But you know
I love to play with colors,
Draw some random patterns,
Throw them around,
Scatter them a bit.


Make some circles out of it,
Sometimes lines too,
But I don’t know how to make them proper,
I just try to move my thoughts around,
With the colors,
And sometimes sound.


Do you know how there are times,
When things need not to be perfect and so?
They just need to scatter randomly,
And turn themselves on their own.
They just have to be there,
To stand distinctly, all alone.


But you know from some days,
I cannot turn them, the way I like it,
The way I want them to breathe with their soul,
The way I want them to unconsciously strike in,
I tried, a number of times but the thing that is left,
Is nothing but a gray slate, all dirty, all messed.


The colors get mixed and get lost,
I could not differentiate between a red flower and the grass,
It’s just an amalgam of colors in the end,
Which is strange and dull, like rough sand.
Maybe its stale now.
It’s not the fault of colors.


Often you get a wrong slate,
And put efforts to bring out sanity in the end,
But you know what, circles are everywhere.
And closures are just like snares,
Let’s just toss it in the bin this time,
A new canvas is all, that it takes now, to build a new shrine.



I saw a dream again.
I got a big house
Looking through the ocean and the endless sky,
There is sunshine all over.
There is a car which comes to my place,
And I see numerous faces coming out,
To my world, to live with me
In my place which will become a home now.
There are so many people in the car,
Ones whom I met years ago,
And spent cheerful days,
Which were remembered forever.
There are people who graduated with me,
Bearing those years of struggle,
With laughter and giggles,
Scribing the moments of a lifetime.
There are faces which I loved once,
But they are lost as I walked away,
Walked away further in life,
And snubbed the moments we had together.
But now, they are together with me,
In my big home, which has sunshine,
Coming right from all the big glass windows,
Enlightening each doorway and each corner.
We all are now heading towards a garden,
It is not mine but of someone who is familiar,
Sitting there, we are making art,
An art which we have forgotten long before.
Gathering philosophies from the butterflies,
Roaming around in the air filled with the mystic smell,
A smell of forgotten freshness,
We are creating something new, something of our own.
Our ideas are not stale this time,
They are not compressed,
Everything is free,
Our minds, our souls, our bodies.
There is a water stream,
Flowing in the corner,
We are drinking and making art together,
Ecstasy seems to be alive now.
We are making art together on a sunny day,
With sunshine enlightening our heads and the canvas,
And our free-will enlightening our inner self.
Everything is too bright and too good to be true.
The art we ended up is flawless,
Unlike us,
But it’s all too good to be true.
And then I wake up in reality in solitude.


Suppressed Cries

7 am tolls.
Oh, it’s another morning.
Is it?


How will you know?


Brush your teeth,
Gather your covers,
Dress up,
Show a smiling face to the mirror,
See yourself.
Are you conscious?


Welcome to another day.
All laced up,
Following the track,
Without any variation,
Without any change,
Like it was drawn,
Back there in times.


Take a glimpse of your social life,
Meeting persons,


Staring at veils,
Multiple layers.


Share with them your stories,
Are they real?
Is it what it is?


Connecting with screens.
Living with its elements.


Swirl around,
And round.
Among a thousand of people,
Talk work,
Talk money,
Talk love,
Talk lust,
Talk fantasies,
Talk dreams,
Talk gossips,
Talk stories,
Are they real?
Or, is it what it needs to be?


Hearing their stories,
Blurting them yours,
Do you get them?
Do they get you?


Calling it a talk,
Saying it a moment,
Did you ever really go through?


Roam around,
As you state it,


‘At last peace.’
‘Lived the moment.’
‘At cloud nine’
Did you?
Are you?


‘Living your dreams.’
‘Following your passion.’
Aren’t they too heavy for a phrase?
Yes, my grace.


Wandering all day,
Scrolling all night.


Does it ring any bell to you?


Oh, yes,
Another task pending in a while,
Another list to go through riled,
Another state needs to be changed,
Another level needs to be managed.


12 am.
Staring your face on the screen again,
Mirror this time.
Oh, you have got nothing in your eyes,
Neither hay nor straw
But yes, a lot more behind.
A hidden cry.


To the mountains

I want to go back to the mountains,
This city eats me up,
I cannot feel my own soul,
I cannot feel my own breath,
The sounds of chaos turns me deaf,
The winds of commotion take away my soul.


I want to go back to the mountains,
Far away from those people stuck in cyclic tracks,
Towards those souls which soothe me,
Pacify me with their serenity,
With their depths and profoundness
Far away from monotony, boredom, dullness.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To hear my own voice,
Locked in those chambers struggling to set free,
I want to hear it echoing back from the peaks,
Ringing back in my ears,
Making me realize that I am alive


I want to go back to the mountains
To talk to myself,
To tell myself that bounds, pain, expectations
Are mere realities that the whole world is suffering from,
Some things which are meant to be there
To add flavor to the savory termed as life.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To scream out loud,
To tell the world what I hide in my depths
To open up all my secrets,
To tell all my stories,
To the winds, the clouds and the streams.


I want to go back to the mountains,
Because I am spending sleepless nights,
I fall asleep and abruptly wake up to nothingness,
To emptiness filled with insecurities,
Of times that have passed
And the times that are yet to come.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To be a child again,
To wave my legs hanging down from the cliff,
To enjoy and frolic around the clouds,
To face my head towards the winds,
And let my hair flow with them towards infinity.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To listen to the sound of the winds,
And the music that nature crafts for me,
To lie down and watch the sky grow
As dark as ever,
And the fireflies as bright as ever.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To feel the mist over my skin,
To feel the congregation of clouds,
Coming to me, embracing me all over,
Fathoming what’s within me,
And landing me in a place where peace lives.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To encapsulate it all which is visible to the eyes,
Either in my words or in my canvas,
To sing them my symphonies,
Symphonies which includes them.
Symphonies which includes me.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To just be there for years, for centuries, and for ages to come
And never come back,
To be there at those peaks,
To shine with the sun rising high,
To shine with the moon and the stars.


I just want to.



You know when it curbs me?
Of course, I feel it.
I feel it for you too.
You are no exception.
I am either.
I hate you sometimes.
And you know what,
It breeds when you are not around.
I don’t know what made you
Surmount your presence,
There around me,
Most of the times,
When it all started.
Your presence,
It has an unnoticeable existence,
Time and again,
That I cannot feel it differently,
As those movies and those stories extrapolate,
I don’t feel anything different,
It’s all just the same.
But I do feel something.
I feel a chamber around me,
That cuts me from the chaos of my life,
That lands me up in a small space,
Where I can be,
Without considering the rest of the world.
That space which is now an addiction.
And I will blame no one, but you.
I didn’t face the moments of discontent earlier.
Although, I won’t deny any prior encounters,
But this reason is new.
And it took me long to figure out,
One can never have those numbing points,
Discovered all by oneself,
Weakness is a better word,
But you are not my weakness.
You have always existed as my strength,
But, then why is this subsistence,
That is troubling me out.
What is the strange silence,
That covers me up.
Why I land myself in thinking,
What has happened and
What will now?
Why I am gaping and gazing still,
For some moments,
Till someone figures that out.
That sounds weird,
In fact, it is,
The thing is, it took me so long,
To get hold of that weirdness.
Was I the same?
Before few years,
Did I feel the same urge
To be in that small space of yours?
I never knew,
That it ever existed,
Was it better than what it is now?
That dilemma curtails me all the time.
What could have happened
Or how could have been the world now?
Anyway, who am I, when,
Shakespeare himself suffered,
While choosing to be or not to be,
So did the Frost in another way,
Not seeing the other side of the woods,
Where he would have traveled if he had chosen differently.
Well, it could not be changed,
But the matter is all about hatred.
I won’t,
I can’t,
Cut it off, as it is inevitable.
I cannot stop hating you,
For coming and being a part of the journey,
That I was accustomed to traveling alone.
But you know,
I loved you for the same reason.
Ain’t it worse when it works on extremities?
You know me enough,
I have always loved to play in extreme lines.
So, we will now.

Colors of chaos

When she picked a brush to paint,
She has so much on her mind,
But nothing on her brain,
Her hands felt too numb.
Her thoughts couldn’t have raced faster,
Her heart was on the verge,
On the verge, to get withered,
But it held back before it succumbed.
Succumbed to her thoughts,
Cause they were bewildered and confused,
Or to her spirit, which was free, steady
Still waiting for an open path, to get a straight run.
Or to the mighty world,
Which doesn’t allow her to live on her own,
Search her own colors,
And paint in her life, a bright sun.
She has discerned this phase, as it was not new,
She tries to wipe it off,
But the screen is all inked,
With the color that she never knew.
She has never liked the irregularities,
And often she tries to make them perfect,
But this time she is getting no stroke,
No color to complete the painting she never drew.
Oh, never mind!  She has always loved her colors,
They elucidate the meaning behind the things,
Blue sky wrapping up the passion,
Those red petals contouring glee.
Yellow, she has always loved it,
Those bright strips in the boring street,
She often uses those green strokes,
When she wants to get it all alive with that tree.
She has loved those dark shades too,
When she paints those dry branches,
Of the trunk with years long girth,
With its spread loose roots, daunted.
But today, she has lost her sense of colors,
Chaos is not letting her choose one,
She knows what she has in her mind,
But the mere way of articulation is nowhere to find.
She stood in front of her spoiled canvas,
Staring at the weird emptiness as it is akin,
The time ticks an hour,
And she knows, it will take more to think.
It went like two, three and more,
And she kept standing on the balcony,
Her canvas inked,
With the incomplete art undone.
She couldn’t think more,
And there, the winds came blowing in,
It spilled up the sheet further,
Which turned it uglier, more ruined.
With the winds, she felt the urge,
The urge to dip her fingers,
Into the jar of blue,
Which was kept among the tumblers.
She spread it all, each corner, each edge, each line,
From top to bottom,
She took out her wrath in the fixture,
And that was worth the dime.
Her fury, her rage, her resentment,
Which she was bearing with time,
Was all in the sheet that went blue,
As the clock ticked nine.
She knows now what she has to paint,
Her chaos alleviated,
With the unfathomable spirit
The color infused in her brain.
She picked the brush again,
And this time, dipped it in black,
With defiance, she drew those birds,
And a sky which outlives her ephemeral aims.



Those rails,
The small gate,
A swing to fling,
That’s all makes her place,
Her owned cage.
She has got used to it since she was a little birdie,
She has started loving it now,
Spending each passing day,
In a fixed routine.
Getting up,
Fluttering her wings inside the cage,
Eating those seeds and then,
Jumping in those small puddles of water,
Which often got filled in the curves of the base.
She has always been a frolicking soul,
Calmness, and composure,
She doesn’t know how these are defined.
However, she knows how to spell ferocity,
She is never a soul to be chained,
To be bound to a single place.
She has that urge,
Of playing with the far spread clouds.
She has the whim,
Of dangling the twigs
Make her music through those rumbling sounds.
What she wanted is to own is that place in the far off sky,
Above those equally ferocious clouds.
She has always known that she could tame them.
Spending each day inside those limiting bars,
Her curiosity trailed towards the higher slope.
With days passing she used to think of the parallel world,
Where the boundaries cease to exist,
Where your world has no pain but glee.
One day she planned and left for a stroll,
Peeking outside that rails of hers,
She got out somehow and flew.
She flew through the heights,
Exploring paths and trails,
Embellishing it all with her music,
Screaming out,
Screaming loud.
She has never thought she could fly that high,
She could cry too loud with her spirits,
And get so near towards the end of the sky.
She flew over the fields,
She flew over the sea,
She took rest near the creek,
Sometimes near the beach.
She picked food from varied places
And savored the delicacies.
What she loved is the vividness of the cultures around,
The age old beliefs,
The folklores,
And those new sounds.
She met few companions,
Who shared with her their stories,
She wrote that in her memory,
And kept their images imprinted on her temples.
She has always believed that,
People often meet in journey multiple times.
As when they are introduced to you,
It’s the preamble to the story that is yet to be derived.
She knew she has to return to the cage again,
As she could not leave her owners in grief,
But she took it all,
Lived it all,
As a respite in brief.


There is this guy in the crowd,
Whom she meets daily,
He smiles with his crooked teeth,
And stumbles down the alley.


When she stands at the bus stop,
He leans over the supporting crutch,
And somehow manages to catch the bus,
The crowd stares at him as if they bear a grudge.


There is no single day,
When she fails to see him there,
In rains, in summer, in chilly snowy winds,
He struggles to catch the bus, taking him out of his snare.


She is now habitual to his face,
And his unbalanced pace,
She sometimes smiles back at him,
Sometimes, she wears a stern demeanor, unusual to her grace.


She can’t think of a reason,
What makes this man, so punctual, so keen?
To board the bus and reach his destination,
Struggling with his body, so insalubrious and lean.


Then often she switches her mind back,
To the heap of work, to her family, to her life,
She tries to compose her thoughts,
To the journey with hurdles, rife.


This chain of thoughts repeats every day,
There are new stories, new gossips, new tales,
But constant is the crooked smile of the man,
Who boards this bus every day.


Seasons passed by, so do years,
There in the same cogwheel,
She travels, she walks, she lives,
And the pictures roll as if there is some reel.


But, one fine day,
She notices something strange,
The bus-stop scene looks incomplete,
Missing are the crutches and the crooked-smile man.


Days passed by, so do seasons,
Without exchanging any smiles,
She boards the bus then,
Wondering about that man, riled.


One day she gathers her thought,
And asks people about the man,
The man who used to stand with the crutches,
The man who used to struggle to get into the bus lane.


To her surprise,
The people haven’t seen him any day.
Those who accompanied her in the bus for years,
Chuckle, as if she is telling them another tale.


They tell her,
That her tales are so unpredictable,
The characters are unique,
And the sequences are too realistic to be a fable.


The chain of thoughts repeats again,
There are new stories, new gossips, new tales,
The crooked smile of the man is replaced,
Now there is this school girl who accompanies her every day.