First blog post

In this garden of life, I trace footsteps of my master who reached the core amongst myriad hues. In this voyage I carry a tiny basket, to store the things of beauty- a twig, a pebble, a flower or a breeze.

I sit under the free sky and preserve these things through poems and stories, for at times when black clouds drape the serene skies I look into my basket and trudge on with smile on lips.

Truly, a thing of beauty is joy forever.



Walls and door

When I was young , I was left alone in a prison

far away from the crowd in a distant island

with none to talk nor any scenary to applaud,

in dismay I closed my eyes hoping a painless cremation.


Years passed sans light nor warmth in the hole.

One fine day, I see chains that bind me rusted

and with a gentle push chains broke with no noise,

I leapt with joy accompained by songs of singers long dead.


I tried to break the walls with my weak bare hands ,

I kicked solid walls on my left and pushed concrete on my right,

alas! frutiless effort for the blocks didn’t budge, my plight!

worser than when I was tied by rusted silver chains.


Crying in agony and cursing my worthless breaths

I looked to my back – a dark corner one can forget with ease,

moving with last hope –  flickering sunrays on world of shadows

I cringed and scooted to corner of my padded cell at once.


One turn of knob and lo! I was out into free air,

no effort of thousand elephants required for the escape.

Walls I tried to break when golden door awaited my gaze

to liberate forever from dark corner where I was once held prisoner.


My Love! don’t wail at walls for they are hard and cold,

instead look for doors that are open and always ready to spring .

Hark!! striving is not mandatory for our true living,

let’s not wade thru oceans when we can float in skies bold.







A girl sits under a vibrant tree far away from folks,

whispering to winds that are invisible yet true.

People who saw her murmur were completly clueless,

talking to air and dancing with dust made no sense.


Alas! all that eyes see is not real in this mirage

for at horizon meets seas and skies ,shades of blue

which one can never hold for it’s nature’s magic

that throws us to gaols of stupidity so tragic.


Behold! the invisible that is real, your loved ones around

whether you witness with your  shards of glass,

for belief moves mountains from  brown ground hard ,

so too I can talk with her- my invisible and beautiful lass.




Shampoos and sickles and ships

We fought silly fights drawing blood with fervour,

we sat at night mending each other’s wounds with smiles,

squatting in a strange rut far away from the chains of times

with no search for definitons or no paints to color.


We run amok to grasp life with her throat tender,

I fall you lift me up , you slip I wait for you to start,

brothers in arms going till end of world through every disaster

not to end enemies but to make peace in our heart.


We are like streams intersected by time bound boulders

divide and then we conquer the world with thoughts insane.

We run in dried deserts and drink nectar from untouched hive,

living one day at a time,  sans bother for past ghosts or future fights.


Glasses and Caves

What is this body? , without you , my dear

a collage of sundry peices stitched by hand in hurry,

glasses like eyes that reflects outside glory

and ears as caves that any fly can exit or enter.


What are these thoughts? , secluded from my dear love

a whimsical journey into known lands and seas

dry few times or drowning me at close of curtains,

mind! a scultped ship with drunken sailor to drive.


What’s this life worth?, far away from your dance,

a mere mirage with plastic joys and silly sorrows,

playing roles with fervour of a maniac in clumsy scene,

nothing to dream or to wish -staring at unopened windows.


Keep me next to you, O love! with no curb forever

for I want my eyes to be brimmed with your form,

ears hearing your soft breath at every  corner

and mind, lost in your mystery that has neither to nor from.



Sick Bed

She sleeps with eyes closed, her body a tarnished shield

battling the sickness from world outside,

covered in silk blankets , lying on feathered bed.

One can trace a smile on her lips parted half inside.


The kingdom fettered at poor state of princess,

worried about her health and future of heiress,

summoned magicians and medicines from afar

leaving no stone unturned to see her win this war.


Alas! neither medicines green nor goblets white worked,

princess slept like a rock unperturbed by magic or grace.

King and queen watched her each hour with tears dried and cried,

“Lord! save our darling from this ordeal by sinful fate.”


One fine night, a whiff of paint reached her quarters,

from a window unopened by a forgetful maid of heiress.

Lo! she woke up with a smile and graceful stride

picked her easel and painted a beautiful lion pride.


“Hark!”, shouted the unseen painter from darkness

“She belongs to stars not to these petty mortals

let her live  life full of zest and beauty she deserves,

for she wishes not a princess of kingdom but of  her own heart.”





Wings and Horns


Window Grill Fraternity


” Hey Angel 121, where are you going?” asked God, surprised to see a young angel making her way to the golden gates of heaven.

God had already went thru a lot today, given the way his most loved sons turned out. One went to Earth to bring in a change while the other was banished to eternal damnation.

God felt like a stock trader who invested in his company and realised that the company was not meant to make profits in first place.

Angel turned back with her backpack covering her white wings and took a deep breath.

“Well sir, I am going back to bring back your son.”

God was real pleased with her obedience and loyalty.

“That’s great dear” , he beamed ( well we can guess he beamed, for the white beard covered his face), “But don’t worry about him, Jesus will come back soon. If…

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She wears a white dress with stains invisible

to eyes patched by times and stars gone past,

the cloth of satin and cotton make her an art admirable

applauded by hands chained to mundane mast.


She wears a dress of snow for all seasons

be it autumn or spring or summer scorching hot,

for she hides the symbol that branded her heart recesses,

a little dove caged in a mere mortal cage with no bolt.


I see myself in her misty eyes that belongs nowhere,

I see the stains of blood and betrayal on her white dress.

Smilingly I bare my chest that holds the mark same,

together we glide from this boltless boredom to free blue skies.