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. 

Friday, 29 December 2017


Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ dared not to stop. For last time QJ couldn’t bear the pandemonium that started within when she dared to stop and nothing happened. With fragments of that doll house in one hand and the key to its door in another, walking often becomes cumbersome and a dull routine. Only lightening wakes QJ, though her afterthoughts always make an indelible note to herself to wake up before being struck. QJ later laughs loudly looking at her scars.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ glanced at her umbrella. Tap! Tap! The umbrella changes its colour yet again, confusing its owner for a dash time. Fill in the dash with a pleasant sounding time period, a warm moment and a lovely realisation. QJ wonders why she never tumbled while gazing up at the umbrella or the sky, maybe she should have stopped and asked the path. Instead, QJ makes a funny face, fidgets and gestures to no-one around her that oops she almost fell. Click! Train of thoughts leave a compartment at a station at this moment.

QJ ate dreams, but not the ones that came true. Work makes you hungry for more work, it makes you kind towards your dreams. And this is your prize.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ is joined by the others. All assuming it strongly that everyone knows better than them. QJ didn’t agree or disagree for hours full of ages and once upon a time when she did, they all left her immediately to follow someone else. Just a mangy, horribly plump in the middle, slow dog stayed with QJ. It smiled (or didn't), but those remaining teeth, all dancing in opposite direction made her feel that every 21st century disease, malady, sickness was represented by that slow dog. Hell yeah! QJ cried for the dog didn’t die, but just slowed down further and sat on the path, resting, waiting. Hell lingers.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ thinks about faces, veneer in fashion, layers, surface deep dialogues and her reactions. A trap! Superficial flamboyant messages received and sent. Afraid of any change, she blindly accepts repetition.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ takes out an empty map and begins to draw. Lines start to run and form a track. QJ retraces her steps and finds her first direction.

Sunday, 17 December 2017

खुद से

 मुझसे भी न कहिए
जो खुद को अब तक न कही हो 

बातों के सागर से
एक एक करके चुन लीजिए 

फिर खुद से ही कहिए 
और खुद की ही सुनिए 



Don't tell me
What you haven't told yourself

There is an ocean of things
Choose one to talk about

Then talk about it
Talk to yourself

Thursday, 14 December 2017

My Time

My time. My time to rule and regain. My time to change and develop. My time to cashback. My time to realise the certainty. My time to live the constant, again. My time to undo and start over. My time to let go. My time to disagree. My time to understand. My time to cry and laugh. My time to be there and everywhere at once. My time to be quiet. My time to see and smile. My time had/ has / will come. 

Sunday, 10 December 2017

Amla Pickle

Winter morning sun, a plate full of amlas drying on the terrace soaking in the air makes for a delicious amla pickle recipe. Of course the ceramic pickle jar, oil and a mixture of spices add zingy flavours to the story, but this happens much later.

Go ask the winter sun what magic it carries, sprinkling warmth and soothing glow, intoxicating the land and almost everyone you know. Or ask a farmer who works bare feet for hours and hours, sweating and smiling.

Go sit on the terrace on the pretext of shielding the amlas from those happy big flies. Beware, the air will make you high, for it brings along winter folk tales and songs, colourful kites and children’s laughter.

Winter just appears to be slow and quiet, maybe such is its inner joy and creativity. The spell will work, all you have to do is ask the winter sun, sit on the terrace or taste the amla pickle.

(Amla - Indian Gooseberry
Photo curtesy - Google)

Thursday, 30 November 2017

Sunflower Smile

Smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow. Oh, come on! Remember those winters how we huddled to be in direct sunlight… warmth of the burning star touched our souls, and we smiled.

Peeping through the bushes, the sunlight always made me feel like I am in a photograph – yet to be taken.

While the tiny white daisies were busy decorating and tackling the mad wind, blushing, swaying and often taunting it for impeding their progress, the sunflowers stayed glued like a crayon drawing on the wall, letting the sun seep within.

Seeing the clouds approach, the sunflowers never trembled or rebuked the sky’s spongy friends… for the sunflowers could feel the presence of that warm burning star, part of it now stored inside them.

Maybe that’s why sunflowers’ signature reads ‘Forever’ rather than their glowing name. Oh, how lovely!

Now just smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow.

Monday, 20 November 2017


Living in a quiet and slow dust storm, I wonder if I am moving at all. Just as I approach the wall, it becomes dust and so does everything else.

What makes me thirsty? Is it the sound of future, my desire to see it or the knowledge of nothing? Sliding, swaying, fumbling I reach a well and quench my thirst happily.

Often a friend guides me, though, who borrows memories from whom isn’t clear to me as of now. But I am sure of my useless attempts to gather the dust after it is all gone.

Standing still I come across a sea of mirrors, I choose one and take the place in front of it. I tell myself I am ready to take the dive, the mirror repeats my words and then without a sound or any movement, I turn into dust.


Flying high in the sky reaching for the beautiful white flower named moon, the Bumblebee forgot about home, colours and fragrance of the l...