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.


The Streets

The streets in which I travel these days,
Have rushing bodies on either side,
I see faces, I see limbs, all the same,
But I don’t see any human soul,
Which is walking without an aim.
I remember us, doing that often,
Walking in random lanes,
Picking up those abrupt games,
Chasing the squirrels and those birds,
Trying to recite sign boards, their strange names.
I remember us, walking so far,
Away from the mainland, for several hours,
Were we ever tired? I wasn’t, were you?
We rarely settled down for those flashy lights,
While aiming for the sand, the ocean, and the reflecting hue.
I remember us, talking so loud,
Was it because of the plugged earphones?
Or was it the ecstasy pouring out?
Screaming when the refrain comes,
Getting lost in the verse wherein daunts the doubt.
I remember us, leaning against the lamp post,
Watching the sporadic lights over signals,
Wishing that the count never ends,
Resting upon each other, we used to whisper,
Will the time stand still in our frames?
I remember us, sitting on the grass,
Talking about stars and their weird names,
Connecting those constellations, pointing out to infinity,
And making a few of our own,
Telling ourselves made up lies, proving it with sanguinity.
I remember it all while pacing through these paths,
Which now seems the way as they see it,
Spontaneity is not my forte these days,
Maybe, I have embraced a cycle, a pattern like them.
But certainly, I doubt its continuity. It won’t stay!



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.

Fire and randomness

Dark clouds all over the city today.
Gloomy weather,
It’s so perfect for her,
She chooses the particular club for the day,
On the top of the hill.
She likes the interior and the sitting,
The walls, all painted in black,
The scrappy plaster coming out of the edges,
Of the bricks that were laid so imperfectly, unfitting.
Yes, she has always liked the imperfections,
The unfinished furniture,
The rugged covers of the couches,
The broken lining of the coffee mug,
The torn corner of the menu board,
The slanted lines of the windows and the doors,
The wrongly placed carpet on the floor,
The patterned, torn shirt of the bartender with his blue hair.
Everything is so her, brimming with randomness.
She sometimes thinks,
The only contribution to the world,
She has made yet, is increasing its entropy,
Which she did out of her whimsical actions and ways.
Nobody will know, as she will never say,
She will never reveal her hidden secrets,
Her thoughts, her props, her figures of the game,
She has always followed her own path,
The path that follows through the dungeons,
Through the mystic lanes.
She takes the same place in the balcony,
Where she get to have the clouds around,
All dressed up in black,
She takes out the pack,
And lights the flame.
She has to manage with this petty matchbox today,
As she has lost her lighter,
She grabbed it up from the streets,
Where she walked earlier to get here.
She stills thinks why are they petrified,
When she walked down the lane,
Is it about the dark covering which she wore?
Or the layers of arts on her skin,
Or about her eyes,
Which encloses a void,
Searching for its own depths.
She puts this thought away,
Lighting up a new flame,
She flicks the stick away,
She finds some strange pleasure in that,
Lighting up the matches and riffling them away.
She feels as she is the one,
Who has the power, the control,
She can burn it all
Or stall it half way,
Picking another one, again and again,
Lighting and riffling.
Some matches go far, some lands up nearby.
Fire is her element.
She has always believed,
Randomness and fire,
Isn’t that a brilliant combination to have?
She smirks as she thinks.
The burning stick has the fire for a fraction of second,
But it burns it all away,
When she flips it through her fingers,
Sometimes it blows off,
Sometimes the stick flails.
Sometimes it lands unburnt,
Sometimes turns to black trails.
Fire and randomness again.
She completes a pack,
She can now feed on the smoke around her,
The smoke she has liberated,
With some remains,
Which the weather has added in rage.
She watches her wrist,
It’s time for the game.
The clouds have cleared her view,
The thunders and lightening,
She can hear them fading far,
Fire and randomness.
She mumbles.
In fraction of seconds,
It’s done,
Just like the riffling of the lit stick,
She smiles now,
As what she sees around are all fiery rumbles.
Fire and randomness.
She has done it all again.


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.



A new year comes with different meanings for everyone, here is one.

Tonight I am not gonna leave you,
Not even for those fraction of seconds,
When you blink your eyes,
When you adjust your pair of glasses,
When you take rhythmic deep breaths,
When you curl your hair with your fingers,
No, you won’t get even that fraction of your time,
Not tonight.
It’s a special one for you and me,
Not because they celebrate the arriving year,
With those fireworks and gatherings
But because our years of togetherness starts today.


You were always caught in decisions.
And persistent urge,
After all those couple of years,
Finally we are here,
I can hold you in my arms,
Leaving behind those moments of hesitation and denial,
I can run finger through your hair,
I can play with them,
I can fondle you,
I can hold you tight,
I can stare at you for long,
I can hear your heart beating so close
I can see the glistening eyes of yours reflecting mine,
I can tickle you and hear your laugh.


Oh, how long I have waited for this day,
Will you understand,
The pain and sufferings,
I’ve gone through in past couple of years,
It’s like I was living apart,
From a detached part of my body,
Of my soul,
Waiting for it to complete my living.


There was not a single moment,
When I didn’t think about you,
Each single day I urged to see your face,
I wondered if you were alright,
Because I have always feared the world,
The world that detached us
The world that snatched you from me,
I had cried then,
I soaked in vain,
What else I could have done,
I was so helpless,
So bound,
I couldn’t gather my courage then,
I was broken by the unrighteous blames,
They put on me,
I was turned to pieces,
The mere thought of detaching with you,
That came so harsh.


But I build my strength,
On the pillars of my immense love for you,
I honed my fierceness,
Because when you are up for the battle,
With the heartless world,
You have to pierce them hard to win,
And I won.


I won because the love always transcends the barrier,
No matter how large and stiff they form it.
And there we are tonight,
Below the shining sky,
You’ve always loved the stars,
But for me you stand above all,
You are the shining star of my life,
Which has always guided my way,
You are my source of happiness,
The spirit of my life.


I have always wanted to see you growing,
Learning those minute modalities of life,
But I won’t regret the past now,
As I have the present with me,
Tonight we will celebrate our togetherness,
To cover up past nine years that I have missed being a part of,
I don’t blame the court but the people who did it,
But then my love,
My beautiful princess,
We are together tonight,
And for the rest of the life.


I have you.
The best thing in my world.
To mark
The end of my sorrows,
The beginning of my dreams,
That I have dreamt of, all those nights.
Tonight, I will tell you the story of your mother.
As whom I have transcended in my life,
Oh, my little fairy,
I will tell you the story of vigor,
I will tell you the story of rage,
So that you may light the flame tonight,
Inside your soul,
That never ceases its flare.



“Take me away from here,
I don’t want to live in this nasty place anymore,”
She said to her sister,
But, she continued to cover her up with the quilt,
Both felt the chills,
The running air conditioners,
Or the disaster that numbed their nerves.
She asked the ward boy to increase the temperature,
Intensive Care Unit,
Waved the board outside.


She wished if she could grant her wish,
As she always did,
But how could she.
How could she make her disappear,
From this world ,
Where she herself is stuck for years?


She wondered if she could have an escape,


An escape to the world where still humanity exists,
An escape to the world where they can walk and laugh freely on the streets,
An escape to the world where no one bothers how they dressed, how they acted,
An escape to the world where they are not judged by the freedom of their thoughts against the unjust,
An escape to the world where they do not suffer the critical remarks on their blunt character,
An escape to the world where no one crumbles their dreams with the stiff hammer of realities,
An escape to the world where their bodies are treated with sanctity,
An escape to the world where they are not possessions to crave for,
An escape to the world where they are not mere objects for fulfilling their lust and desires,
An escape to the world where they are not intimidated by the devilish eyes of those hunters,
An escape to the world where their souls are still free and unhampered,
An escape to the world where everyone makes stand towards the injustice,
An escape to the world where they are not questioned for undone misdeeds,
An escape to the world where they are supported in the fight against the people who gave them scars,
An escape to the world where their excruciating pain is felt, with which they suffer, each passing hour,
An escape to the world where they are not harassed,
An escape to the world where they are not raped.


She wished, if she could have the one.


Covering her up,
She closed her eyes,
Her palms were cold.
Holding them tight,
She whispered,
“Sleep, my love.
We are not cowards,
We will not run,
We will fight.”