Penned them on the road

When I held your head in my arms, shaking and trembling, I hoped to find, in some forlorn vein, a little throbbing. But there was none. Neither a pulse, nor a smile, nor did an angel of miracle appear to beguile. And amidst the panic rescue thrusts to your chest, you laid calm, almost like you were put to rest. I don’t know what it was that hit me first. Was it the scathing blades of sorrow, or unbenign, unrelenting waves of pure guilt? I should have pondered then. But I thought no more. “I was only a shout away”, […]

For you are now free

When everything is done, and December is dusted. When the protests go weak, and the voices silenced. When the dented veneers of a power-hungry capital, has painted itself with more hues of red. When the lustful lot have lived their lives, and will soon lay lifeless in a lawman’s lair. When the lawyers make and break those codes, of ethics, morals and bureaucratic delays. For the 23 years of dreams and smiles, that were crushed beneath an iron rod, We are angry, but we will still pause to shed, a single tear for a fallen dewdrop. ============================================================ (The Delhi rape victim […]

A tear for a fallen dewdrop

She smiled lusciously, barren lips breaking into a wet trance. Unspoken erotica, pouring turmoil on my psyche. Touching an abyss never explored. Wandering through forbidden fields of lust. And when I think of her, the lust is what I recall. Lashing waves against this evening shore. Again and again, till the pain turned to pleasure. The pain I never sought, nor coveted. All this forsaken soul longed for, was a drop of your warm touch. Break free From the moral chains of the hazy clouds And pour forth your lust Onto this cauldron of human needs. Fill it to the […]

Lusting for the rain

I wrote this short-story after being inspired by A.G Macdonald’s account of Village cricket in England, as detailed in his book ‘England, their England’. If MacDonald could write about Village cricket in England, someone had to write about the hilarious village cricket matches in my hometown of Kerala, India, between 2 competing panchayat wards. If you dont get certain words or situations, consult a Keralite.  ============================================================================= The young man from 2nd ward, sporting a blue Nike cap, had nonchalantly tried to flick the quickie to the leg-side. But to his surprise (and to the bowler’s), the ball slowed down on bouncing. […]

A day’s match

What has it been? A decade of decadence? All the sins I partook, All the whims, the lack of sense. They now seem meaningless. Grains of sand flirting through An age that has passed. A time lost from view. To the green leaves and russet roads. To the songs the farmers sang before. To the dust that rose, then settled to die. To the gleeful smile of a forgotten lore. To the trickling laughter of the lusting river. To the unseen bosom of the velvet cloud. To the singing bees and the dancing clowns. To the violent pen and the […]

A sense of belonging

A story that I’ve been planning to write for a long time, about someone I met in Manila. Thanks to a little free time, was able to complete it 🙂 Clay was not designed for the word ‘normal’. Normal men spent their Saturday afternoons in the beautiful couch that they purchased from market-market on their 13th month payday, while sipping san mig beer, playing around with their fingers in the home-cooked sisig, watching Pacquiao trounce any unfortunate guy who was gearing up to challenge him. Or watching some bloke discussing in length about Pacquao trouncing any unfortunate guy who was […]

Clay’s Burdens

There shall be no wisp of thin air between the end and the beginning. Nor shall there be any acrimonious good-byes. No sober hands can hold me back, nor can the wretched fingers extend their clasp. Plight is home for the nearsighted. Delight is home for the enlightened. I am home for the merry and gay. But not for you. You, like them all, shall pass. The naked leprechauns know shame nor guilt. Or the thousand things that people built. Hustling in the forlorn streets, Lusting for the forbidden fruit. They wander in my twilight gardens, like leaves of unknown, […]

They all, shall pass.

There is a kid in me today. He wants to break free, leave to ashes the shackles that bind him, break the virtual realm of the excel cells that surround him, slip into those slip-ons, dip into those forlorn waters, and surf.... on real waves, for once. ====================================================   Note: Who am I kidding? I can only write such poems, but have to come back to the office in the morning :-(

Thoughts of Surfing.

  Push! Push a little more. Oh, how I bear your burdens. And your hopes. And dreams.   I can’t take it anymore. Do you find a glimpse of consent on my wet lips? Or am I feigning ignorance to the pain? Pucker up! Says the world. Were you around when the world was left on my shoulders? You watched me on statues, you loved my stability. You admired the way I juggled life. Yet, did you share my burden? Or did you offer, a hand, an iota of support? If the answer is nay, then shouldn’t you just shut […]

When Atlas Cried.

The night is stubborn and flinty. It refuses to let a whit of light Erase the darkness out of my blinded eyes. I solicit light, to sojourn For my eyes to see, but for a while. He replies, “The moon’s I am. Let him dispatch”. But alas, the moon is under servitude To hazy, nebulous, lumpish layers. People call them clouds. I call them a disturbance And when I ask them for mercy They laugh at me, perhaps tickled by pathos. But man and his quest has never tired And it never will, its god’s decree. It was this quest […]


All the many times that you have started a story with the words above, would have made you a perfect candidate to win the Bulwer-lytton prize. Edward George Bulwer-Lytton was an English novelist, who apart from coining phrases like “the pen is mightier than the sword“, also wrote the famous opening line “It was a dark and stormy night“. And in his honour, the English department at San Jose State University set up the Bulwer-Lytton prize which awards a person for composing “the worst opening line for a novel”.   Well, my literature was always suitable for a Bulwer Lytton, […]

It was a dark and Stormy night…

I will survive.   So, you may not be around to watch, or cheer, or boo. Doesn’t matter. It never did. I have learnt to say it that way.   I’ve killed my bills. Learnt a lot to stand on my own. Didn’t need you to teach me balanced scorecard. Learnt it on my own. Didn’t need you around to learn to make scrambled eggs. And, you should know this: I make them with cheese too. And they taste as well as yours. Any day.   And, I don’t tell you my troubles anymore. Not that I don’t have my […]

The occupied.

I must have been in the 10th grade when I first read the below poem by Kamala Suraiyya. I never understood a word of it then. But as years stood grown, and experiences stood gained, these words kept adding interpretations by themselves. Especially when you travel. Dont turn your face or look at me, dear one. I dare not gaze again into the depth of sequeustered pools. Behind the layers of cold skin may lurk sleeping suns that might rise out of the water like naked leprechauns to beguile to please. I dare not play the games adults seem to […]

Dare not.

May is vacation in Mahe. The rain comes down, to renew It’s acquaintance with the earth. And suddenly the red soil Becomes fragrant. The fragrance Of the earth – earth bathed in rain. In may, the willow meets the cork. And suddenly, you find Wickets drawn on the walls with chalk; Goals scored between two stones. The earth then meets, Not only the rain, But also the mirth that it brings along. But may even brings along Frustration. With a slight consternation, We instill in our mind, That april was vacation enough. May makes the school seem far One month […]

May in Mahe

You speak of walking, Through that infernal street. Carry on, But don’t ever Take a groping look at the half-shut windows. There might be eyes scorching you. There might be people feeding on their Imagination. Feeding on you. Fear.   And like amidst sequestered pools, The forlorn ripples fight, They fight among themselves Like vultures For your soul. ====================================================== Wrote this for a fellow female traveller, who was doing the unthinkable back in 2009: Of travelling Solo through South Asia.


Bittersweet lies!! So, you wouldn’t want to see me? For what joy, may I ask? For the sheer exuberance that pain can hold? Or for the vanity of self-depreciation? Pain goes a full circle. So, are we both caught in a corner? Shades of black and white is chaste, is life a motley grey? And when truth does falter and come your way, why would you walk away? So, is it for everyday mortals, to see you and dream? You made me feel like a king, and now you make me the penny less pauper? People change. Situations change. feelings […]

Forlorn lands and forgotten poems.

For the first time in my life,   what I feel is not the long-lost nostalgia; not the foreboding sense of despair; not pain; not hurt; not slithering reptiles up my neck; not a suffocating pair of hands; not suppression; nor depression.   I can feel the solitude like waves on a cliff. They lash, and each lash leaves behind a solemn trail. And the trails can speak. Or rather, scream.   “Follow us, into even more dysmal depths and more solitude awaits. You speak of solitude? Have you noticed it before? Know what colour it is? Have you seen […]


Does it hurt when hurt heals? Does it feel like there are no tomorrows and todays don’t even exist? And does it hurt to even think about yesterday?   Yesterday was a twisted note on a broken string And the chords went all wrong. Like played by the fingers of a drunken player. And every finger moved, every fret touched played it all wrong again. And what hurts the most, was the fact that you were seething within. And it was my tune you were humming. That twisted, tormented tune.   And the pain piles on me from all ends. Like […]

Yesterday cried again.

Purple be thy color. Its not about the homosexuality, which never existed in the first place. Pink is your foe and lavender your abhorrence. Its not about the royalty. There was no one more royal than you. Yet there was no one more banal than you.   Its probably the pride. Some might call it a deadly sin, but not to you. Not to us. Pride is the way we walk or rather, the path. The means.   But the best reason, is the high. The high of being with you. The high of the warmth, so engulfing. so reassuring. so […]


Nomad is what you are. across the rugged, treacherous desert of life. you walked. kept walking. Many a miles you looked around for water, the ocean of life. Many a times you felt you found it, only to falter, and turn around. Mirages. Fucking mirages. Mirages exist in realms of thought. within which you chose to live. Scared of breaking the realms? Adventurous you said? Dont think so. Not by soul. By spirit, maybe. And the mirages grew in number. They encompassed your thoughts, the way you felt. And one sudden day, nomad.. .. you had no feelings at all. […]


  Every moment spent without you is devoid of life, just a huge void. And I fall deeper and deeper, until i am ashamed of the depths. They stare at me, laugh them-self silly, and pour contempt all around. ‘Is this you? Who are you kidding’?   But the moment is too much to bear. Like a hundred knives stabbed into my flesh. But through the pain, I seek clarity. And the truth stings like dope. And its the high, the omnipotent high that throws me into this mess.   How many fallen miles we walked, to fall down, regroup […]

Your life awaits

Penned this on an airindia flight between Muscat and Mumbai, back in my early teens. A tribute to my father. ===================   Icarus Were you the seed of ignorance? The restless flow of vice shows a pattern, doesn’t it? What appeals to the eye as false, often, false they are not. Your wings are my blood. designed to flow. Crete was no match to the stem of ingenuity. I evaded the solid terrain, and the restless waters, and chose the stubborn air. yet you, my own blood? Fly not too low, or the burden of the damp would encompass all […]


Like raindrops after a barren summer, dancing on the blistered terrain. Drowning the pain, and the scab tissue. Wetting the long scars along the face filling them with the warmth of proximity, he danced… Down the mango groves and the paddy fields, there were days when he strode. cursing the mangoes and spitting on the paddy and shielding himself from the sun. With long, glossy banana leaves. chewing on the tobacco, staring down at people’s lives. stating throughout that god is within, It is not in rock, rock worshippers! And the god you seek, is the god within you. So, […]