Thursday, 17 August 2017

Excerpts from the yet-to-be-written book – Unheard Voicemails

“If I have reached your voicemail, will my message also reach you… the message that was meant to be a talk… a conversation… will it be heard by others… will you listen to it whilst storing the grocery… and at what time… surely not now, right? Don’t answer these questions… I have got the answers already, yet I continue talking, recording this message… and now I hope you’re not there, letting me go on and on like this… I hope you’re not there, lying on the sofa, thinking whether to pick up the call or not… I hope you’re not there… My mind’s is talking too fast for me to keep a record of what it is trying to say to me to convey to you via this voicemail. Hmm… So anyway, it was nice… nice voice-mailing you. I guess, I just wanted to hear your voice. Bye!”

“Hey! Me again, sorry for the bizarre voicemail… but not if you thought it was kind of funny… okay, bye!”

“Hi… about the voicemail, it was bizarre… but definitely true, very true… okay, ciao!” 

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

In A Rush/ Not In A Rush

Life seems to be in a rush
And thoughts blurry
Like passing an array of lights
On moonless nights

Timely, untimely one hears
What is not said
But is felt vaguely
And declared mandatory suddenly

One click, one blink, one tick-tock
And life is not the same
And I will happily testify to it
For I, unlike life, am not in a rush

Monday, 14 August 2017

What Made The Monk Smile?

The monk was tired, he drank the water from the rivulet, still felt the same. Like the dark heavy clouds that take over the sky so often, the monk had almost given up to such heaviness. If only he could just sit there forever and listen what stories the wind brought to him.

Thinking this he got up and moved ahead. One step at a time. The seamless pattern, the embroidery cross, squares, diamonds, chevrons on his sweater soaked in the sun; it was a parting gift, the monk couldn’t refuse the loving people of that small village.

Strong wind currents and his rough hard shoes made music together; often the pebbles added to it.

Lines on his forehead made him look tense. Just then he reached a fork in the road; the monk stood still and saw two things – the rough path ahead and a tiny little flower beaming at him, growing out of the rocky mountain. The monk walked towards the flower and stared at it.

He smiled and resumed walking ahead. His smile echoed in the mountain valley. 

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Saturday, 12 August 2017


Lines, full of an era’s touch, were written. Some read and understood. Some followed. They tried. And then, lines were drawn.

Lines drawn were stone-solid, iron-hard. But time can always seep through and can rust till it is dust. Thus, lines started to fade.

Lines started to change. Change bloomed. They so rightly say, whatever is unimaginable is imaginable.

Lines are narrowed down to a box. A box in the head. The head awaits to breakaway, not realising that because it awaits, it awaits.

Lines are pruned to look similar, to look contemporary, to look right.

Lines are shredded. Words crippled, meaning transformed.

Lines like a guide help a seeker. The one who is seeking life meets the mid-way end. The end is the beginning.

Are you seeking life? This very moment?

Friday, 11 August 2017

Seven Days Old

The precious ones also have to clear debts. It is always painful and quick, they come and go. Mysteries alone hint at what must have happened. Holding life so sincerely, the precious ones look no different from the rest. Tip toe-tip toe, crafting the time in hands, breathing the air as rationed, meeting the eyes as destined, the precious ones partly remain aware... the end is near.

Must it be so devastating, so random, so sudden? The precious ones acknowledge death wholly making it inconceivable for the others.

Like a quiet walk in the garden full of flowers, playing and making friends, acting the monologues, reciting life, the precious ones draw the curtain on their own.

Without walking a step, without eating a morsel, without knowing the ties, without seeing the whole world a precious one said goodbye just in seven days. Her eyes looked at bliss even after her body turned cold.

Glorious soul, seven days old.

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Cid Corman’s Blue Aerogrammes

In a thin air-light piece of blue paper words were written, no space wasted, legibly shinning, beautifully written. It was for everyone, Cid Corman called it direct poetry.


If these words
dont remember you—
forget them.
The leaf at last gets
the drift of wind and so
settles for the ground.
I wear the mask of
myself and very nearly
get away with it.
There is no end and
never was a beginning – so
here we are – amidst.
Rain-drops. Each
makes a point
of silence.
You are here – just as
I had imagined –
imagining me.
Nothing ends with you —
every leaf on the ground
remembers the root.
We wear out
but the sky
looks as new
as ever

She keeps coming home
to me – of all things – and I
remain home for her.

Cid Corman wrote for and ran the magazine Origin. He followed a lovely rule, he replied to each and every letter that the magazine received within 24 hours, if he couldn’t, he didn’t do it at all. Lucky must be the ones who got his answer, that too in the form of direct poetry. The book, Famous Blue Aerogrammes, is about these replies. I have just read a few of these and still I can say that the magic continues… blue feathery magic that makes you smile.

Excerpts from the yet-to-be-written book – Unheard Voicemails

“If I have reached your voicemail, will my message also reach you… the message that was meant to be a talk… a conversation… will it be hea...