Tuesday, October 21, 2014

STIFLED by under currents

A long day at work
finds me a bowl of sevaiyaan
waiting at home with a friend
sharing her warmth of Ramadaan

We exchange smiles and small conversations
in the backdrop of a TV closing up
on spuming swears, stones,
ejaculating blood
             -         of a deeper red
my friend wears a kameez,
 enveloping her skintone and hopes

The golden zari
delicate like the strands of noodles
sugared and soaked in the bowl of milk,
shimmer a tranquility of the evening light
that would soon paint itself
in my diyas for Diwali

I sashay between this moment and
the ones gone by…

                …The cab driver feels his Taqiyah,
answering a call for his well - being
and the curfew

…those roads to Imambara
cloaked with elusive rumours
and hasty tracks

…the forgotten routes
and bangles of Charminar

An existence
on this road feigning normalcy

I empty furrowed brows
into the Muezzin’s call,
into the sacred conch,
into the cupped vacuum of the crescent moon
invoking smiles, conversations
and a hollow resilience

Under currents of religious factionalism never die. Do they?

diya: lamps we light for diwali
Sevaiyaan: Indian noodles roasted, and cooked in milk and sugar
Imambara: A shrine in the city of Lucknow, India built by Shia muslims.
Charminar: one of the oldest minarets in the city of Hyderabad, India.
kameez: Indian wear for women
Taqiyah: Prayer cap worn by Muslims.
zari: threadwork

For dverse Poetics where Mary tends the bar. This was an old piece and thanks to Abhra's twitter feed i got time to polish this. A bit more is required, well, revision is an on-going process. :)

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

DREAM CATCHER (inspired by Brooke Shaden)

(Photo Credit: Brooke Shaden; More of her at

You hand me five balloons
drawn on pink paper of dreams

Your teacher has listed:
of your matchless beauty leaving

for me – ‘THEY’ stare back,

...Mother knows best
weaving butterflies of your choice
flitting along your path of dreams
growing with breaths of spring
as you twinkle laughter in insouciant caress
of petal-like cut from the remnants of that pink paper

I wonder what could define you as unique,
bowing down to ticking pauses of seconds
shameful, unable
to spell the names of your colours – 

Mother knows best...

Don’t ‘THEY’ know?

You are an undisguised blessing – gift
wrapped by an umbilical cord
listening to my unheard footsteps,
while I beat the daily noise and
tie your feet in anklets for and of conveniences
often, shadowing them as call of duty

–What do I write about my harvest moon?

Poetics: Passion of Brooke Shaden

Post midnight here (IST). will catch up soon

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Ganesh Chaturthi

This year

we make idols of clay mud,

sifting little stones

in the mud, I replace

 those pockets with my baggage,

moulding with touch-drops of water

in this dry spell

I let my excesses bind, concrete,

decked up  for a journey, sans foot-

prints, which would see

these idols to the sea,

they would be swept away by frothy gurgles

in this dry spell

the decorations shimmer ….

death rattles

pulling away those dear to me,

I make an umbrella for the idol, now seated

in the puja room

away from this dry spell


Ganesh Chaturthi is celebrated every year in India. Lord Ganesh is one of the prominent deities worshiped in India. He is considered an epitome of success and any new beginning is marked by worshipping him. It is believed that once in a year he comes to visit his people, stays with them for ten days and takes away all their sorrows. After ten days, the idols are immersed in water.












Wednesday, July 23, 2014


If only
I could possess a remote control
to flip through happenstances

as if
my thoughts could direct
the tides retrospectively

What if
I could govern the sands of time
churning for whimsicals

I wonder
if I would be perfidious
to my own being

only to
stifle these moments that count in
grace – every breathing second

ordained to
wait for the pages to unfold themselves
and reveal me in the passing lights of time

For Poetics – Time and Time Again

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


A pollen
seeds scattered thoughts
growing leaf, leaves
sprouting shoots, off-shooting
on a chalkboard
where I carry the wind along
whistling to whispered creations

As if it is for the muse to wonder
about a rainbow
while I ponder how much more
I need to walk this distance
counting molecular dew drops and
their spectrum of perceptions –

A journey

taken on those mackerel clouds
curves, unseen, bears down words
seldom chosen but reared
in a kaleidoscope of reflections

Each time my meanderings
find me a room and dear warmth
to sit, stretch, find my roots in a root offered
to knit syllables of my voice
into verses familiar amongst and
amidst people I know as poets

No longer alone, I continue…

So here comes one more of my irregular knocks raising a toast to poetry and poets. Happy third anniversary, dVerse. 

Saturday, June 28, 2014


In a striped pinafore over a white shirt,
our daughter begins kindergarten
in a new school

She leaves behind the summer
her facets of fear in the swimming pool

With a back pack sporting Pinocchio
the milieu promises through her spectacles

She waves ‘have a nice day’ before
we lose her in a class of similar frames

Soon she would trace footprints
with her feet secured in laced shoes

She would drape her assents and dissents
often more than not
leaving a  s  p  a  c  e 
between us and her…soon

Soon…sooner than not
she will find the spokes
in the wheels of time
the then and now


just the way we did

just the way we do

for OpenLinkNight – June, 2014 – summer is not so quite over but vacation is and dotty is back to school and with her we are back to the schooling ways! and hopefully poetry will trickle back again. Wish you all a happy break and hope to be more in swing for the three year celebs. 

Friday, June 6, 2014

as if there is a full stop to where words take me

swell my contours
amidst conversations draped casual
as I envelope the events emerging
from folds of time into
a minute swinging the present and a past

How I steal
time to confront
when left to count the autumn petals
sowed in black and white snippets

The wind flutters
gathering the ‘news’ for me
while I succumb to dictated ironies
of my four year old’s innocence

Often more than not
I journey with words
and yet
fail to quantify or perhaps, qualify
(as if it can be done so)

How some are left
to drift
with that faraway boat
disappearing into the horizon

If only
I could paint the contrasts
on a window
halved to open and close together
the sunrise and sunset
the unseen void lives accepted
light streams in, nevertheless

MeetingTheBar ~ When words fail

I have drifted, let me confess. Began somewhere, went somewhere and ended somewhere. Too many 'news' in my family. i think it tends to trickle in.