Tag Archives: Love


Leave the words out in the sun

To dry;

Let their moisture be suck’d out

Let their texture be rough,



Words will need a hard skin

To survive;

To face the heat

Of your apathy,

Your scorn.


Hide the words when they are young

Tender, innocent;

Wear them

After they die,

Like mink.




rumiLife is fire,
And hatred
And passion,
And desperation-
Life is not lived
With calm reasonableness.
The stillness of mind
Reason and balance
The shadowy peace
Of the quiet lake
Hides death, or,
Maybe, something else.
Let Rumi talk of love
And peace
And of miracles
Of faith – 
We shall ask Rumi of all that
When we die.


I thought I knew you, stranger

All those smiles
And holding of hands
And looking deep
Into the eyes-
And I thought
I knew you,
We live alone
Like planets,
Near and far
Never meeting;
All those dances
Around the fire
Had made me think
I knew you,
When you had come
In my dreams
To sign the pact
Of togetherness-
I awoke
And thought
Now I know you,
I knew you not
I knew that not.
The look, the smile,
The innocent eyes,
The dreams
The dances-
I will remember, always,
And think,
I knew you,

A life not lived/The straw hut (A two-in-one poem)

‘What is the wildest thing
That you have done?’
You do not question,
you accuse.
You seek to expose
a life not lived.
I confess:
Of the many wild things dreamt
And the many planned,
Alone or with you
None have been done, yet.
The tame indiscretions
And the minor misdemeanors
Will never withstand the scrutiny
Of your expectations.
The years spent
In building the home,
Straw by straw,
And in protecting it
From the sandstorms
And the rains-
Were they really
Such a waste of life?
The fragile straw hut
(Though beautiful)
I can destroy in a moment,
By pulling at the straws-
Or by making
A glorious bonfire.
Would that be wild enough?
Would the glow of the moment last?
Would that redeem me
In your eyes?
Would you approve?

My own ghost

Ghost stories always scared me.
It is no different now.
This substance-less, loveless existence,
This anonymity, this apathy,
This blankness, this goal-less-ness
Is scarier than all the ghost stories
That I had dreaded.
The ethereal mist
That hangs over the world-
This mist of ruthlessness,
Of the selfish, sex crazed, greedy thoughts-
That hovers menacingly over our world,
Is scarier than anything in the ghost books-
Scarier than the blood dripping axe
Scarier than the creaking doors
Scarier than the brooding menace
And the blood-lust
That you read about.
There are no doors
Marked with an exit sign here-
Nothing can be scarier
Than eternity.
It is frustrating to know, now,
That love matters,
That small things matter,
That smiles matter,
That children, and jokes, and laziness matters.
It is scary, not to be able to tell anyone,
That time is real, that it is cruel,
And that the scariest thing of all
Is loneliness.
I am scared of the ghost story
That is me;
There is no place to run
No way that you can scream-
There is no last chapter, no last scene,
This is not a dream that will end.
Every ghost tries, at least once,
Out of sheer desperation,
To communicate-
With the creaking doors,
And such other signals-
And tries to alert his loved ones,
That existence, and immortality and eternity
Are a curse;
And that only joy and love and faith
Are worth living for.
And the scariest knowlege of all is
That death does not complete its work,
And that we would never be able to tell
Our loved ones,
About the things that matter.

Memory, the tricks you play

What is with you,
Why do you play tricks with me?
All that period
Of struggle and strife –
I remember today
As a golden age;
A time when I, apparently,
Lived the life to the hilt;
Those days of uncertainty,
Of doubt and pining
Seem now as a journey
Full of music and fragrance-
Why, Memory, is it so?
Make up your mind,
Today when I am again
Lonely and confused
And doubt everything
And wish to escape it all –
Would you again
Dress up this period, later,
And present it to me
As one where I was
At the prime of my life
Brimming with health
Surrounded by love
Soaring high
Aiming higher?
As the time when, everyday,
I played with my little devil
And made up with my love
After a fight, with a kiss?
Would I remember
Only the gardens and the parks
And the morning walks
And the hills and the beaches
That we sometimes visit,
And the smiles of mom and dad
When they visit us
On Holi and Diwali and Christmas?
Make up your mind
Tell me if it is so.
Tell me straight
That all this worry
And struggle and pain
That I feel today
Is not going to matter
And needs not
Be taken seriously.

Why I write poetry

I write poetry
To bring a smile on your lips.
I wish I could meet you
One of these days
When you are reading my poetry
And your lips curve slightly
Into a faint smile,
Before you move on
To more serious things
And forget the words that you liked.
I write poetry
To impress you.
I wish I could read your thoughts
When you tell yourself
That you too had felt the same
And wonder how I knew
Your feelings so intimately,
Before you shrug and say
‘Poets! They live in an airy-fairy world.’
And get back to your prosaic world.

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