To chances in life

Here I am,
Red lipstick; fun earrings
And there he is,
A question mark.

Will it go as planned?
Is this what I had expected it to be?

Or am I to be deceived?


The conversations of yesterday determined my today,

But my today determines my tomorrow!

I really hope I’m not deceived,

Yet, difficulties find myself secretly hoping I am.


This tragedy and comedy of hope and betrayal is life long,

I perceive with a sigh,

But it’s beautiful.


It’s beautiful because

People are always deceptive but situations are intelligent

They give you different kinds of learning;

They teach you to love the wait,

Hope for the best,

And be glad situations outsmarted your quirky




The oblivious.

I’m astounded by the oblivious.
How carefree and unapologetically pragmatic, they are-
The old uncle of the bus,
The squealing children,
The office-going folk,
The old women,
The young ones with earphones,
And the ticket collector of them all.

I enter, a stranger.

They stop and look and go on with their day.
The bus is a medium of travelling-
Just another vehicle with smelly armpits and lecherous stares;
Just another vehicle with dirt and a crowd.

Oh how they would long to have facilities of luxury-
For the children and the family, of course.
And then they would live their lives in the ‘big picture’.
But really how fortunate they are to live this life!
I get out of my car to take the bus
And they, the small specs of reality that make up the ‘big picture’,
Get out of the bus to buy a worthless car.

Beauty and rains


Beauty of the mind,

Of the soul,

Of nature,

And of the little things

Your touch, one kind gesture,

A warm smile,a heartfelt apology.


This beauty-so real in every second, every moment, every ounce of the air we breathe-captivates me.

It urges me to be alive.

Away from the aspects of life that make me close my eyes, I’m grateful to be alive.


Eyes open, senses heightened, woes are forgotten and the rest of life seems assured.

And the feeling that comes with experiencing first rains is unimaginable

It is beyond the ‘I feel at peace’

It is beyond expressions and mere amateur words.

If is like the birth of a baby, the realization of

A first success or the turn of a century.

It’s the pride in being,

In living and feeling.

It’s the caramel-enveloping sound of symphonies.

It’s so much and more

Yet, it’s  nothing simpler than the most intimate thing- LIFE.


Gray bench and red balloon

December 14:


I sat there with her-the gray stone beneath us,

And suddenly it felt like the stone had inflicted its sadness on us.

It wasn’t like I didn’t try, though.

I tried, tried hard to maintain the connection.

But those brief pauses were like thorns.

Sharp, hurtful and damaging.

I could sense that the rose was wilting.

I was wilting.

And she didn’t believe in the rose.

I just wanted to see her smile, see her play around with those strands of hair-I wanted to see her happy.

But I was a new person to her now, wasn’t I?

Couldn’t make her laugh, couldn’t make her converse. I just failed at this entire thing.

It was bad enough that my feelings had pulled down our friendship but had they killed it? Had they killed what was the most intimate friendship I had ever felt?

That killed me.

She flew away like a red balloon, soon.

And now I am left gray,

Clinging on to that bench,

Clinging onto those memories,

That last encounter, that made my heart weep,

Until a balloon comes and takes me away too

To the heaven of my princess.


This projects a situation my friend went through. I tried to capture it and put it in words, the way I had imagined it. (of course, this is only my interpretation of his situation)


Captured emotion

How these events don’t matter,

In a moment of entirety.

How these reasons are irrelevant,

Once they’ve done their bit.


How prayers become forgotten thoughts,

When tick-tock doesn’t give anxiety.

How ceremonies are not as important,

When seeing happiness doth vision permit.


I stop to think about the rain,

How it lashes out; then falls with beauty.

Soon I see each drop and get amazed,

By how it carries out selfless duty.


You might capture, at this point,

That these poetic verses are purposefully lax,

For it is not the candle that actually matters,

But in its heat, the molten wax.