Reading between the lines
That space between the linesRemains mute for mostLike a feast where nothing is served. Those who can, willSee a cache of blood-stained knivesAnd say: It is well-deserved. There can be barbed wiresGently palming and calmingDesperation that wants to escape. Or incomplete picturesOf nearly forgotten treksThrough the human landscape. That space between the linesSometimes needsA closer...
This happens everyday
I pick-up newspapers and collar them inSkip what they call news or even viewsTo chart slogans and captions that winAttentions of many to cart-off their blues!Once this is done, it is time for funTo see how atmanirbhar we are nowOr the ways devised for real poribortanAnd everything else from Nifty to Dow.This happens each day...
Being an angel is risky business
Dancing angels aren’t always angelicWhat they do can be idylls that are sickEven Satan can writeOr paint with insight…Agree or he may come to prod you with a stick! True, said the angels, and then go in a huddleAnd dance on their heads until in a muddleOf wayward thoughtsOf dashes and dots.Their emojis, for us,...
Haruki Murakami waited for angels to dance on his head
Knock! Knock! And he slowly shuffled to the doorAnd through the glass pane at the top, sawSomeone with an evil grin, and said: Sure,But I’m also unsure and by my own lawWill not allow you in. As this guy went out for a run, he heardAnother knock and they came one after the otherSometimes trampling...
The old man on a bench in a village near Kangra
A few houses with slate-tiled roofsAnd a deserted chai-kiosk some distance awayWe stopped before a fork in the roadWhere an old man sat on a benchLooking up through a tree, it seemed. Delhi to Palampur is a long driveThrough the conflict of busy thoughtsThat dash, zoom, dip, and diveAnd are forever connecting dots. I shut...
Losing weight with the right syllables
I am hungry and all I see around me are temptations. Monsters in multiples stalk and ambush my vulnerabilities. Loaded with stun guns they fry my tired but yet resisting synapses – nerve cells that frantically message me of impending attacks and targeted when even their safe houses are demolished. But I have built my...
The roadmap on fingertips
I know what cities look like to birdsFlying higher than imagination.Little somethings exploringThe apogee and perigee of the notionOf a circular or really not so circularPerimeter linked to parallel stretchesLaid out like thoughtful contoursWith occasional matchesTo excavation sites,Step-farmed spurs and ridges,Or erratically elliptical doodlesOn toddler friendly fridges. Every city roadmap looks familiarYet converses with different...
Hymns with a lethal beat
Nights need hymns but they get in loadsMumbling twists – silent stalking spars.Gangs of silent hunters on roadsSip life from dreams and scatter scars.Slayer chemistry then matchesUnfathomed dark depths of the nightFills their lives with joyous scratches,Giving them diabolic insight! The night speaks not a word to themAnd yet wants not what they can giveIt...
