Lines On My Face

The lines on my face
is proof of the race
of which I am a victim
but mostly an assailant
my demeanor subtle
but most of the times blatant.
Have always been taught
that a war must be fought
considering everything's fair
if not, someone else will revere
on your despair,
and if, you lose
tie your own noose
for the world to tell you
a few words of sympathy
and dub your fall
as their barbarity.
The lines on my face
is proof of the race
where love without
conditions is a farce
cynicism has impaled
the mind like darts
nobody wants to be a moron
and play the part of a pawn
to be traded for desires
and wake up realizing
you've been wasted by liars
who gave you nothing in
return and disappeared
when it was their turn
The lines on my face
is proof of the race
which has many more traits
that I want to state... 

Nani Ghar

Sitting in train en route to her maternal grandmother's house, Samyukta takes a plunge into nostalgia and reminisces her childhood spent with her Nana-Nani. She lived with them until she was 10 years old in a remote town situated at a higher altitude with narrow and dusty lanes, clean air, longer days, darker nights, rich flora, variety of chameleons and a famous all-girls convent school where Samyukta went. Every parent in the town dreamt of their girl going to that school to speak English fluently, make a 'cross-like' hand gesture whenever they saw a church and sing English hymns. The same dream got the better of Samyukta's parents so they decided to let her continue in that school for a few more years until her "fundamentals" are clear and then have her join them where her father worked.

Samyukta's 'nani ghar' was at the end of the lane. Her grandparents had a huge land which comprised of the house, a hand pump, a well and mostly a vast garden with a variety of vegetables, a pomegranate tree, a guava tree and different species of flowers blooming in abundance. To her grandmother, the garden was a treasure of which she was the custodian. But she took care of her plants like a mother, with all she had. The treasure was protected by a dilapidated, soggy wooden gate that would creak, making a shrill noise like "keeeeeeeeee" whenever it opened or closed acting like a calling bell for the residents of the house. Samyukta still remembers how the sound evoked a mélange of emotions in her, and to her, it seemed like the gate too was emotionally coordinated with her - Creak of excitement, if Nanaji was back with Kismi toffee bar he promised, creak of suspicion, if it was wee hours and nobody was expected, creak of happiness, if mom dad had finally arrived to meet her after 6 months, creak of dejection when they left and wouldn't be back until winter holidays, creak of horror when the 4 p.m. math tuition master came.

To outsiders, the place looked like a paradise with a house surrounded by pretty flowers creating a riot of colors, birds chirping, squirrels scampering around, the big guava tree standing tall in a corner bearing big and sweet guavas that hanged low like some tree in heaven. Sometimes the produce was in so much excess that her grandma had to distribute the guavas in the neighborhood. There was a henna tree also from which Samyukta used to pluck the leaves in a bundle and smash them between two rocks she had found lying near the hand pump and blobbed both her palms with the thick paste. She would wait for the blobs to dry up and reveal those amber suns in her hands. Sometimes she would stalk a chameleon for hours to see it change colors as it crawled across the garden from brown to grey to green to yellow. And there were times when she would rampage through clusters of touch-me-nots with her feet just to see them fold inward coyly and marvel at nature's magic trick.

Samyunkta always came first at school owing to her grandma's passion which was gardening and teaching. She would wake Samyukta at 5 in the morning and both of them would sit on a rug below the guava tree where Smayukta would recite tables (pahadas, as her grandmother would call it) from 2 to 20 in a monotone, "2 oneja 2, 2 twoja 4, 2 threeja 6" while her grandma tilled the ground with a hand spade, watered and manured the plants. On special occasions at school, like teacher's day or principal's birthday, Samyukta's diary always had a note from school requesting a bouquet made by her grandmother. Her grandma would make the bouquet pouring in all her creativity and pride, picking flowers carefully for a perfect color scheme, contrasting with fillers and leaves and tying them up with a satin ribbon. The bouquet had to be stunning because for her grandma, it was similar to showing off your parenting skills and as an outcome, your uniquely talented kid to the world. She had a lung ailment because of which, at times, she had to be taken to the nearby city for a week or 2 for treatment. In her absence, the guava tree would start shedding its leaves and the flowers would whither down even if they were taken care by a proxy gardener. On her return, the garden would blossom again like a bright rainbow after the gloom. The plants would wave in gratification in the breeze that carried their mother's rustic scent.

Samyukta's grandmother died 12 years ago and so did the garden. The old wooden gate also creaked last around that time and the chameleons and squirrels also abandoned the place. At  present, Samyukta enters her 'nani ghar' opening a broad wrought iron gate and notices that it is just the house, a dried up well and a thirsty hand pump left from her childhood memories. The empty land where once a lush garden thrived had shrunk to a few square feet and had been filled with cement for ease of cleaning. There is a 4-storeyed apartment towering over everything where once the guava tree stood under which she had spent her mornings reciting the pahadas and watching her grandmother create and nurture lives.

To Vanisha...with Love

when thick fog of mediocrity blurs vision
be the colossal storm of excellence,
when cavernous is darkness of confusion
be the piercing light of precision,
when the roots have gone hollow
with a lot of care a new seed you sow,
a tree of love and compassion will grow,
to stand tall in a jungle, blighted by hatred
and sorrow,

When the song you write doesn't rhyme
turn it into a prose, greatest of its time,
when creativity is caged in walls of cliché,
with wings of boundless imagination you fly away,
when negativity propagates like a wild fire
to flow like a river of hope is what you aspire,

when we pass through a dark and narrow tunnel
oppressing our way out of this struggle,
it's ok if someone else wants the 'torch bearer's' label
but of that torch, you be the eternal flame my girl,
to guide us out in the sunshine of a new generation
where the shadows from the past are forbidden,
an era of expression, inclusion, progression
owing to daughters like you,
from this end to that, we will transition.

Bangalore Rains

It is July 2018, middle of rainy season which is Samyukta's favourite time of the year. She stands in her kitchen, bare foot, on the warm and feathery rug feeling its softness as she gently rubs her feet on it time and again. She is among people who enjoy the sound of rain and smell of earth sitting inside the cozy confines of her home and not the "get-wet-in-the-rain-with-arms-wide-open" type. She looks at her 1.5 year old daughter playing in the living room, narrating a dramatic story aloud to an invisible audience in an unknown language where she is the warrior princess of her kingdom and also the dragon, the fairy, the horse, the tree, the robot, the airplane..Must be very tiring to play all the characters in a fairytale-cum-sci-fi movie by oneself, Samyukta thinks and smiles. She knows that her daughter would sleep peacefully with her eyes half shut and perhaps her mouth half open, thin line of saliva trickling down which she finds inelegant and cute at the same time. This will give her and Abhay some quality time with each other which otherwise is a rare phenomenon amidst the hustle bustle of "9 to 6" job for a living and "24-7 job" of parenting.

Outside, the rain pelting on window panes and inside Kishore Kumar in stereo, are in perfect harmony to recreate "Rim jhim gire sawan" all over again. The house is immersed in the smell of brewing ginger tea and Pakodas sizzling in a pool of hot oil, Abhay's moodsetters during this time. There is something very beautiful about rains in Bangalore. The air gets cold enough for one to want to tuck his feet under a duvet but not enough to pierce the skin to cause discomfort. Rather just enough to binge watch a series on Netflix or sit by the window and stare at the ripples the rain drops make in a puddle or challenge your eyes to spot KRPuram bridge hidden behind layers of mist, dust and drizzle. During college, Samyukta and Abhay had spent a lot of fun times doing these silly things and dreaming about their future over several ginger teas and Pakodas -  a comfortable house, pretty kids, furniture, organic farming, overseas travel, time travel, going to space, one night stand with favorite movie star, to name a few. Among all the achievable desires, Samyukta had wanted a house with fancy and broad window sills where both of them would sit facing each other with rain in the backdrop.

There is a knock on the door and Samyukta knows it is him. Abhay had called her sometime back to tell he would be home early to dodge the "after-rains" traffic. With child-like excitement and a tinge of seduction in her voice, she tells Abhay, "kiddo wont be awake before 2 hours, ginger tea and garm-a-garam pakodas waiting and guess who else?"  Platonically Abhay replies, "Sounds fun babe, but I have a client call now, some big escalation." Samyukta hiding her disappointment tells him it will all be OK. She keeps the cup of hot ginger tea and Pakodas on the study table for Abhay and as she is walking out of the room, Abhay calls her out, "and darling, please shut the door when you leave". She nods and smiles at him and says, "let me know if you need anything else."

Present/Future/Present

The heart is in deluge
and I seek refuge
in asylum of your arms
no reminders no alarms
except to love and cherish
the moments before
they perish

Done with laying flowers on the grave 
of a broken dream
My eyes see the shine of
another story gleam
through the key hole of
the future
that we together nurture

cultivating barren lands
carrying sunshine in hands
turning swamps into green fields
and marveling at their yields

you and I walking this kingdom
we created side by side
riding the rough seas
tide by tide

But this is all in my head
which may or may not be
now, the present is definite,
that disillusions me
as the heart is in deluge
and I seek refuge

Its a circle!

Ria and Samyukta went on to become good friends as they completed 3 months in that new city where they had come in pursuit of thier ambitions. Ria was an MBBS and an aspiring gynaecologist. After her daughter turned 2, Ria had convinced her husband that it was about time, she substantiated her 4 years of hard work that she put in studying in the medical college where she also met Rohit, her husband and fell in love. Samyukta had just finished her MBA and had got into a leading market research firm of the country. She was, unlike her archaic name, a multifaceted personality who could manage to be in the good books of her professors, at the same time could get stoned and befuddled in those unhinged rave parties, just a day before her final submissions. Nonetheless, she had a flair to teach, of which she came to be aware of since the time she had taught her younger siblings. She must have been 13 then. Hence, she was also eyeing the colleges that would call her as a visiting faculty alonwith her current job. It seemed a good idea to her to juggle between her ambition and her passion.


It was a Sunday evening when Ria and Samyukta chatted for a while and started watching a movie together in Ria's room. Ria's husband called her up while the movie was still playing on the laptop. She went out of the room seeking solitude leaving Samyukta alone in the room watching the movie.


Next day when Samyukta came back from office she found her room, entirely raked up. Her bags, overturned, her belongings strewn all over the place. She thought, someone had tried to rob her. She ran downstairs to talk to the owner and ask what had happened. She found the owner talking to a Sheriff. He told Samyukta that she had been searched because Ria had lodged a police complaint of the theft of her Rs. 30,000/- that allegedly went missing from her almirah since yesterday. Ria had told the owner and sheriff that Samyukta was in the room yesterday evening, alone watching the movie and she was pretty sure she had stolen her money. Samyukta stood there flabbergasted like a pole whlie the sheriff and the owner harassed her with a volley of curses and profanities. Due to the lack of adequate evidence the police complaint against Samyukta was dislodged but she was evicted from the house where they both stayed. As she reached the gate, Samyukta, bearing a scar in her conscience, perhaps, forever, had looked up to the balcony where Ria stood unimpassioned, and told her,"its a circle".


After 20 years Ria's daughter grew up to study journalism. She got into the top most College in the field to Ria's pride. One odd day, Ria got a call from her daughter's college, that her daughter was caught cheating blatantly during the exams and had possessed a couple of micro xeroxed course material. The college committee had decided to rusticate her as a consequence of which, she will have to repeat the year. The final authority to decide her daughter's fate lied with the dean. Ria had thought and practiced her conversation with the dean very discreetly while driving to the college and she believed that she will be able to talk the dean out of the whole matter. Sheepishly, she took a corner to sit in the waiting lounge and nervously, she tapped her fingers on whatever they touched. Finally she was called. Standing outside the Dean's office, Ria stood flabbergasted, exactly like her friend had stood 20 years back, as the name plate on the door said - Samyukta Rathore, Dean, Mass Communication. Its a circle afterall.

The Crimson Scarf

When she turned eighteen,
she was lovely with eyes, emrald green,
Struck by silly youthful desires,
A boy set her heart on fire,
With flushed face and excited voice,
she had told her mom about her choice,
and as it was her first prom night,
her mom knit her a magnificient crimson
scarf with so much love and delight,


After 15 years the boy is her old man and the father
of her cute and chirpy daughter,
And often she had felt titillated by the muse,
when her little angel will be in her shoes,
be besotted by her "knight in shining armour",
like any other girl treasuring this dream to die for,
then she would pass her on the crimson scarf,
given by her mother in celebration for being in love,
One fine day, with curiosity gleaming in her eyes,
she asked her daughter about her likes and pass bys,
After an extended, frisky but bolstered prodding,
Finally, she got her little daughter speaking, 
"Mom, her name is Susan who makes me feel weak at knees",


With a barren mind and overweight heart, her world came to a freeze ,
She could manage her clumsy hand on her angel's shoulder,
drinking in the fact, her little angel was peculiar,
that no knight in shining armor was coming for her, ever.


Buried deep inside for more than two decades now,
the crimson scarf in her closet could never make its way out...

The ephemeral moments..

I am tucked very comfortably in my blanket,
but there is a chill that slithers inside like the breeze outside,
Since I walked out of the office today,
I am a retired bloke.

The memories of last 25 years flash through my mind.
It feels like watching a slide show of photographs in an old dilapidated theatre.

My untiring endurance and sartorial elegance,

to the the lines on face and the grey ruffled hair,
The whispers in the night while making love,

to the struggle to howl for a glass of water ,  

Getting high on weed at Robin's,

to the daily morning shots of Insulin,

The shrieks of the kids playing all around,

to the awareness of the lull  that surrounds,

The confusion, whether to celebrate or lament
the fleeting time renders me weak.
Good night.

How it is...

The gray headed mind didnt let the heart be young,
So many beautiful songs that could never be sung,

How it is to dance in the first summer rain,
or fall ill to hear mom's soft grumblings again and again,

How it is to trust someone blindly,
or be deceived by the same person slyly,

How it is to cry when one is ecstatic,
or shed a few tears on something really tragic,

How it is to love someone wihout any conditions,
or silently tolerate all its afflictions,

How it is to revolt when something is not right,
or totally be ignorant like a child,

A zillion more feelings, I wanted to know,
the desire might never end though,

The gray headed mind didnt let the heart be young,
So many beautiful songs that could never be sung,

The Confrontation

(Inspiration drawn while reading The Holy Bible)


There is "someone" staring at me from the mirror,
"Someone" who scares me if I try to get nearer,
Follows me when I am on the go or in deep slumber,
With passing time, "her" whispers in my ears are 
getting clearer and clearer..


She bears my face, my eyes, my nose, my voice,
But with a pair of moist eyes and so much poise.


Perhaps that is what makes her so naggingly different.
As I lay on my bed  in introspection to find this reason,
She spoke, " Nothing will come out of a mind thats ignorant."
"I was a part of you, once upon a time, who was torn apart
from you by a demon."


"And ever since I departed did you mourn my absence even once?"
"Do you still miss my being when there is a fork on the way that comes?"
"I seek an answer to all these questions as I am the one who has to 
face the court",
"What about you, you will dissolve with the ashes leaving me without 
any support."


I grope for words to tell how badly I have missed her at the time,
When I had to manipulate my words where the lines didn't rhyme,
And now I exactly get the difference between the two of us..
She worries about the judgement that awaits her in the skies,
Whereas surviving every moment down here, is the distress in my eyes.

Change....takes a while!!!

In a blanket of pretense, have been wrapped forever I,
you say now you want to see through or else you will pry?
For the soul who has always learnt to beguile,
Give it a while...

A fire was put off ages ago for it would incinerate a dream,
You rate me lower than him 'coz I don't have eyes that beam?
For the extinguished desire who has always lived in exile,
Give it a while...

There is a petite heart who has been hungry for love forever,
You want it to bear the pangs of loneliness without a shudder?
For the heart who was always meant to be fragile,
Give it a while....

I have always been walking in a herd obeying the shepherd,
You preach me now to walk on the path, undiscovered?
For the person I am who has always been docile,
Give me a while...

My Perseverance...

While I paint the canvas of sky with my fingers,

shifting and bending the silver clouds here and there,

O dark clouds on conquest, at the realm u stay,

let me complete my portrait, a little time is for what I pray,

Even if my plea comes back to me without consideration,
no more will I mourn over my incomplete washed away creation,

A pinch of your hue I will preserve, to highlight my portrait,

and start afresh on the clean canvas, after the devastating spate,

Then I will recline on my terrace to admire what I have made,

as the dark clouds grumble at a distance and away they will fade,
and into the spring breeze I will dissolve my whispers,
to propogate my message that I just had the Last Laugh...

"I am..."

I am that fallen drop of blood

on the battle ground that nobody saw.

Glistening in the cold moonlit night,

silently engulfed by the earth so raw.

I am a faint shadow in the woods,

in a stormy evening that everybody saw.

Dismissed by them as an aberation,

leaving me for the wilderness to gnaw.

I am that juvenile wave in the ocean,

emanating from the silver horizon.

Aging every second en route to the shore,

to disintegrate on a rock when its my turn,

I am a shooting star across the crimson sky,

at the dawn that can make wishes come true.

I am now a meager speck of sand on a leaf,

smudged and lost in the morning dew.

I am that velvety grass beneath your feet,

in a summer afternoon that comforts you.

Indented in shapes as you walk through,

but, I am still a weed in the wolrd's view.

"ANGER" , the beast

There is a criminal on the lose,

who was to be hanged by the noose,

In the graveyard of the deceased,

Witnessed by those who were

afflicted by the beast,

The judgement was passed in

the court of prudence,

The prosecutor named agony fought

with all her valiance,

There was a symphony of applauds and an

implicit assurance within,

that no more will the adversity persist that

they were in,

But so undaunted was the monster who

was difficult to detain,

He broke free the prison of forbearance

and flee through the window of revenge,

It’s a dark night obstructed by the lightning

now and then,

Amidst the thick mist I see a huge shadow again,

Blood shot eyes and lethal claws he bears,

The beast is out to slaughter all its assailants,

Beware!! those who conspired to execute him,

For he has returned to retribute for the

disgrace and confinement, he was in,

He laughs at the face of prudence and agony now,

says "Did you forget, I am indestructible?"

a truth that is grim....

It doesnt matter now!!

It doesnt matter now!!

if the remnants of our deceased dreams

still lie under your pillow...

if those compassionate eyes looking at me

are profound or shallow..

It doesnt matter now!!

if the rustle of the satin sheet still makes

you grope for my body by your side..

if our names we wrote on that rock
have faded or still shining bright..

It doesnt matter now!!

If the sickle moon still hurts you and

wets the corner of your eyes...

if the echo of our chuckles together

are weakening or in reprise...

It doesnt matter now!!

If your senses are still kindled after identifying

my faint fragrance when it rains...

if the canvas we were trying to paint

is blank or full of ugly stains....

It doesnt matter now!!

Just another day....

Sleep walkin' every morning

I go to a place unfamiliar,

Life runs on a concrete stretch
of some 5 Kilometer,

A traffic light halfway that
robs away some more time,

Changing color to yellow green

and red resembling life,
I see familiar and strange faces

pulling over,

Some eloquent and
some obscure behind a cover,

That’s a handsome man

with a smirk on his face,

Guess he has moved ahead

a position in the race,

And here is a beggar

begging for some petty alms,

With a penny, he looks happy,

without any qualms,

I see a beautiful girl behind,

lost in her own world,

Wish the shining and fragile
bubble she is in never burst,

Right ahead is an old man
on a bicycle who looks jaded,

His wrinkles articulate the
eventuality of life that is dreaded

I wonder why that

bus driver looks so cold,

Perhaps he dropped his

spirits in one of the potholes,

The face at my left looks known,

of a successful manager,

who cannot manage his

forehead lines showing out of anger,

                                              
There is a lady standing

whose face I cant discern,

the lady is inside me
who has chosen to be stern,
Her soul is burnt by

harvesting her dreams in the sun,

May be this is the reason

of her being so numb,

And here I head towards

the same unfamiliar place,

on the 5 Km road where

 life runs at a fleeting pace...

WAS IT HEAVEN??

Last night I dreamt of angels,

Like those in grandma’s fables,

They came gliding through my window,

Beautiful little angels without a shadow,

Picked me up like I was a child,

Seeing me bewildered, they smiled,

"Speak nothing o infant, just surrender,

As the dream you are in is tender”

Said one of them looking me in the eye,

Hypnotised, I bid everything goodbye.

And the next moment I was in a city,

A city of no hopes and no surmise,

Where the residents were neither fools nor wise,

The hearts and minds free in flight,

Unlike the string in the end of a kite,

The clouds beneath and the stars, I plucked

Like a heedless child without a fright,

The winds that ruffled my hair,

Tickled like I was free of all despair,

Were the people walking past me Gods!!

Coz I felt my soul was rendered bare,

And all my guilt and sins were shared.

When their shoulders brushed against mine,

I experienced a delight that was divine,

A city of all the answers that was,

Tranquilizing my insides, ending the draught,

Beautiful little angels appeared,it was time to go,

“Speak nothing o infant, just surrender,

As the dream you are in is tender”

Said one of them looking me in the eye,

Hypnotised, I bid everything goodbye.

And the next moment I was on my bed,

In a city that was concrete and like a closet,

Sitting up on my bed I wondered,

Was it heaven? and the thought lingered..

Standing between the same patch of land and sky

Standing between the same patch of land and sky,

With the familiar salty ocean in my eyes,

Paralyzed conscience and a crippled heart mourn,

Between dreams and realities, I am torn,

I had promised myself not to repeat the mistake,

To never lend my heart again, whatever else you may take,

But, I am standing between the same patch of land and sky,

With the familiar salty ocean in my eyes….

There was that day and here is this day,

They both are similar in the same way,

Loneliness seems to be my best friend now,

And I find my original place anyhow,

That’s why; I am standing between the same patch of land and sky,

With the familiar salty ocean in my eyes….

I had promised myself to enjoy the left moments,

But every passing second carries the essence,

Of the past that could have been present,

But now there is nothing but debris of lament,

And here, I am standing between the same patch of land and sky,

With the familiar salty ocean in my eyes….

Everyday, I see new relations being born and trashed,

The world spinning around and people moving fast,

Never understood the force and the motive behind my actions,

Call it a futile hope or a never ending infatuation,

So you see, I am standing between the same patch of land and sky,

With the familiar salty ocean in my eyes….

A memory revived!!

The pristine raindrops, pelting on my window,
tell a story of an unuttered sorrow,
languishing in the dungeon of memories for long,
like a magnificient palace in ruins and forlorn..

Being clasped by the tenacious grip of agony,
came to life the night, you gave up on me,
through the shadows of insecurity twas difficult to see,
I was swallowed by the infinite void of envy..

It was a moment when you were united and I, fragmented,
my strength to pull my self together was debilitated,
Pristine rain drops!! that night was cloudy,
I was all alone in the street which was crowdy..

That night when you started pouring, each & everyone
of you felt like piercing bullets in my heart,
the wilted wound marks are still there & the sweet pain never departs...
I try to dub the melancholy of my heart with your song,
fighting with the mind not to think what went wrong...

Pristine rain drops!! you emanate from the clouds
that were looming over him,
I am tempted to ask you if he sent a message
although the hope is very dim...

Destiny Vs me....

Oh my dear destiny!!!

Will you succumb to the mutiny?

like the way I want you to be,

a life full of abandon and glee.

Liabilities that come with vacation,

feelings that have expression,

Freedom that knows no frontier,

thoughts that are lucid and clear,

Oh my dear destiny!!!

Will you succumb to the mutiny?

like the way I want you to be,

a life full of abandon and glee.

Every pain with an ointment,

every action with no lament,

a watch which winds back,

no fear of losing the track,

Oh my dear destiny!!

Won't you succumb to the mutiny??

if I dare to spread my wings,

bearing the pain of your stings...

Since when.....????????

Born naked, clad in a sheet,in this world,
Innocent desires and naive questions, in heart, swirl,
Happiness was when the candy man came to our lane,
Sadness was when mom didn't allow playing in the rain,


Does anybody know when the tides turned?
When did the fence between good and evil burn?
Why isn't happiness attainable ordinarily?
Why don't the sorrows stay temporarily?


Since when have our desires become malevolent?
Why have the quetions become so vehement?
Some say happiness is a matter of perception,
Since when have our senses become so insolent?


Born naked clad in a sheet, in this world,
Innocent desires and naive questions in heart, swirl
Sulking meant withdrawing self in a room, to be
pacified by some sweet words and an embrace,
Greed meant having an extra pie of cake, and,
Stealing meant sneaking out that pie from the secret place,


Does anybody know when the tides turned?
When did the fence between the good and evil burn?
When did sulking conclude with vengeance?
Since when greed enveloped the conscience?
When did stealing start to involve violence?


Born naked clad in a sheet, in this world,
Innocent desire and naive questions in heart, swirled...