“We all have our priorities”, mother said, as we slept empty stomach for the 3rd time in the week.
Baba and his queen were burping, in reminiscence of the mutton they just had.
“We all have our priorities”
“We all have our priorities”
Empty stomach and this thought were hitting me so intensely that I got nostalgic for the night Baba hit me with an iron rod, for talking to a girl.
“Atleast, he thought of me/us, then.”
“Atleast, the physical pain made me forget my empty stomach, then.”
It’s funny how humans have the capability of connecting memories to current situations.
It’s almost like, what the Math professor taught the other day….S… sym… symi…
“For two objects to be symmetrical, they must be the same size and shape, with one object having a different orientation from the first”, he said.
Life, as we see, wanders around symmetry.
He also said, “symmetry distance of a shape with re-
spect to a transformation is the distance from the given shape to the

closest shape that is perfectly symmetric with respect to that transformation.” All of us try to travel the symmetry distance to achieve the closest personality, that we can, that is perfectly symmetric to the person someone else prefers over us.

It’s almost morning, as I dream lucidly about the symmetric shapes.

Amma wears her red saree, the one from her wedding.

She notices me staring at her in awe and surprise.
“I want your father to notice “me”, today. It’s our wedding anniversary.”



Oh, that thing you took away from me last summer,
You said you will show it to your friends and foes,
And bring it back the next summer.. I have been waiting for you all along,
It’s been a long long summer..
There’s no water in the lake any more,
And the town waits for rains.. The puppy you brought home to me, was sad and angry and has now fled away.

Ohh come back,
Or, it won’t rain!

And the thing you took away last summer, bring it back with you.
And the one you gave me in exchange, take it back with you.

Oh darling, bring me back my pain..
I don’t like your numbness anymore.

The chair, redone

This piece is a response to something a friend asked me to try. I have written a piece named “Chair”, and I was asked to use the same props to write something happier.

I sit at the rocking chair, made out of wood, typically for me.
The chair is knitted perfecly with ecstatic highs and childlike laughter.

Reality is so beautifully carved on to the wood, that it almost seems like spirituality.

The hand rests feel like past and future laying down beds for my “present” hands, to feel their “tough” warmth.
How can warmth be tough, i question my own irony. It gets answered as i move my sight to the walls of the structure i call “home”.

He visited yesterday, accompanied with his girlfriend, melancholy, my loneliness. He requested to be seated at this chair. I smiled at him, the way you smile at a long lost friend. Melancholy was trying to sketch us from a corner. She ended up saying that my face was “too much at peace”.
We sat silently with ciggaretes and whiskey in our hand, under the full moon sky.
They hugged me a goodbye as i mentioned i was friends with freedom now.
I ran to the terrace to wave them goodbye just for the last tiMe, and saw them walking down the same path I walked on to reach here.

The chair is in the balcony, now. I brought it down from the terrace,yesterday. It’s studded with stars, today. The infinity touched it,I guess.

The craftsman’s dialogue still rings clearly in my head,
“आपके लिए वो उधर जाके बनवाया है मैडम। वो आप वाली जगह है ना, वहाँ से।”
I knew exactly the place he was talking about.
He was talking about home.
He was talking about the nowhere that could be anywhere.


I sit at the rocking chair..made out of wood, typically for me..The chair is made with cynical perfections and emotions knitted into each other.
It smells like the moment where adrak has just been added to chai in perfect proportion. The moment loses it’s peculiarity immediately, the way hospital rooms don’t stink of death once you are used to it.

Questions..Questions are so beautifully carved on to the wood, that the unanswered one’s turn into poetry.

The concoction of cigarette, whiskey and tears spilled over it, has formed a picture which is similar to full moon night.

He visited yesterday, and sat on it, my loneliness. Melancholy sat in the corner and sketched us. Me sitting at his foot and looking at him for hope, for freedom.

I hid it in the terrace, my chair, away from the world, the adultery. No one visits the terrace anymore. Maybe, it’s the fear of infinity.

The craftsman had stated it like a dumb fact
“आपके लिए उधर जाके बनवाया मैडम।वो आप वाली जगह पे।”

I knew exactly the place he was talking about.
He was talking about home.


I was sitting there..My knees under my chin and my hands wrapped around them..
It was her performance.. I mumbled a good luck and do well..To myself..I always do this..I don’t understand the need to do it..Whenever she is about to do something huge, I mumble a good luck to…
“To myself”..
As if it’s me who’s about to go through something dangerous.. She stood up and walked towards the stage we created for ourselves to poetically rant about how the world was falling apart around us..
It’s funny, ironic and extremely tragic that all of us believe that we can save the world through words..
She walked in harmony with the dangling of her earrings and faced towards us.. her earrings shuddered. As if, soldiers were ordered to go on a deathwar, without having a last chance to talk to their families.. She started ranting about how it was us under a broken umbrella, and not the world… A small yellow bulb was directed from the top on her..
It appeared as if a womanised form of Jesus was dictating parables.. I wanted to write them down..By heart them..Make them run through my veins.. I wanted those words imbibed in me..Those words which I thought couldn’t save the world..
And there she was…Standing on that very stage which we created for our illusions of saving the world..With a white journal which had a black key on it…Reading out loud…
Absorbing divinity is dangerous…Maybe that’s why I wish myself a good luck, when she is about to walk through something that seems horrid..

Maybe now.. now we can save the world


Words words words words…
I see them shattered everywhere on my floor.
They all have sharp edges..
And I hurt myself with them, now and again..
They scream in agony and anger..
Yelling at me..
Rising above the floor to pierce themselves into me…They reach places they shouldnt..
Like a blade…Like a dagger…Or a cork screw…
Cutting my veins, slicing my throat, slashing my heart… Piercing into my brain…
I can hear a sound…..An irritating sound… Like the sound of death knocking on my door..
“Let me in, let me in, let me in.”
It keeps speaking in a cold voice…
“Fuck you” I yell..
“Be silent, you will wake up the neighborhood.. go to sleep!” I get instructions..
I wish I could sleep..

but sometimes it feels good to have an anxiety attack. You feel tired with all the crying and punching the walls and yelling in the pillow at the top of your voice..
It’s like having an orgasm while you are being raped..
The emptiness has now crept in…
I can hear the sounds of my emotions rattling down…
They will go numb now, until next attack..
Goodbye words…


I saw her.. and..Well..And…

क्या कहता मै? बोलो तो, क्या कहता मै?
वो खड़ी थी वहाँ, आपनी वही मुस्कुराहट ओढ़े।
अरे वो मुस्कुराहट, हल्की सी… जो होंठो से कम और आंखों से ज्यादा छलकती।
मै उसे देखते रह गया बस।
मै उसे देखते ही एक कोने में छिप गया, पेड़ो के बीच। मै उसके करीब जाके उसकी खूबसूरती को बिगाड़ना नही चाहता था। इतनी खूबसूरत तस्वीर बनाई थी मेरे तकदीर ने, कुछ पलों के लिए ही क्यों न हों।
मेरे दोस्त मुझे डरपोक बुलाते। लेकिन मैं डरा नही था। मै उसके करीब जा कर उसे नापाक नही करना चाहता था।
जैसे भगवान की मूर्ति सिर्फ पुजारी छू सकता है। मै तो बस आम सा इंसान था। मैं उसके करीब जाने की जुर्रत भी नही कर सकता था।
वो लम्हा ही ऐसा था कि मेरा खुदा मेरे सामने मुस्कुराता खड़ा था और मै बस उसे ताकते रह गया।
दुख तो हुआ मुझे….बहुत…. अपनी अपात्रता पर…
लेकिन न जाने क्यों, मै घर मुस्कुराता गया।