a decade is an epochwith ebbs and tides, some bruises, a little scar colorful balloons flying past the water boats and silliness.

a decade is an aeon, with books and papers some accolades, and failures traversing long distances the new hope and life.

a decade is a juncture missing pieces and chords connecting the dots, the road ahead is the road left behind.

the centipede

a centipede crawled the muddy pathin the whimsical daylight unconcerned of issues relevant. it dragged on a thousand year's suffering in blatant buckets of pain, tied to each of its tiny legs. it could barely move, yet, head held high, it still marched on to destinations unknown epitomizing the journey of human progress through centuries.

an ode to silence

the atmosphere was calmmachines inactive, vehicles deep in slumber a pleasant breeze shifted its course meandering its way through the pile of junk, whispering sporadic words of infinitude. curtain leaves fluttered, papers flew into the air, as the breeze passed by.

the holy cat of peacemaking tipped a glass of water over, water spilled like a mirror breaking and breaking into infinite mirrors. drops lay apart some coalesced to become one.

one drop wandered away on its own yet another joined a stream, of similar drops following thus like a smitten fan.

a torn book lay open on the armchair, robbed of its leaves it had no tale to narrate. a page lay half torn on it a date etched a reminder of the day, when everything was lost.

nothing has remained since then, mind like a decayed vegetable, plays its tiny instrument. ears deaf, eyes sightless, nothing can be heard, only the silence that speaks louder than the voice.

le petit prince

go back home, my lovermix your tears with blood this world is not your home nor the people, your friends.

your eyes capture the sadness painting the frame-less heads beautifying their hollow souls these strangers you meet.

they don't care about you, or, the paintings you create only their selfish existence magnified to justify their evil doings.

this world is no place, oh lover your creased face, nimble hands the beauty of your soul the magnanimity of your doings.

run, run away while you can, to a place yonder, there, you will be king and the universe will be a mirage.

go back home, my little prince never step again on this planet where your sanity is deemed insane and your divinity, madness.


the winter is a fading memorythose icicles, little pink snowflakes vast barren white sheets of crystallized water fallow trees, desolate roads and the hope of a bright new tomorrow.

spring is a neoteric memory those blooms, little yellow budlings a limitless cover of vibgyor leaves bustling trees, satiated roads and the prospect of midsummer.

But, april come she will with her cruelties and ferocity arousing the inertia of the vicious circle that begins with her and ends in September, to go round in round the cornucopia of memories na jayate mriyate va kadacin. 


the possible worlds collided aforeconsummating supernova galaxies, millions of lightyears away and thus, we were born, an insignificant affair.

the blue sphere hung on a silent, invisible thread hanging precariously holding us precious life forms a significant affair.

beneath the atmosphere days and months rolled on effortlessly, striking the destiny time's illusory prowess a reiterative affair.

on the terra firma huge habitations mounted gazing above at the firmament oblivious to the passing epoch an egotistic affair.

underneath the euphoric plethora of water swam fledgling and sea horses a cold, dark reality this courtroom where everyone is equal a primal affair.

at the deepest core resides a revelation, all these levels primordial are congruous faces of the vast macrocosm a stellar affair.

the ocean resonates with music the ground with love the firmament with beauty and, the universe with expansiveness the eudaimonia affair.


of abundance they were sure,the city dwellers: the extending metaphors of sentience how well they implied, the plethora of this firmament. when in a corner of the street, sat an homeless man with his feet in a cardboard box to protect himself from the harsh elements, they strutted along peripatetically oblivious to his existence, peering queerly into their hand holding the device to unlock the key to the cosmos.

the man sits still noticing all the hurry-burry, the human drama unfolding right in front of his eyes, no tickets needed, this is a free show.

imminent is the reverse, when the plentiful horn empties its contents slowly disintegrating until there is nihil. the homeless man still sits still onlooking the drama, smiling, for his cornucopia is forever bounteous and satiated.

Roads left behind

how often have I passed these roads?sundry and vague with places worn, of profession, culture, and new superstitions walked on by men and women in high expectation.

unwilling my legs divert these roads as some camper would trespass a strange abode, for succeeding in reaching the destination is rare I might find myself soon before, in a lion's lair.

to pass by these roads in sweet hesitation willing off the strong desire to see in trepidation unknown faces, names of mysterious strangers like wading off a penchant for lurking danger.

something pulls me away as I alight a force primordial causing my heart to ignite unable to move in the paradox of questions stuck in a maze of patterns and bastions.

therefore do I pass these multifarious roads, labelling them as destinies of wearied souls. and I, in my pride pass them by little knowing the precious treasures I leave behind.

Institution of religion

I was born a hindu, or so they sayAnother addition to the majority My caste gave me power, and my religion, authority. Saffron was the color of my heart. I was taught to pray with my hands folded And eyes shut. I had to chant mantras, which had the names of my uncles Narayana, narayana and Om namah Shivaya.

Temple is the house of god, my grandmother said, But, I couldn't see god anywhere. All I could see was a stone idol, dressed up like a doll. The image smiled at me, and I prayed fervently, "Where is god, is he hiding?, or, is he a 'she'? Does god have a gender?"

Pujas were performed to please the deity, Prasad was given after, chandan and kumkum, with appam, plaintain and flowers. sweet smelling sandalwood evoked a motion picture of images that trailed my eyes and arose a sense of imagination. red blood color the kumkum tortured me with pain and thoughts of suffering. both intermingled to give solace on my forehead.

As my eyes darted left and right, I saw old men seated on a stage talking about worldly matters. before me, there were women middle-aged, some old, others young. it doesn't matter what age, women at any can still gossip. and I thought only devout worshipers came to the temple. All the men and women were guests, at the temple of God. Come, let's have a cup of tea, chat and then go back to your illusioned world.

Ruthless traditions, robbing us of our individuality, binding us to society like poison to the body. religion is like an iron chain that rusts, chortles my throat, neither can I spit, nor swallow. Like a shot of morphine, that brings delirium, the disorder, that gives birth to violence.

Burn all these faiths, the cross, the star, and the idols what for is this faith, that hides you from the truth. God is not a religion, s/he is a be-ing, you and me, break away all ties, and raise your hands and say yet,

"Yes, I have a  religion, the religion of mankind."

aham brahmasmi