Month: November 2014


Her lips remained sealed

Like the putty on the grim  windows

By the side of her bed.

She never forgot how he wooed her,

With hard teeth and calloused fingers

But for that moment alone

With her hair hanging over her face

Like creepers guarding a sacred cave,

Yes, it was only for that moment

She was numb

And he did with her what he wanted.

Time would cast shadows on her secrets

For now, she remains silent

As he haunts her in his sleep.


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A cobra

sips white milk slowly

while scheming plots

and plans

against his provider-

Strikes the human

on her left heel

and hisses pleasurably



This has always been one of my very favorite quotes from legendary poet, Pablo Neruda. His words drip with an aching sweetness, beautifully tragic and bewitchingly hopeful.

Taken from “Twenty Love Poems and a song of Despair” by Pablo Neruda

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The Swami’s Call

This was a poem that had won the first prize for a poetry competition I had entered early last year. It focuses on the Indian struggle for independence. The “Swami” mentioned in the poem is Swami Vivekananda who was an inspiration for many during the freedom movement.

Everyday under the harsh sun

I labour and toil

The Sahib whips me

He hits at me.


Everyday I see him

Sitting under that Banyan tree

Relishing the fruits of my motherland

His steel blue eyes reflecting the contempt of his heart.


Everyday I watched him

Until I heard the swami’s call

Arise, he said

And so I did.


Awake, the swami said

And so I did

My brothers and I-

No, we slumber no more.


I saw the swami beckoning

I heard him say,

Stop not till your goal is reached

And so I went on.


No longer did the Sahib whip me

No longer did he trample my soul

No longer did he crush my spirit

No longer does he violate India.


We arose, we were one

India- my kingdom

Freedom- my bequest

We awoke, we emerged.


We heard the Swami’s call

We followed in his steps

The battle won, the fight has been fought

My country is now mine.



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Labyrinth of Dreams

Poetic Logik

Like unapologetic monsoon of summer fury
Torrent of sentences meant to be spoken
From wordless years of crouching fears
Lash the beleaguered face of a tormenter who
Once battered a young body and timorous soul
With sexual tyranny and spiritual duplicity

Foggy afternoon of silent birds and still bridges
Walking blurred streets, crossing atmospheres
From pain to regret to flashing traffic to families
Caught between going home and leaving
Between a desire to make everything right
And a panic to conceal everything wrong

Fields of slowcoach snails and soccer dreams
Alien ships hovering over decrepit tenements
Bloodied grass on which I slay my enemies
The abyss I fell into was a welcoming ocean
Where night cannot fathom the darkness
But the hands that rescued me had wounds

Walking school corridors, entering rooms
Of grim blackboards and emerald uniforms
I cannot decide whether I am a man or a child

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