Friday, 12 November 2010


Two people in Starbucks. He's lost in his thoughts. She's begging for his forgiveness. The din surround them. Life.

Friday, 15 October 2010


The literature that stays with you, is the literature that defines you. I once knew a man who loved fantasy, and he lived in a world of fantasy - not that he was delirious, he was far from it, but he lived in fantasy; where flowers were flowers, and lovers were lovers.

I cannot think of a fantasy greater than that.

Friday, 24 September 2010


What a lovely world it would be, if the heart would gangrene after a stab? To die like a fresh flower plucked, never to live again for another plucking?

What a lovely world it would be.

Saturday, 11 September 2010

A Habit.

Every night he kissed the edge of his pillow and bade her goodnight, in some vain hope that, wherever she was, she would have a kiss if she needed one; one without price or expectation but with love and love alone. And that, by the magic of it, if she were sad before, she would be sad no more.

Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Some Days.

Some days he missed her so much, others, not quite. Some days he'd be allowed to heal, some, entrenched in sadness. It came and went - sporadically - like the comings and goings of a heart failure. He missed her, and that was the failure of his heart.

Sunday, 8 August 2010


It was their last day - a day of final separation, one which, although neither really wanted to face, either because of the bitterness that remained, or the summed melancholy of all the years that would arise, they were there.

The music turned on in the dark while they both looked unto the ceiling.
'This is sad music,' she said. 'Play something happier?'
'I feel like listening to this,' he replied, and they remained silent. 'Do you know what it is called?'

He did not answer immediately. His mind thought of everything that came and went, of every hope that rose and vanished, of every love that burnt and diminished. And there was a meadow in his head; lush and vibrant, where he sat amid the tall stalks of bright flowers with melancholy:  a meadow's only a meadow, when there's someone to walk it with.  When all his visions had gone, he turned unto her, tiredly, like a sparrow without a wing, and whispered: 'nothing lasts.'

Friday, 16 July 2010

In the End.

In the end, all you can hope for is to smile, and say: 'it was nice, to have met you.'

Wednesday, 7 July 2010

There Is A Look.

    There is a look that women give; sometimes it is in the bus, when she's holding you as support. Sometimes, when she lies beside you, precariously playing with your hair, as you are sound asleep. Sometimes, just before she scurries away to make you dinner, or bring you tea. And sometimes, as you are making love to her, when all about you is silent.

    It is a fleeting look, one which, should the careless ones of us blink, would be lost. It is a look that widens her eyes, and curves her lips. It is a look that can happen anywhere and anytime. It is a look that we all too often, fail to see.

    'Why do you look at me that way?' He asked, facing up.
    'Nothing,' she shrugged. 'You know - you're dangerous.'
    'Dangerous?' He turned to her. 'How?'
    'I can't say,' she said, putting back her bra; and her lips curved, her eyes widened. 'But you are.'
He smiled.

    Yes, there is a look that women give and it says 'I love you.' But there is also a smile that some men give in return. It is a smile that broken men give when they cannot speak. Yes, it is a smile that says 'I wish, I could love you.'

Sunday, 27 June 2010


What's sad is, there's none to even know that he drinks in the dark.

Thursday, 24 June 2010

Pictures Of Nothing At All.

'Remember the day that we met in the park
Where the sunlight and shadow entwined?
That picture looked perfect, more perfect than art.'

    I remember walking up the stairway to go to my fridge - it was snowing especially then, more snow than London had seen in years. So, I had got myself a bottle of cognac (for the chilling bite of the winter - I told myself) and gave her a call. We spoke of irrelevant things, and suddenly, about photographs.

   'We took a lot of pictures of the snow,' she said.  'You know,' it hit her, 'we don't have a single picture together. A SINGLE picture. That's so sad.'
   'It's better that way,' I told her. 'It's in our...'
   'I know, I know, it's in our minds - blah, blah,' she cut me short. 'But I still want a picture together.'

   As I swirled the cognac that I had already poured a moment before in my glass, plopping unto the sofa beside me, I took a long look at the snow pouring outside and smiled to myself.
   'Pictures, are for those who forget.'
  'What?' She said.
   'Nothing at all.' The cognac was warm.

  Now, as I sit on that very sofa again with another drink, after more than half a year, after leaving her, I think, perhaps it is better that we have no pictures together, and that, I cannot say:

'I used to smile every time that my eyes,
found the pictures of both of us framed on the wall,
Now, they’re pictures of nothing at all.'

   Because, what are photographs but some odd shapes on some glossy paper that resembled the people you loved, the places you've been to, and the things you've lost? A concoction of all that once was, and is now no more.

Saturday, 19 June 2010

In the Dark.

    She walked to my bedside with her eyes visibly distraught, almost crying, almost worried, almost sorry. Being completely sorry was never her strong suit.

    'You know,' she began. 'Those two - I always knew what those two wanted. They'd always ask, they'd cry, they'd even demand, but you - sometimes I would wake up in the night to find you awake, to find you hungry - but you never cried - you'd sleep in hunger. Even as a baby you never asked.' And then she took my hand, 'and you still don't ask. I took care of them, and you took care of me - maybe that's why I lost you. Maybe, that's why you're so angry now.' And the sun began shining through the panes.

    In the blistering hot morning, he walked up to the window and lit a cigarette. I remember how I used to see him in my half sleep, and realise, he was happy. And there, splayed on the desk, the opened envelope of a telephone bill caught his eye. When he inspected the bill, he widely smiled; a smile which both spoke of contentment and fulfilled expectation.
    'It's my number,' he said. 'It's all my number.'
    I did not answer.
    'I know,' he said. 'Who have you to call, but me?' And, in a swift stroke, like an old newspaper that served no purpose, he sent the bill flying back unto the desk. He reached for another envelope. I reached for my whiskey.

    And when I held the bottle of whiskey, as though it were my wife, she said 'no - no, this is wrong. You shouldn't do this to yourself…it's just not right. You're so beautiful, and….don't do this.' A sobbing woman beseeched me in the dark.

    Now, when I turn off my lights, it turns off truly for I have not windows, and therefore, the nuisance of light. The sun has no power in this room and light does not even carelessly wander by. What's without does not come within. And within, the only light, if there is to be light at all, lies at end of a bottle. Within, there are no lies; within, there is no pretense. Within, as it is for those of us who have a shard in our heart, there's just a man in the dark.

Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Poetry 16/06/2010

In your flight, to sad men below,
pray speak, wedge of geese -
I'm half killed, half dead,
Half marred, half desolate -
The beauty of my peace.


Thursday, 10 June 2010

In These Three Years..

Everything came and ended. Everything had an expiry date that I didn't know of, and when expired I still thought was good - like sour milk we take in accidentally only to spit out.

Saturday, 5 June 2010


   After awhile of walking and threading upon daisies and soft green turf, we came by the lake, and there, for some strange reason, the sun shone brightly. This was quiet part of the lake that I seldom visit - but being sunny, there were more people there than its wont.

   'This is strange,' she suddenly said, plucking the turf about her anxiously, and throwing them into the lake.
   'What's strange?'
   'I think you've been reading literature for too long - it's gotten to you.'
   'No,' she smiled. 'This…you…now - it's been more than a year.'
   'So, why forgive you now?'
   'Yes,' she dimly, despite the glaring summer sunlight, added.
   'Well, I can hold a grudge and for what you did, holding a grudge wouldn't be too hard. But, what's the point in that?'
   'Yes, there is no point.'

   A goose then hopped unto the ground we sat upon, and the heat of the sun made us quiet, that we could only, with our eyes, follow the animal as it slowly made its way pecking at the soil.

   'I bet…,' she started.
   'Hmmmm?' I broke myself from the sight of the goose.
   'I bet,' she continued, 'you wish had contacted me earlier, huh?'
   'Did you learn?' I asked.
   'Did you learn, in my absence? From my absence?'
   'Yes,' she quietly said.
   'You wouldn't have,' I said. 'Had you heard from me earlier.'

She smiled, and I, smiled back.

   We burn bridges - we do. Some, so that we can move on, so that the person on the other side can't get to us anymore, some others, we burn to teach. Because we care enough to teach. Sometimes, the greatest gift you can give another, is your absence. And what you can't teach while being together, you teach, upon leaving.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

Poetry: 06/04/2010

Come on, write to me, and tell me, I deserve writing to,
In the vagueness of tomorrow, tell me, there's no solitude
Fine things and happy things, tell me, and tell well -
Before my tender nook, dead, is marked by the bell.


Friday, 2 April 2010


We deal in hyperbole - we write in hyperbole, and even think in hyperbole. Love, and love alone, evokes hyperbole most ludicrously.

In the pangs of separation; no rose smells as sweet, nor shines as red as her cheek. No sunrise, the same magic of her sleepy morning eyes. No sound as musical, no words as lyrical as those which come from the faculty of her mouth. And when I touch another - it is not that she feels like thorns to me, but to a man who is in love, no other woman is as soft.

We deal in hyperbole.

Thursday, 25 March 2010

Either Which Way.

Either which way - that's an important phrase. Because that's the truth of thing. Things happen, either which way. Some things don't, either which way. Things were, things are, things will be - either which way. It's an important phrase; either which way. Because in the end, you have to live - and die - either which way.

Sunday, 21 February 2010

Remember You, Like a Child, Girl.

There are two stairways that lead down to the Regent Park station - each, exits on either way of the same road. Two, and I always take one. Just one. And it never matters to me from which direction I am coming from nor which I am going to - I always take the one facing towards the East of Marylebone Road. Towards a particular accommodation. Perhaps because I like it that way, perhaps, because I kissed someone incessantly by that stairway.

But I am a creature of habit, and a silly one at that - so when I took it this time, I took my same old walk across the road, pausing for a moment at the crossing; with my customary glance at a particular window behind me - even though none I know now live there anymore.  And then, it is Park Square East, and into Regent Park. I've come to realise, I've visited this place ofterner than I have my most beloved park: St. James'. Perhaps because I like it this way, perhaps because that first night, we star-gazed by that  byway.

It was sunny today and I was never the one for sunny weather - but it rained a little, and London is never London without its rain anyway. I was visiting my cemetery -  the Rose Garden. There, the rose bushes  all stood cut down, so that they'd grow up again. But it looked like a dead place now. And in the ringed pathway that encircled them, there were signposts that read:

'Keep Smiling' - 'Lovely Lady' - 'Remember Me' ...

I took my customary seat and left a letter I wrote for her by the bench - like mourner's rose on the grave. She'll never see it, it'll die in the London rain - but I did it nonetheless. Perhaps because I am silly this way, perhaps because, here, I left her that day.

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Poetry 13/02/2010

I'm doomed to love those who do not love me,
And love not, those who do,
Like the blossom that loved naught but the sun,
When in equal measure, his fellow flower -
Does - in waiting - shine and not run.


Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Radha is Gokul

My office lies in Mathura - my heart's at Gokul. If I were the Lord, I'd leave my Mathura and go to Gokul. I'd leave my Mathura, and see my Radha - by the river Jamuna, where perhaps, she's bathing. And her hand, at her unawares, for a kiss I'd seize - like of old I tended to - so that she may plead of me, as of old, not to. Then like a meek girl, run away.

Radha is, Gokul is, and Radha's Gokul. So I'd see in Gokul her great flashing eyes - that does both illuminate and strike. Then fancy, perhaps, that her fire's still burning - that she's still waiting. Fancy...perhaps.

But she's no Radha, and she's not waiting. And I'm no Krishna, so there's no going.

Sunday, 7 February 2010

Two Weeks

It's been two weeks since I've spoken to you, and I know it'll be four soon. And four weeks will be eight, and eight will be four months. And then, from four to eight, and before I realise it, years have passed. Years.

And sometimes, but only for those fortunate few, years are but moments.

Saturday, 23 January 2010

Poetry 23/01/2010

His heart is broken, his leg's not,
So he'll walk a walk,
Walk like the Kings of Yore, walk
Like the saddened, orphaned child,
He'll walk - and some might say;
There's a child that few ever begot.


Friday, 1 January 2010


The whole of last year, I saw everyone hung up over something or the other - hung up over love, over deceit, over vice, over loss, sometimes even over the lack of loss. So a new year to you, to all of you saddies out there - I didn't include 'happy', because it may not be a 'happy' year but it is new - and that's got to count for something. A new year to you all.