Free

I saw them dancing,
with abandon and
without embarrassment,
to a song tainted popular.
I thought to myself,
Oh how silly they are.
And it made me think
how small we are.
Satisfied and pompous
in our small worlds,
looking inwards,
cool and all-knowing.
We build around ourselves
brick by judgmental brick
walls of prejudice.
And not once
does it occur to us
that usually it is those
who are outside of walls
that are called free. 

The Summer Teacher.

That summer,

when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,

she decided to send me
to an art class.

Early in the morning

I was woken up.

My sketch book, 

pencils, paints

and brushes packed. 

My teacher had 

a grey beard, 

thick glasses,

a penchant for

clean, crisp shirts

and a smile

which made

his eyes crinkle.

He looked us over.

A large group

of barely awake kids

forced out of beds 

early on a
summer holidays
morning. 

He had two rules,

he said.

We hated rules.

You all need to 

take a bath before 

you come to class.

We hated baths. 

And the second rule?

When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.

A blue sun.

Red grass.

Yellow crows.

Pink elephants.

And purple people

were perfectly acceptable.

We stared at him

trying to fathom

a world where 

no one was telling us 

to colour within the lines. 

And just like that

we started taking baths

at 6 AM every day.

Without a single complaint.

The Summer Teacher.

That summer,

when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,

she decided to send me
to an art class.

Early in the morning

I was woken up.

My sketch book, 

pencils, paints

and brushes packed. 

My teacher had 

a grey beard, 

thick glasses,

a penchant for

clean, crisp shirts

and a smile

which made

his eyes crinkle.

He looked us over.

A large group

of barely awake kids

forced out of beds 

early on a
summer holidays
morning. 

He had two rules,

he said.

We hated rules.

You all need to 

take a bath before 

you come to class.

We hated baths. 

And the second rule?

When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.

A blue sun.

Red grass.

Yellow crows.

Pink elephants.

And purple people

were perfectly acceptable.

We stared at him

trying to fathom

a world where 

no one was telling us 

to colour within the lines. 

And just like that

we started taking baths

at 6 AM every day.

Without a single complaint.

At the end of the day.

Another day
goes by.
Carefully,
we rearrange
our limbs
and minds
as we lay
down to sleep.
And then,
as the lights
burn low,
into our pillows
and fists
and bodies
of weary lovers,
into the deaf night
we weep.

At the end of the day.

Another day
goes by.
Carefully,
we rearrange
our limbs
and minds
as we lay
down to sleep.
And then,
as the lights
burn low,
into our pillows
and fists
and bodies
of weary lovers,
into the deaf night
we weep.

Will I

It is
incredible.
The feeling
of wanting
to belong.
To something.
To someone.
It can
make you
better,
or worse,
all at once.

Will I

It is
incredible.
The feeling
of wanting
to belong.
To something.
To someone.
It can
make you
better,
or worse,
all at once.

Hidden

We walk
we know not 

where.
Oft breaking into
haphazard
panic stricken
runs.
And at times 
our triumphs 

are nothing but

euphemisms 
for our loneliness. 

Hidden

We walk
we know not 

where.
Oft breaking into
haphazard
panic stricken
runs.
And at times 
our triumphs 

are nothing but

euphemisms 
for our loneliness. 

The chase

There is no more

chasing of dreams.

For in this stampede 

you have galloped ahead. 

And left them far behind.

The chase

There is no more

chasing of dreams.

For in this stampede 

you have galloped ahead. 

And left them far behind.

Window

The wayward curtains dance
and give me a peek into his world.
He sits alone, not a pastime in sight.
Looking into the distance he sees
the scenes large and fantastic
shown to him by his wayward mind.

Window

The wayward curtains dance
and give me a peek into his world.
He sits alone, not a pastime in sight.
Looking into the distance he sees
the scenes large and fantastic
shown to him by his wayward mind.

Everyday

The journey taken
too many times,

now passes by
without making
its preference felt. 

It doesn't
bother me 

that the curves
in the road

now seem
so very straight. 

You need to
start worrying

only when
the destination
starts to simply
pass by too. 

And becomes
everyday.

Everyday

The journey taken
too many times,

now passes by
without making
its preference felt. 

It doesn't
bother me 

that the curves
in the road

now seem
so very straight. 

You need to
start worrying

only when
the destination
starts to simply
pass by too. 

And becomes
everyday.

Passersby

He knows who I am.
The grocer on the corner.
And even if I am out on a stroll,
with no agenda, or money,
he lets me take home
some biscuits to dip
in my evening tea.
Because he knows me.
He knows me.
The rickety old guard,
in his rickety old guardhouse.
His calloused, wrinkled fingers
wave as I pass by.
They brought me home once,
a frail old lady
who had happened to
collapse in the street.
He led them to my house
and opened the door.
He has a key.
Because he knows me.
And they too had
brought me home, to my home,
because they know who I am.
And that's all there is to it really.
Being remembered.
A little.

The gift

I lost it.
The watch that
you'd given me.
The one whose
heartbeat I could hear
through my pillow
on the silent nights,
away from home,
in an exhausted,
sound-asleep dorm.
I used to keep it there,
under my pillow,
every night, carefully.
And then one morning
I couldn't hear it anymore.
That reassuring ticking.
Someone had stolen it.
That maroon, plastic
piece of my childhood
which I could have wound
tight around my wrist,
even today, like a
borrowed beating heart.
They can't steal though
the eyes that you've given me.
And I'm trying to keep in them
the light alive. 

The gift

I lost it.
The watch that
you'd given me.
The one whose
heartbeat I could hear
through my pillow
on the silent nights,
away from home,
in an exhausted,
sound-asleep dorm.
I used to keep it there,
under my pillow,
every night, carefully.
And then one morning
I couldn't hear it anymore.
That reassuring ticking.
Someone had stolen it.
That maroon, plastic
piece of my childhood
which I could have wound
tight around my wrist,
even today, like a
borrowed beating heart.
They can't steal though
the eyes that you've given me.
And I'm trying to keep in them
the light alive. 

Your poem

Who is to tell you whether
your poem
is worth writing down
or not?
Would you let them
tell you
if your life
is worth living
or not?

Your poem

Who is to tell you whether
your poem
is worth writing down
or not?
Would you let them
tell you
if your life
is worth living
or not?