Tongue rummaging for words,
Head pounds with despair,
My voice escapes from my parted lips,
Dissolving in tonight’s murky air.


I watch my shadow shape in the dark,
An unsure mélange of apathy and disdain
I struggle to shake it off my burdened being,
Despite the knowledge that it’s in vain.


Who has left and what has gone by,
I recount, stumbling through the scattered ruins,
And then I leave it all to gather dust,
Stepping on the dying embers, while the sky is still dim

Tonight.....

The night unfolds yet again,

Silence begins to ensue,

Solitude has my sleep detained,

In no haste for the morn due.



Darkness no more an acquaintance vile,

Drawing me into it’s boundless realms,

Whispering tales of traversed miles,

Graciously attends to all my whims.



My voice is shrouded in the dimness,

Words buried under tonight’s clandestine,

While I surrender to the divine loneliness,

Before I head to where I am destined.

Be your own Anna

While returning home from work, for the third night in a row I encountered a rally in support of Anna Hazare. This time, it was a bunch of children proudly holding candles and banners as they marched, chanting slogans to end corruption. While it was heartening to see children being involved in social issues, I could not help but chuckle at the flair for dramatics shown by our country. Yet again, the nation has opened its floodgates of emotions and has become hell bent on bringing the government to task over the atrocity carried out against Mr. Anna Hazare. We live in an era where information moves with a lighting speed. With a hyperactive media and the all encompassing social network, it is easier than ever to mobilize public support for any issue these days. While I revere Anna’s simplicity and resolve, there is no denying to the fact that he has kept with the times in connecting with the people and used these tools to his fullest disposal. Although this platform has been (and will be used) by many, there is something different to what Anna has to say. He touches an age old nerve of the Indians and offers them a gateway to escape. News channels have been incessantly flashing videos of the widespread uproar across India. Thousands have flocked Delhi to protest with the man himself. Scores of protestors have been camping outside Tihar to express their solidarity with Anna. Citizens in other cities have been doing whatever they can to be a part of the protest. But I wonder if they know the cause Anna is rooting for. Agreed, he is fighting against corruption, but how many of us know about the Jan Lokpal Bill he is adamant on being passed and how is this going to help them. I doubt whether most of us have asked this question. But in my opinion, this is secondary to the other question we need to ask ourselves, how on earth can we have the cheek to undertake a movement directed at ending corruption!

The dirty C word is something which has tormented the country ever since it’s very inception. Bribing a government official, stealing electricity from neighbors is something which has already made a place in the Indian way of life. Just last night I saw a popular public figure urge India to come to Delhi to support Anna. His exact words were, “Travel without a ticket if you can’t get one.” This is the classic paradox we live in. We want our country to be a better place but we don’t try to make it one. I see many youngsters everyday who blame the system for their plight. These same people are supporting Anna wholeheartedly thinking that he is the answer to his prayers. But how many of them can proudly say that they have never buttered their professors to get better marks, never bought a leaked exam paper or never ever driven past a red traffic signal. If we are not mature enough to control ourselves from committing such small acts, how can we even dream of bringing down the government for doing the same, just on a larger scale. Come to think about it, is it the government we really need to fight against. Will punishing a certain Raja or Kalmadi will really make our personal lives better. I can bet that there will be another Raja and Kalmadi, because these people come from among us. They just have more power than we do.

I am not sure if the Jan Lokpal Bill will see the light of the day. Frankly, the bill commands a bit too much power than it should. But I find it hilarious to see everyone around me thinking that it is the solution to all their problems. Yes, Anna can help us be better people. But that will not happen if we just chant and march on the roads. We have to be our own Anna, cultivate his honesty and ideals within us and always do the right thing. We should not be fighting the government but ourselves. All we have to do is say no to dishonesty and only then we can proudly proclaim that we have done our bit.

Hoping, Crying, Waiting....

It has been a while since I have written anything. I have been battling writer’s block for enough months to be conferred a veteran soldier. Words have eluded me for so long that I am beginning to think that my creativity was more of an epiphany than a gift, like a fleeting solace to a soul searching wanderer. Many events have transpired in the past few months which were well capable of getting my creative juices flowing. But they have failed so spectacularly. To be fair, writing for me has never been a meticulous, time bound project. Although I am always found cooking plots in my head or creating rhyming couplets to weave into a new poem, they never amount to anything. I have not even found the proverbial muse yet, my holy grail which will bestow upon me it’s miraculous powers and turn everything I write into literary gold. Delusion and self destructiveness are something which has helped many a writers be prolific. But sadly I am sane enough, which by the way is also a mean to state on record that all those accidents just happen to me (contrary to popular belief). Like some other writers, I cannot make everything around me sound romantic. If that were true, the readers of this blog would be experiencing some really painful poetry since I am down with Rubella and have got some serious burns on my leg. But apparently Rubella itches more than it can inspire, which is a shame, given its exotic name. Hence tragically, a heart wrenching celebration of pain is unceremoniously replaced by the ramblings of a disease stricken girl who has slept too much during the day.

I have always written best in spurts, during those ecstatic moments when I am in a state of total abandon, while a magical force slowly creeps up beside me and I type away fearlessly and unabashedly. This is the only process of writing I am acquainted with and the best part of this process is that it has no pattern. I have written poems about pain after having a fantastic day and stories about loneliness after being spoilt rotten. Over the years I have grown to cherish these surprise rendezvous' which have never failed to leave me exhilarated. Writing is one of the very few things which make me feel productive and alive. My biggest fear is that I will spend my entire life without understanding it’s purpose. It’s said that a man is born twice, once when he arrives in this world and the second time, when he realizes exactly why he has come to this world. I am yet to reach the time of my second birth, but I strongly feel that writing will lead me there. And this is the reason why I cannot bear the cold shoulder my words have been giving me lately. I have been leading every minute of my life with the ominous knowledge that it is being wasted. Whenever I hear an appealing word, I start conjuring glorious tales and poetries knit around it and it’s utterly agonizing to see all that ending with a whimper. I long for that joy again, when I create something out of my own imagination, a new world of which I am the master, people who act on my whim, feel what I want them to feel and speak the words I put in their mouths. There is so much I want to say, but I wonder where the voice is gone. I really hope it comes back soon to hold my hand and pull me back from dissolving into my otherwise colorless routine.

It is excruciating to wait for something when you don’t know if it is fated to return. It is even more torturous when you know that waiting is the only option. Here is to my words that remain unspoken and verses that remain unconsummated, may you find your voice soon……

First Rain....

It’s that time of the year again. Overcast sky laden with thunder, looking over the frenzied, simmering city, suddenly explodes into that outburst it had been craving for. The air is suddenly redolent with that earthy scent and the sultriness is replaced with a breezy coolness. The raindrops fall in rhythmic unison drowning out the deafening noise. The city is awash with joy. It welcomes the rain with outstretched arms. No one is annoyed at being caught unaware, everyone drenches happily. No one seems to care that the roads are choked, they smile behind the wheel at the little puddles on the street. Everyone flocks the beach to rekindle the intimacy with their lives. Watching the sea swell, sipping piping hot tea and munching on corn on the cob, the first rain always manages to bring out the romantic in the city.

I am glad that I was not in my office, admiring this cloudy bliss from a window. I was on the road, bearing witness as the wind swept up, the sky darkened, the grey clouds stamped their authority with a loud thunder and the downpour began. And just like that, nothing was parched any more. I just rue the fact that I was all dressed up and missed my chance to get wet. I was on my way to attending the wedding of my friend of 18 years. I smiled to myself on the wedding gift she received from nature. In retrospect, I can’t think of a better day for the rain to arrive.

The City of Blinding Lights

I stand on the edge of the rocks and let the cool breeze graze my face and the gushing sea kiss my feet. I feel every inch of my body feel recharged. Little do I know that this sense of rejuvenation is going to be eroded by that awful stench the moment I turn around. “I am still new here”, I say to myself as I envy those who are enjoying the beach as if it were amidst a perfume factory. I walk back, battling the stinking air and stand under a palm tree facing the pavement abuzz with tiny bulbs. From the angle at which I am standing, this beach could easily be in Havana or Miami. But I doubt whether those place could do anything more for me, except temporarily satisfying the part of me struck by wanderlust. I turn around to catch a glimpse of the main reason why people come here. A friend had once ruefully observed about Bandstand, that it has been hyped just because of the residence of a single person. He missed the point that this person can own half of Mumbai which he does, in a certain sense. As I look at the small crowd which has gathered outside his gate to see him, I think that it is only befitting that the people of Mumbai worship Shah Rukh Khan. For, he is a tribute to this city of dreams, to the adage that anything can happen here, and to the belief that this city can be owned by anybody.

I look around myself at people having a good time. A group of college kids strike various poses to get photographed. They all look the same. The girls, thin as a stick wear skin fitting jeans with their T shirts sleeves rolled up to show a bit more of skin. Their hair is ironed to perfect straightness and they all speak in catchphrases with a fake accent. The boys in their baggy jeans and Mohawk hair flash their latest smart phones and behave like the most important people in the city. At their age, this city is not too big. As dusk begins to fade away and the night starts to fall, I decide to make a move before the traffic thickens.

My car gets stuck in the traffic the moment it gets on the highway. Looking at the highway gives me a rude shock, which again proves that I am still new. As far as I can lay my eyes, I see long winding stretches of roads, with their blinding lights. I suddenly miss the moments I had with myself at the beach. Moments of privacy are rare to come my here. Large hoardings line the street, with Shah Rukh Khan tearing out of one of them reiterating his larger than life impact on the city. The hoardings are the newest feature of the Mumbai skyline, the most effective tool to grab the attention of this “always on the move” city. Every celebrity worth his/her salt can be seen here, posing stylishly, flashing a smile, delivering a witty line, pointing towards a product and ordering you to buy one from your nearest supermarket/ showroom. The demureness and the confidence of these dashing celebrities are a mere façade hiding the feverishness of the corporate to capture the loyalty of the ever shifting consumer base. Loyalty, that elusive virtue, fast fading into obscurity in this city of blinding lights. You don’t belong to anyone but your ambition here, not to your values, not to your love, not to your brand, not to your employer. The traffic loosens a little and my car leaps into action like a leopard let out of a cage, only to be tamed into a halt a few minutes later. This is how most of Mumbai returns home after a day of overcoming hurdles, by crawling on choked streets. I like to think that this is befitting in a strange way, for it gives them the time to thank the universe for letting them survive another day. But then again I wonder, when do they live?

Monday Blues....not today!

Hi everyone,
I had the day off today (thanks to the UK banking system). All my friends who like me, are freshly catapulted into professional lives will completely understand the bliss a non working Monday can bring. I was informed about the holiday a few days ago, and since then my mind had been conjuring idyllic images of spending an afternoon at home on a summer weekday. It was brilliant indeed, lazing around the house, reading Austen and Wodehouse (my way of thanking the British for the day off) and not worrying about any deadline for once. Sure, I do these things on a weekend too, but doing them on a weekday gives me a different feeling altogether.

I was perched on my bed at 3:30 PM, sighing (yet again) at Mr. Darcy and saw the sunlight streaming in through the window. I know, it is hard to be romantic about sunlight in May, but hey, I was reading the mother of all romances. It filled me with inexplicable joy and contentment to sit in my sun kissed room. Just then, I realized how much I missed afternoons. I think afternoons are the most underrated part of the day. It is like the middle of a plot which takes it own sweet time to unfold. Holed up in my air conditioned cage of a workplace (which is not entirely bad this time of the year), I had forgotten about the laidback charm a pensive afternoon can bring. The post lunch sluggishness, the long siestas, sitting listlessly having meaningless conversations, has a lure of it's own. I walked around my whole house watching the rooms radiate with pleasure, bringing a smile on my lips. I then sat in the balcony, listening to the chirping of the birds and the noises of children and it was therapeutic. I remained seated in the balcony, later joined by my mother. We watched the kids play, talked a lot, admired her plants, sweat profusely and welcomed the dusk together. I guess these are the moments we live for. The little things we do with our loved ones, the quiet afternoons we spend with ourselves and the holidays we happily welcome after working hard....all in all, a great day!