Month: April 2014

Abysmal Dreams

Where lovers reappear

In a tormentor’s labyrinth

When unbelief triumphs over love

Where the spirit of pride

Undermines true excellence

When a deceitful tongue

Is reflected in a haughty look

Where stubby fingers haunt little angels

And the crackling fire-

Laughs in a hyena’s face

When an old lady mumbles

And silence provokes

Where a young girl’s screams

Are all but scattered in the summer breeze

When un-calloused hands

Are capable of unthinkable brutality

Where a mother’s love is all in vain

And a father’s eyes never once seen

When a scarred face

Is all that is left to love

Where a husky voice

In tape, replayed

When love and hatred

Speak a single tongue

Where in a merciless trance

Friends and enemies seem to become one

When smiles are faked

And tears held back

Where red and yellow notes

Are all that matter

When blood trickles with no end

As sticky flesh is sold off

Where chastity loses its validity

And purity is all but history.




Poetry and Life

I believe there are two kinds of poems a poet can write- the first kind being the ones with some sort of deliberate message, be it didactic or not; while the second kind being the kind we never want to be questioned about. Well at least that is how it is with me. Of late, I find myself preferring to write more poems of the latter kind. These poems bear no meaning or message for me to explain but only that which is somewhat hidden in between the lines. I guess poems as in songs are just places where a person can vent out their true feelings of anger or sorrow or pain or joy. Well, a lot of times I write poems that do just that. I lay it all out. Maybe that is why I’d rather not explain. I’d rather not show myself to the world. Poems- certain kinds of poems- make their creators vulnerable. I think a lot of times we don’t want people to ask us why or what we meant. We dont’ want to be vulnerable. (more…)


Today I sat for what seemed like hours on end in a bookstore, leafing through Neruda, Saki, Marquez and a few other legends. The old books. The new books. The smell of the books and the wood. The feeling that comes along. Pure joy. Blissful. Passionate. I run out of words.
If you don’t know this, you don’t know life.

Why I Write

As a little girl, I loved to write, to put my thoughts on paper and to read it later to a much amused audience. They would ask me where I had come up with such ideas and thoughts. It was in moments such as those when I felt like I was on top of the world.

However, as the years passed by, so did my zeal and passion to write. It was almost like that bright flame was turning to embers. I still wrote, but that was only in private diaries and that too only to keep my sanity. But these diaries were not works of art that I could treasure; instead they were just a mere reflection of my own emotional roller coaster.

It was neither inability nor was it the shortage of things to write about that hindered me. But now, I know it was insecurity. The essays, poems and stories I had, I wrote onto the pages of my heart. Yet, I never had the courage to actually put them on paper. That which was etched deep within the layers of my worn out heart, remained there.

I am still young. Many have gone ahead of me, in age, maturity and wisdom. However, though I am but a child still, I have now made a decision. A decision I have prolonged for far too long. I have decided to read and share the journal of my heart. So much is written and so many layers I have to sort through, but I know I must put it in ink.

There are times when my imagination bewilders even myself and my dreams seem as far away as the stars. Yet when I read, they seem just a little bit closer. And that is what I want to do- to touch others as I myself have been touched. I am probably not a literary genius or another legend in the making, but the sky is still the limit. It is my time, my time to write and my time to pierce through the veins and into the hearts of those who will read with an open mind and an open soul.

Beautiful life


Most people would say that quotes like these are common or cliche, but I choose to see the glass half full. I choose to be thankful for all that Jesus has blessed me with. Even with all the ups and the downs, the edges and the curves along the road or any valleys and rifts, I’m grateful. Life is beautiful.
Let’s choose optimism. No harm in smiling. So smile and never look back!


At the deck,

Between the giants,
Anchored amidst the expensive yachts
And the boisterous looking commercial vessels
Is a small little boat,
Ahmed’s boat.

He is not a seafarer
Nor is he any more experienced than his baby sister Maya
He is but a child
Still, the little boat was his own
His father but a humble fisherman
His mother a lowly washerwoman
Nevertheless Fate had different plans for Ahmed

At fourteen,
The sun was but a blob of orange paint
The horizon was all too close
And sailing all too simple.
Yet he knew he must go:
Go forth into the wide ocean
To reach foreign lands and make his fortunes.

Father questioned his motives
Mother cautioned him
Still he sailed
With unrelenting courage
And a fire that burns within his soul.

The sea was still,
The anchor pulled up
The oars taken out.

At fourteen,
He saw the world as a kaleidoscope
Each reflection in all six mirrors was poles apart
In one, he saw the calm blue waters
In another, a storm
Then the undeniable silence
That dread of what was to come
Along with the exhilaration
And the will to conquer.

Tempest came,
In deadly whirlwinds and torrential pours
The little boat overturned
With Ahmed barely holding on.
“I mustn’t die” he whispers
With a gulp of salt water
And a shrill cry
He holds on,
With unrelenting courage
And a fire that burns within his soul.

The blue waters finally settle
The little boat sails straight once more
He faces that orange blob on the horizon
Unafraid and determined
Because courage does not relent
And fire does not die.


#previously published in The Shillong Times




Sometimes when I begin to contemplate on life, love and misery, I realise just how much freedom is taken for granted. The ones like me, who were born in free countries with good parents never even begin to appreciate the freedom bestowed upon us. ” Every Captive Free ” is a non- profit organization in Thailand started by Steve and Jenna Halvorson that aims to set people free by the grace and goodness of the gospel. They work among trafficked women and children, who are forced into a brutal trade of the flesh. These are the captives, the ones who yearn for that distant dream of freedom. There are over 27 million captives in this modern form of slavery. Let us support this freedom movement. Let us help the rescue effort. By faith, we can shake mountains. We can change the world.
For more information on Every Captive Free,  log on to –


Her heart lay where his chest is

And yet her lips remained sealed like the putty on the windows

Two lines that seemed to scream at him in the dull room on the first floor of that derelict house. It didn’t seem to matter to him that he was maybe somewhat violating her privacy. She was his girl after all. He had known her since forever, it seemed. They had been together for as long as he remembered. But something seemed different. She no longer thronged to him. She no longer waited eagerly for his return. It seemed like Annie was distant from him now. It was almost like she had somehow drifted away. But then, he didn’t want to think too much of it. He didn’t like what he saw in her diary but he just did not care.

He hated the smell of the room. The smell of the whole house. It smelled of death. It was unkempt, ugly, dark and just plain uncomfortable. He wondered how that happened. That beautiful home was now a derelict looking ruin. But then again, he did not care to think more of it.

In another part of town, twenty-one year old Annie was visiting an old couple. She had brought them homemade applesauce and a few coconut frosted cookies. But what Mr. and Mrs. Brown didn’t know was that Annie was there to actually be with Ben, their son. Her boyfriend, Dave, her highschool sweetheart had left for the city three years ago. And with that, he never came back. He never wrote. He never called. Though once in a blue moon, she would receive small gifts like the crystal swan on the mantle at home. In her mind, they were over anyway.
Little did she know he was at her house that very moment.

Annie had begun to write a few lines of what she thought was poetry. Or maybe it was. What troubled her though, was that it was dark and depressing. So many pages of her diary, she had burnt in the fireplace. They were just too dark.

When she returned later in the evening, she found Dave in the sitting room glued to his computer. His eyes shifted to her when she sighed. He said, ” and where have you been?” She smiled and said, ” I should be asking you that.” He rose up from his chair and walked up to her. He tried to hug her, it seemed but she cringed. She did not want him to touch her. He was far too late. Her eyes spoke softly asking him why he never came back. He had abandoned her.

He spoke softly. He said, ” Annie darling, forgive me. I’m not worthy of your love.”

The magic huskiness of his voice caught her again. For a moment, she believed him again. She was his’ again. They stared at each others eyes, their slates were clean. Just then, she belonged to him once more. She loved him once more. It bewildered even herself, how she always went back to him. He had hurt her deeply. But she forgave him nonetheless.

The next morning, he left again. Whether he would return and whether he would write or call, she did not know. The sun was bright that morning. And for once, just once, the house seemed alive again.


*picture taken from:
*This is entirely a work of fiction.

The Fear of Starting Over

Life has a way of giving us a hard time. A person who wants to move is sometimes made to stay. And a person who likes to stay is made to move. 

I’m the kind of person who looks like I fit it, who laughs along and plays along. It seems like its easy to for me enter a new situation. I smile a lot and I pretend. But deep inside, I’m scared just like anyone else. I get intimidated by new things and most importantly, I never want to leave when I’m settled in. 

Sometimes I wonder if it’s even good for me because beneath it all I’m the person that’s scared to start over. I’m the girl that doesn’t feel like I fit it. For a long time, I found my solace only in poetry or late night tears. It never occured to me that sometimes its okay to not to fit it. Its okay to be scared and confused. I’ve learnt to lean more on faith than myself. I’ve learnt that its always hard. Its always scary. We just need to stand our ground and never compromise on our core beliefs. We just need to find a creative outlet where we we can let it all go. Where we are ourselves because we’re all unique and personally, I think there is no such thing as fitting in really. And the best people are the ones that are okay with that. I hope I’m one of them or atleast I one in the making. All of us should try being like those people-the ones that just don’t care, the ones that are themselves just because they are what they are.

When you do start over in a new place, I say be genuine and have faith! Also, write poetry!

P.S. : I may be advising myself just as well. I’m still scared and I still have to go new places. But all this, going  to new places and meeting new people is worth it in the end. It shapes who we become. It is what it is! 


F. Scott Fitzgerald said,

” I’m not sure what I’ll do- well, I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things happen on a big scale.”

Whenever I read this quote, I am reminded that this is the only accurate description of my dream. In fact, maybe it’s everyone’s dream- to love passionately and to live freely. A lot of us might not realize  it. I guess a lot of us are obsessed with making a living that we forget to make a life. I hope I never turn out like that. Well, we all hope.