Sunday, 18 February 2018


What makes magic?

That which eyes can’t see yet the mind is determined to follow.

That which is thwarted by reason, that which is fictitious for logic.

A grand place where you meet the dragons and dance, where you befriend the little fairies, where nature talks and you listen…

What makes magic, the mere belief or its certainty?

Saturday, 17 February 2018

Papyrus Talks

Yes, all your talks are papyrus talks; that is why your breath smells of quaint urns. You’re still trying to sell old gossips that were packed and preserved in those canopic jars.

I have seen you dancing your fingers on the rock faces. And you hold that old text so dear to you. Don’t try to hide your love for it only confuses you and the listener.

Oh, that beautiful Nile song of yours, it shimmers and shines and colours the time into desert gold.

But mystery remains says the hourglass… probably that is why all your talks are papyrus talks.

Wednesday, 14 February 2018


Chantal didn’t finish the story. After gazing through the few lines that she had written, her search for a known voice abandoned her. She sat near the window, still holding her pen, playing with it in a steady rhythm, Chantal thought of something and rushed back to her seat. She wrote in her notebook–

It appears as if the joy within
Knows nothing about the war within
And vice-e-versa

Pausing for a moment, she then closed her notebook with a rough jerk. Chantal got up and walked back towards the window, this time leaving the pen behind, letting it rest on the table. Her gait reflected her confused, unsure, restless state of mind. Chantal took a deep sigh and then without giving it a thought, wrote the word ‘Incomplete’ on the windowpane; a hazy layer of fog on it allowed her to.

Chantal’s eyes fell on something interesting, something which was moving towards her house, she smiled. Her hand poked her cheek as she pondered over the matter. Suddenly, she opened the window and shouted, ‘Hi, how are you? It has been so long…’ A muffled voice replied, it made Chantal laugh heartily.

A smiling Chantal then closed the window and ran towards the door, opened it and left. Her footsteps on the wooden floor made a fine music.    

Sunday, 11 February 2018

Queue to Meet Rossetti and His Friends

Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. I turn left and bump into someone. Someone who happened to be a part of a long queue. Queue to meet Rossetti and his friends.

Don’t push, I said out loud, so that ten people before me and ten people after me could hear it. I said so in advance. And when the twenty some whispered, I shushed them.

From the Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood to the last one, Rossetti’s Name is heard in America, I maintained the same attitude. I warned and shushed with an irresistible polite smirk on my face.

Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. Allow me to bid goodbye now, I am in a rush, for those twenty some, god-knows-why, are following me. 

Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood

Rossetti's Name Is Heard In America

About Rossetti and His Circle by Max Beerbohm -

Thursday, 8 February 2018

Mind Games

Quite unique it is… It confines, it suffocates, it destroys a troubled soul… it frees, it liberates, it celebrates a calm self. It scares the same one for whom it holds the beacon. It likes to play games and break promises. It supports, creates and imagines the unimaginable. It forgets almost everything. It remembers almost everything. It never forgives, until it realises that it can forgive. It is a true lover. It loves itself the most. Quite unique it is… the human mind.

Wednesday, 7 February 2018

My Sunglasses

A journey by air, by road, by rail to reach the ocean started with me sitting cross-legged, looking through the window and thinking about myriad things. While the world around me appeared to be the same - it smiled when I did, it passed a dull nod when I did – it was secretly weaving a plot.

I got to know about it when I wore my sunglasses.

Everything then moved in a wave, including me. Immersed in one colour, we were all attuned to do Samba, and Samba we did. When the ocean wind joined us, it enthralled us, we chased the beats faster to match its incessant flow. A heavy old bridge tried the same, corroding swiftly, meeting the ocean wind in rhythm.

I saw the iron steel heavy ocean wind, dancing, through my sunglasses.

The fishermen left their boats, swung their nets and summoned all the others to sing and dance, to be one with the wave.

I hopped and tapped along and beamed, my smile touching my sunglasses.

At night or was it at dawn, what did the quaint temple said to me? It spoke of its time, the artisans ritual of worshiping their tools, shared an epic tale and sang good old folk songs. What they say about its static avatar is not true, for the temple sways with wind and sings and adds to the music. Luckily to see this, you don’t have to stand at the ticket counter or wait for hours in serpentine lines.  

In my company no one did, but I saw a monkey, no a langur, happy at the top of the temple, playing with the waves... all thanks to my sunglasses.

Back from the journey, lying upside down on the bed, staring at the funny trees outside the window, I think about time in general and yawn. But before those lazy dilemmas hit me, I get up, yes, I sit up straight and plunge forward to look for my sunglasses.

Sunday, 7 January 2018


Flying high in the sky reaching for the beautiful white flower named moon, the Bumblebee forgot about home, colours and fragrance of the land. The wind resisted it, throwing it back and forth. Like a puppet the Bumblebee danced. It rose up and crossed the cloudy river, river that was flowing to nowhere special, river that was attuned with the Universe. A tiny spot, a funny Bumblebee approaching its white flower… the moon saw it and decided to wait. 


What makes magic? That which eyes can’t see yet the mind is determined to follow. That which is thwarted by reason, that which is ...