White hair.

Life flashes before my eyes, I can smell her hair that are now white. It had always been my definition of beauty. That scent.                                                                                       Over the years,it had become a part of me and yet I was never fulfilled. It still came from her, and I always lingered. The hunger still remained. I wish I could could take it with me. I can’t remember how many years we have been together, how many arguments we’ve had, the jewellery and clothes she owns but I do remember the first time she glanced at me, how she looked into my eyes with hers. When her curls spilled  themselves across her face and she took her hand to remove them.  Between her hair, through our eyes, our souls had caught on fire.

I lay in her lap, my life at her disposition, her toes touching my hair every now and then. I realised this is where I truly belonged. She was my goddess and I was here at her feet.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              I was breathing my last breaths they exclaimed, don’t crowd him they said. I wanted to be there, at her feet. With the whole world in haziness and only her insight. Her, me, us and our memories. After all the phases, positions and places in our lives, I had found where I belonged. It took me my death bed to find that out. I wanted my last breaths to be taken away by her, her kisses had always made me breathless. Only because she was so passionate and so divine.

She asked me- “Shall I get up and lay you on the bed?”
Her white hair reflected the light from the tube and her wrinkled hands shivered as she said. I smirked and she smiled. we both knew the answer. A translucent layer of tears brimmed her eyes as she gleamed in sadness and happiness.
We both knew,
The night would come and a day anew
People would eventually scatter,
Go to their respective homes and chatter,
Come back to check on me in the morning,
There would be tears and a lot of mourning,
But we’ll be here smiling,
As our bodies will lay, side by side
Like the water with its tide.
In heaven we’ll meet as the world tells stories of our love; I’ll take her scent and she my touch.

Us At Dusk

Will you come to me at dusk?

When the sun’s fallen and duties done?

Will you run to me,

Like the dog after my car?

Purposelessly yet passionately?


Will I be your reason or will I be your refuge?

Am I just somebody or your only muse?

I’m grateful for the night

It’s not scary! Not even close.

Darkness brings closure.

To the day. To reality.

To pretentions and calamity.


I loathe the day.

The eyes that see. Me and you.

So judgmentally.

How the sun simply magnifies our flaws.

Are we criminals against the law?

How every crease and every fold,

every hair becomes a story told.

As the world runs on it, the flaws.

Every business looking to extract it with their new technological claws.

But will, you. Run to me?

Will you. Be able to see?

The heart behind it all?

Be it winter,spring or fall?

If I’m cold, will I have your warmth?


Will you forget the world, only for the night

Like I forgot my lovers and my might?

Could you in this darkness.

Make me believe, I’m your goddess?

Close yours eyes and forget to look?

Let’s for once not use our minds.

No, not even our eyes.


We’ve looked too much, judged too much.

Oh, this blessed dusk,

Let’s fall in love and discover our own musk.

Let the scents fill  the room.


Discover me and I’ll you.

No makeup or clothes.

Just our fingers and toes!

So will you come to me at dusk

When the suns fallen and duties done?



You’ll find me (Part II)

I’m trying to find a soul,

Wandering and lost.

I’m looking.

For the meaning and purpose of every insect on this land. The curiosity is almost never ending.

This search, this desire.

Are we really meant to live in four walls?

Did we free ourselves from the womb to be choked in our own breath?

Must all of this be so cliché?

Do both a village wife and the president of the United States really go to heaven?

Do they both really possess a soul?

Or are they both individually possessed?

Both by dominations, one a man and other with a country full of men

Both weighed down by duties of their own kinds.

One on a bullock cart and the other in a limo.

Do you actually remember your wedding day as a celebration or was it a union of two sacrifices? Another hassle.

Are you the river or the ocean?

What if you learn that you are indeed the bank where the two meet?

Is there a word to define passion?

Must you always disgrace my love for anything and everything?

Must we always have to cry for what is not ours and stand tall for what we do?

Does it not become awfully heavy? This burden of a false world?

Must this piece of writing have a name for you to be allured to?

Why can I not take pleasure in the way this pen presses its hard self against the soft paper?

Can we not be like animals? If we do have the instincts?

Are we not them?

Are they not us?

Cruelty is dangerous, animal-ism isn’t.

Why can I not be happy with what I have and be drunk with these words?

Do you not see how utterly beautiful they are and how fondly and madly in love they are?

Must we have a licence for everything?

Why can I not find my home?

How do I better enjoy the insanity of myself?

You the wondrous soul,

In me you have found your home,

Your lust has taken its toll.

You’ll find me.


Must death always find its way to us?

A paper full of memories, I don’t want to kill it. 

Find me.

Look for me in the depths of the unknown,

In the hidden secrets of the soul.

In broken pieces and forgotten places.

I’ll be her.

The one clad in silk, or maybe in nothing.

The one living solitary, beneath the snow.

Who’s lover, he; din’t even know!

Find me in the dates of of this mortal world,

in the breath of your sweetheart.

In the reflection of that broken glass,

I’ll be the one.

Crying in the closet of your majestic wooden house.

In the aging of  the tree,

in the ruins of the world.

In khadi and silk,

woven not produced.

Touched, felt and embraced by a thousand!

I’ll linger in the haunting scents of your once present

I’ll be the one banging on the doors of your memory 

The leaf in the snow.

Not beautiful, no never! Alone.

Take me in now,

So when you touch, do you feel a thousand others more?

You don’t possess me, you never can.

I’m wild and free.

I’m pen and paper.

I’m written and unwritten

Told and forgotten.

His memory shall remember,

when his past shall haunt.

Don’t hide too far,

This is home, I am home.

Yet, you’ll chase me and forget me

and once again; remember me.

Centuries would pass.

What’s my struggle is your victory,

my love now your hate.

my present and your past.

It’s not a different world,

it’s the same.

When you embrace me, 

when you cut that tree,

when you’ll write that letter,

you’ll know me,

oh! I promise.

You’ll find me!



Stars and diamond,

Gold and silver; Bangles and earrings.

Oh, you beautiful beings.

In this dark I see,

Torched sonnets, words in scripted on walls and ceilings.

Beautiful phrases, good grammar.

Does this get better?

I want to read, every bit of this place. Enclosed yet open, heaven in a tunnel.

Shall I die here?

A husky voice!

Ah, treasured secrets but narrow visions.

This is love, this is lust.

I lust those lips, from which these words emerge.

Those eyes, who do you seek?

So much glamour. How words resonate in you!

Not every script is made for thy land.

Lie down with me, on the sand.

Fill every bit of this paper. With art, with music, with words!

Words that will awaken you, the ones that shall touch you.

Oh, his hand.

Sculpted with the colour of Adam, reflecting masculinity.

Not fair and fragile like hers.

Not painted, not jewelled. Just perfected.

He would hold the fountain pen, while she would hide in her den.

Her magic, his words.

The ones that read her curves.

Just above her belt, between the t-shirt; that little corner of her waist that peeped.

He had lusted her, but he loved words.

Now he loved her and lusted words.

His mysteries were now a maze.

Her beauty now his craze.



The Walk To Ecstasy


“CEO”; The title that hung outside her door.
“Mrs. Duke”; The one society knew her to be.

The French windows behind her glass desk overlooked another building just like her own. Glass, grey. Sophisticated. Just like all the other buildings in New York. 50 years now in the company, she was one of the finest and richest women of her time. The photo frames only captured moments of false happiness that were forced by the camera men. Who was family?

She was clueless about where they were till christmas, till then even a phone call was a gift. Pearls, heels and suits; her life revolved around it. Deep In thought she noticed that the next building threw a shadow on her office wall and created a delightfully good figure of a tree.
She couldn’t think of the last time she saw an actual tree or park until that day when she took that walk.
-On that auspicious day, he read out the words tears in his eyes and his heart overwhelmed with joy and sorrow both. He knew not what he was to feel, but he knew how right it was.

” Today, I’ll write. Not because someone asked me to, not because I’m forgotten or because I want to be. I don’t want to run away (Secretly, deeply maybe) or get drunk and lay but because I want to be.

Darkness is not evil, it could be a little scary though. I want to walk, and so my dear I’m taking it.

I want to walk, miles and miles without water, without food and books to read. Not because I despise them but because I want to know how it would be without the things I live by.

No money, no, not a penny!

On the dark roads, I’ll walk. My head held high, as though a crown had been bestowed to my head and destiny! Did you know as a little girl I always wanted to be a princess? When I’m a little too tired to go on, the street lights would shine upon me remind me of my destiny.

To walk, to walk and never look back. In the silence of that night, the roads would lead me to the forest. The grass and the animals.
All beings, breathing but sleeping. These days, all too restlessly.

The wind and me, childhood lovers. We’ve been there for quite long now. Let me walk, let me see what you’ve got for me. He plays with my hair, like the younger days of first kisses and romance. Those men had been so wrong and me so naive.  In the midst of my journey, I shall fall in love with the trees, handsome and tall. The branches all over, roots too. But their grandeur too, ends somewhere. We humans, the littlest beings forget that.
Their handsomeness with them, shall die to but not their fruit. They give on.

Here, I shall be admiring them, in awe of their majesty yet I must remember to move on.
You must walk past it, capture it but walk. Forward. Always.

Through the ferns and leaves, covered in dew and mist. I shall greet thee. Like old friends they would wave at me, not leaving their branch and yet spreading smiles. Glistening from the recent rain like an adorned bride, with a heavy heart I shall wave them goodbye. I meet now the mountains, grand and bold. Standing with pride as they do, they smirk in approval to my journey. I bow down in respect.

I see now a land. Mud, wet and fertile. So soft and feminine, like the womb of a mother.

She is a mother to the blooming world except you simply forgot. Let me just stay here for a little while. Ive walked too much. Heavy eyes, stars above my sight. So beautiful. My legs now tired from the journey. The visions, the sights.

Did I see the world enough? I asked my soul, he approved. Anything you’d want to say?

He said to me, I’m glad you din’t live the life I thought you would. You’re exactly where you should! You made me see, all that the world could be. I’m at peace now ! I lay on the wet bed of Mother Earth. The wind cuddling and embracing me. The trees admiring me. The ferns and leaves leaving their abode to fly to me. The mountains sending their blessings indeed.

I’m content, I’m complete.

My lovers and friends all here, the rest is history. I close my eyes, ask Mother Earth to take me in.
Now, my love I can say I’ve lived. The angels await.

Spring, shall be my funeral. The witness shall be you and the world.

Its a celebration! Of life not that which is gone but the one that lived! My lovers and friends were true indeed, stood by me till death did us apart.

With them, I had no papers, no bonds nor marriage or tags.
With them I had, love and purity.

We lived, so celebrate me as she dissolves me within herself and as I fly with the angels themselves. I’ll close my eyes. The walk is over; the destination was truly destined.

I lived, I walked. Found love and ecstasy; Now I must sleep. ”

From the gates of heaven,


A Mortal On An Immortal Bridge.

images (4)

“Is this your first breath there, or is it your last here?

Who has written your story? Do you know your story? “

I’ll put on a coat now, I’ll tell you stories now.

You could walk with me if you like or turn away

Either way is just fine.

Beneath my coat you won’t find a dress,

Because I’m a perfect mess.

My sweater and my jeans comfort me. Keep me warm.

On the banks of the river, I shall walk.

The trees are giving away,

The leaves now grow old, gracefully.

Red, as though the lord had put in a little bit of fire in them.

They shall burn, they shall give light.

All before they let go.

Of themselves, of forgetting their names.

Someone will take over, they have to.

The bridge will still stand, strong. People will walk.

The benches and public phones will stay.

They’ll always lead to the Eiffel.

Like the bridges in our life. They’ll lead us to where we belong.

Sit under that tree, oh! It’s beautiful.

“Linden”; It’s name.

Every step on that path shouts love and purity.

That’s how our lives should feel.

You, your loved one(s)

Happiness. Purity.

Beauty. Eternal love.

Sit on that bench,

Upon your head will you see, the tree smiling at you

Guarding you, protecting you

Like your innocence, and childhood.

As though it’s blessing you.

Its leaves the shape of a heart.

God’s the best writer,

You don’t have to have a private plane,

And you don’t have to have a grand wedding.

It’s all there.

Nature has it all, laid out for you.

Life’s not a burden, it’s not a game.

He sent you down, to be a part of him.

To marvel at his works of perfection,

The one we, mortals would never create.

Sit there, look at that river


Breathe the air that brings life

Not the one that causes cancer.

He may not be your soul mate,

He may not be your brother,

Not even your father.

She may not be your sister,

Maybe not your mother,

But embrace them,

Embrace them all.

Those who stand by you, hold their hand.

Take a while,

Walk with them.

Not in metro’s, not in the office, not on Skype

But in real life.

Feel the touch of human skin,

The supple creation, designed to comfort.

How does it feel?

To know you have the warmth on the cold winter night?

Maybe that’s why this road was made,

Probably why it was never the same.

Maybe the leaf of the tree over your head will eventually fall,

And tree will one day have new leaves,

But it will always.

Life goes on.

And it’s okay to sit there, pamper yourself

Let the tree and its leaves heal you,

To hold the hand of those you love,

Before your journey ends,

Till you reach your destination.

Getting to the core- Neurotic Writers Diary- Page 5

images (2)They’ll wait for you patiently,

People however patient. It’s these small things, they hurt you.

You don’t have to be physically hurt  someone to make them feel detached, low and lost.

Love is a bridge, the one you have to build and trust it’s material. It’s authenticity.

The stronger, the finer and purer, more the love. But, does it end there? We wish it did.

Every one of us despite our ethics, our backgrounds, our religions and our principles are born to love.

We’re hungry for it. You in your very core know that.

We can hide it and never show it, but you can’t escape the fact.

To physically survive man needs food and shelter.

To emotionally survive, love is the only cure.


 Notes-  Getting to the core is another series of my writings, where the questions and answers of introspection are typed down. According to me, they are the most important part of being anything; introvert or an extrovert. To ask yourself questions, to ask yourself where you belong, your identity, you sanity. You don’t need to wait for the day when you’ve lost all that you had and you have to visit a psychiatrist  Because he/she does not have the answers; you do.  I hope these little notes of questions, and my neurotic diary continues to be read if not by you then by me. To remind myself, of me. 

You might not know your name, but you know your story.


It’s back! The energy, the magic. It’s not perfect but it’s there. I can feel my hands finally escaping their fears and itching to write again. It feels wonderful!

This feeling, when your phone is how it should be, switched off. You are how you should be.

Calm. Yet, bubbling with energy! Sleepless.

Like every cell of my body is jumping, smiling, craving. Craving to be heard. Not in a painful way but in a very joyful, crazy way.Crazy! Yes, that’s who we all are. Now I am again!My blood rushes and pumps itself as I write these words. I’m here. I’m home.In my room where the walls are white, the furniture shapes and molds to the choice of my colours. White, blue. Peace and serenity fill the air.I feel calmness in my breathe, in my body.  It feels good.Not to be struggling to breath, with the fear that someone might harm you, touch you.Physically, emotionally.It feel good to be this way to just simply listen to yourself. Calmly and patiently.There is no good that can be killed by the bad. It’ll come back. If it’ true it always does( A lot like love)

I’m back to tell myself,My worth.That despite circumstances, comments and perceptions;I’m beautiful and you- reading this are too.

You might not know your name; but  only you know your story, so embrace yourself, cry, fall and break but pick yourself up smile, laugh and join the pieces back again!


A Contrasting Malaise


The smoke fills the air in the house, the ‘havan’ has just finished. It’s supposed to be a religious ceremony where all the negative energies in the house are collected, the god’s and goddesses are prayed to. They say that, during this ceremony there is even a time when they descend down for the ceremony’s completion and sent back. Where are they?

I want to see them. I want to see the negative energies in the house and in myself and I want to see them go. I want to see god take away all these negative energies. I want him to see that everybody is a mess.

Despite the circumstances, the beautiful colours, clothes, faces, exchanges of gifts and money; what really lies?

I want him to see.

I’ll hum a tune, and you’ll never know what song it is.

I’ll wait, wait till you’re done. So you’ll come back and smile.

But you won’t.

For that I have to let you go.

I’ll walk here, and you’ll walk there. I’ll smile.

They’ll tell me, it’s a beautiful smile. Is it now?

The one that can’t reach my eyes. The pain is strong, intoxicating almost. When it’s a part of you, it hurts. But slowly, like the stream of water seeping into something, It gets into every cell of my bloodstream.

Sometimes, rushes too!

Like poison in a mortals body, as though it’s counting seconds and longing to finally turn into a vampire because otherwise, it’s just painful. Then the remorse hits you. You howl, plead and scream. Hope. Hope that this seeping pain will either go away or fill itself completely. And slowly, it fills you. It fills you like a glass being filled by a jug. It has too much to give and you, too little to take. There are shivers at first, and then comes numbness. The wonderful gift, better than alcohol or anything else. The numbness loves you, and you love it.

Pain, hurts you. Numbness, calms you.

Somehow nothing that anyone says matters and you want to smile because you’re a mess but so is the world. You realized that sooner, much sooner that your friends have or they will.

I wish I could say, but hey who’ll listen? They all say they will.

They don’t.

If you’re reading this then you already know what pain is. It’s a happy high or a constant stab in the stomach. I want to look at my foot and touch it, feel it because I know it hurts.

I know that the car that ran over it, was heavy, I know that the tier as it rolled over my gentle skin of my foot hurt me.

But I won’t look at it, because it’ll make me realize; the stabbing pain.


The suffering that our body goes through. These unhealed wounds, incomplete desires of beauty, cuts, aches, and fractures are they anything compared to how really hurt we are or we have been?

Do you want me to tell you? I will, I promise to write them in flowery words or just plain reality. Will you cry and sympathise or leave it to say- “How unhappy.”

I Am. I’m unhappy. Discontented. Unsatisfied.

I wanted to be, now I’m crippled. Not permanently, temporarily. I don’t like how my sickness restricts me. The fact that I’m scared of going out or that everywhere I go, I look at every man and wonder if he’d manipulate, lie and rape.


So as these smokes, slowly creep into the molecules of the air

The ‘havan’

I’ll ask god to take away my pain too; this suffering and maybe he’ll listen.

With it maybe, he’ll also steal away the cause of this all.