Lay still

Closure came tip-toed,
and whispered to him,
“Darling, you can have me.”

The feeling that the end was nigh
that floated on the surface of his being
became concrete
and sank in deep, somewhere.
He rested
as he watched Anxiety leave.
Now, he rested
underneath Her weight.

The knife lay still, wedged deep between his ribs.

Suboptimal living

I blinked back at the fan rotating above me.
You could say that I was awake. I would say
that I was still clutched by sleep. I yawned,
resisting the day that had come to take me.
All this while, the fan pushed the air.
It kept at it, whether I noticed it or not.
I would notice it if it stopped. If it did stop,
my attention would diverge midway to find
my wife, trying one ploy after another
to rouse me out of bed. I would grunt back,
acknowledging her impatience and,
this predictable urgency that mornings create.
Nothing of that sort happened, of course.
The three blades kept chasing each other,
so I lay there, watching them play.
I would notice the fan if it grunted too.
That noise that makes you think- what if
it would just snap off the ceiling and fall on you?
Would it drop down heavily or
would it leave a swift, clean cut on me?
Nothing of that sort happened, of course.
My wife would have had me repair it. She worries
about such things while I hope for it.
I did notice, however, a tiny spot of white paint
at the edge of one blade. It danced in circles
at that stupid speed. It just kept at it.
Monotonously. Involuntarily. Happily?
One complete rotation, now.
And now. And now. And now. And now. And now.
The birds chirped to remind me that the darkness
outside wasn’t night. It was still early morning.
Moaning. Mourning. No, morning. Yes, mornings
that lazily cast its shadows in our apartment,
coaxing me to reach out for the light
switch. Click.
Illuminate!”, I ordered the tubelight.
And so it did.
My wife, who was racing time in the kitchen,
peeked in curiously. I grinned back at her,
making light of my unprovoked strangeness.
We rushed through the things to do today,
the day after and a week later.
I reassured her they may or may not happen
just how it did or did not happen
like the day before and the week prior.
I assured her that I would try my best
to not be jealous of the electronic devices in our house,
those wretched things that don’t have to
jot down a list of things-to-do or
complain like I need to do.
Switch on. Awake. Switch off. Asleep.
Roused only by serendipitous electricity.
No will. No want. No will to not want.
Nothing of that sort happened, of course.
I was busy being whipped by busier routine.
I’d rather be an efficient robot
with gears that work because of non-optional, set principles.
I’d not have to decide to get up, every bubbly day.
I’d not have to create drafts until it was pretend-perfect.
I’d not be contemplating on things that don’t even matter..
I’d not have to sip my tea myself.
I sipped some tea myself, letting it warm my throat.
My wife sipped her tea calmly at the window sill,
watching the world awake, five floors below.
We had a few serene minutes before we left
to join the bustling, bright day while that sparrow
could sit perched at the window grill.
The very moment, I thought that thought
that meek bird jumped
just to guilt me. It jumped- no, believe me,
without spreading its wings, it dropped itself in the air
out of spite, as if I drove it to suicide.
But it had swooped back up in time to my wife’s delight.
‘That’s not the proper way to fly!’
‘Usual, I mean.’
‘Why would you want to fly the “proper, usual” way?’
she said, making bunnies in the air with her slender fingers.
I had a retort, I swear to you, but it abandoned me
leaving me quiet and my wife satisfied.
Of course, things of this sort happen.
It was time to leave for the day.
I turned to call the lift.
while the ignored staircase looked at me.
I stared back at it, imagining
myself sliding swift
down the railing.
The lift announced its arrival as I stepped on
a better thought.
I let the metal box close and
efficiently carry me down.
‘It is a good day’, I decided,
At least I’m not as sad as I used to be.
fun.- At least I'm not as sad


Was it something she said,
or something I realized
that I lost my grip on the plot
and fell
and kept falling
till I reached the concrete
and lay there, shattered?
Of everything I knew about me,
I did not know I was brittle.
Now, the flecks just lay splattered.

The silence weighs on me,
paralyzing any struggle,
and they all watch me
and remain broken.
If only I could fix myself,
pull every piece together,
maybe, and just maybe,
they won’t condemn me to their sighs.
It is tiring.

It is tiring
to exist in this dichotomy
between my state and my will.
I rummage through the rubble,
while a nagging question
remains suspended in air.
And, like it, I wish I could say
even I am hanging by a thread;
but, like it, I continually ask
Where is my centre?


Die Another Day

I find myself in the eye of a storm again

Fighting it seems pointless

I am squinting to find my way out

This brief despair and astigmatism requires

Fresh perspective and lenses!

I stand alone in this choice between life and death

And somehow death seems more selfish

Hmm.. I have made my choice


I’m not the one to be driven to death

I’ve not even begun

Yes, I’ll die another day



I’m not that tragic hero,

I’m not that wounded soldier,

I’m not that beaten player,

I’m not that broken dream,

Not even that crushed petal

No, I am not that.


The spark’s still alive

The flame burns brighter with each breath

I’ll die another day




I want your thundering applause

That deafening happiness I deserve

When alone I stand tall

Screaming victory with my hands apart,

Embracing the energy thrown on me

By you,

You- who’ve seen me through it all,

Don’t need your sympathy when I fall


Is another life waiting after death?

Do I gamble these dark days for none at all?

Nah! I’ll die another day



That shower of success,

That envelope of love,

That kiss of destiny,

That cry of happiness,

Also, that song of peace

You must know, it’s not just a lucid dream


Not saying that unlike others I’ll be leaving this world alive

But I’m not done just yet

I’ll die another day

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Hate To Tell Poorva

I am disappointed with the words she gave me

Poems are emotional, inspired and metaphoric!

So, why the fuck will I romanticize Integration sums?

She knows they make me feel sick


Hate To Tell Poorva,

I don’t understand her sudden zoological interest

In lizards and monkeys

No, I don’t know what lizards eat

Yes, Bananas do grow on trees!


Hate To Tell Poorva,

I’m not wasting my time and poems

On words like farting, constipation and vomit

So, go tell your same-feathered friends- Bharath and Komal

To lay eggs and “warm it”


Hate To Tell Poorva,

She did fuel anger in me

But, I was never daunted

Lol! For her, I even rhymed this screwed-up poetry.

Including all the silly words she wanted


But the problem is I tell Poorva everything.

Even the inconsequential stuff

Like how I didn’t use a pencil to write this crap

Like how I don’t know how to use a drum stick 

Maybe being brutally honest might just earn me her wrath!


So, I’d Hate To Tell Poorva

: // I’m doubly disappointed

Yeah man, I’d http://

(The previous version was a little nonrhythmic. so i edited it! this is the new version)

Google for Sunshine

Turning dog-eared pages,
On a quiet day
Inside a quieter library
Aaah! The smell of new books, I smile
Hmmm! The smell of old books, I love

Breezing through book titles,
A blanket of grey clouds in the sky
A blanket of dust on little-known hardbacks
So lost in that world, I remind myself to breathe
The dust fills my nose, I sneeze

Brushing through the words with my fingertips
Every book luring me to a different direction
And I allow it. 🙂
With glazy eyes, I look at the dull weather outside
Romantic and tender, sleepy and slow

I can’t find what I am searching for
Yawn. This will take too much time
I ask the bored librarian to help me through
All she said to me was:
‘Err… Google it, can’t you?’

So, yes, I googled it and found it soon
But I am not feeling thrilled
All I am thinking is- How quick! How unromantic!
‘If only one could google for sunshine!
Maybe, my pace will change’