Monday, December 30, 2013


Sparks fly into the night.
Stars glimmering forever.
Which is eternal?
Which is temporal?


Without an eye, without an ear,
without any sense to sense at all,
the tree knows...
morning it is; night that is;
summer has come; monsoon is late;
flower I must; fruit now yield.

What shall you find
with blind eyes and deaf ears
O' all knowing man?


Forever have I collected pebbles on the shores of the restless river.
When it is dusk and there is a call from home,
do I run to the village
or to the water?

Monday, December 2, 2013

A Tamil Kannadiga

Every day I thank you Mother
for I'm Tamil;
kin to Barathi and Kamban.
And yet now every day
I curse you Mother
because Akka is not my sister
nor is she my Devi.
Oh mother Cauvery
You flow through the lands
Of Tamil and Kannada.
Why then am I
the son of just one land?


I wish my mother had been a whore
and slept with men of all lands,
so that I might have drunk the nectar
of Basavanna, of Tagore, of Basho
of Kalidasa, of Victor Hugo
of all the poets
from their own hands
instead of going about
with the begging bowl
of my unsullied birth.

Friday, November 29, 2013

What's in a word?

What's in a word we may ask.
Mere squiggles and syllables.
dried leaves falling from the tree of meaning.

And yet in a word is concealed
all our dreams, hopes, fears and sorrow.

Want, have, loss, despair
Words of desire, of need, of hunger; hunger that sustains.
Flames of a summer sun subsisting on our souls.

Love, courage, glory, peace
Words of fire, of inspiration, of flight; flight to the beyond.
Winds of a golden autumn that carry our eager wings.

Worry, fear, disease, turmoil
Words of darkness, of affliction, of malaise; malaise that strengthens.
Wintry words that rasp against our helpless souls.

Pain, tears, sorrow, silence
Words of the river, of growth, of cleansing; cleansing the unstained.
Monsoon's showers that hurt and heal our parched minds.

Seek, know, become, be
Words of hope, of promise, of deliverance; whatsoever deliverance is.
Buds of a spring that we might never see.

Words bloom, words wither and words die.
We are the illusion.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Why not?

If the love of a mere woman can make a man a poet
why will Krishna's song for Radha be divine?

If the song of a mere man can make a woman an angel
why will Krishna's song not make Radha a Goddess?

If mere milk of a mother can nourish her child
why will Radha's kiss not make Krishna immortal?

If the fickle hands of an unseen spring can make flowers bloom
why will Krishna's touch not give Radha a thousand springs?

If desire for land and country can make emperors wage a war
why will Radha's jealousy for Krishna not burn the world?

If just human care and love can heal burns of a malicious flame
why will Krishna's lies not ease Radha's heartache?

If the trivial hope of salvation can bind a devotee to his God
why will the mirage of love not hold Radha and Krishna in thrall forever?

Saturday, October 26, 2013

The solitary reader

It is a little late in the night. I am in a city where night sable Goddess no longer reigns from her Ebon throne in rayless majesty[1] and has been robbed of all her ancient insignia - the drone of the cicada, the flickering of the stars, the uncomfortable silence of the looming trees and above all the thrilling palpitation of walking into the unknown that she so gracefully doles out in the country. The only solace as I ride on oblivious to the charms of this impostor night that tenants this city is the reassuring thump of my Bullet. Serene she glides along bearing me like a raindrop afloat a cloud.

At the back of my head is the question of food. An activity, that in my opinion has long been an unpleasant act of sustenance. Would I but sustain life by drinking in the sunlight as the birds do! Would I but sustain life by gathering dewdrops on a summer dawn! Would I but sustain life by suckling rain clouds! But such blessing is not mine in this birth. Therefore, I must eat, because hunger reigns over my body as much as madness does over my soul.

So, the thump stops. And I enter a brightly lit restaurant. Another mockery of night's fallen leaden sceptre. A choice is made, commerce transacted and a seat chosen. People all around me, in throngs like moths drawn to light. The idle chatter of the mundane drowns out the throbbing silent of the unpleasant. Once in a while a gruff voice or an irritating cackle exposes the filth underneath. But all in all, like our own precious homes, the world is a place with clean exteriors and rotting interiors.

I sit down and start to read. Nay! I sit down and fly away. Sometimes it is on the thin crumpled wings of musty yellow paper. Sometimes it is on the downy luxurious wings of fresh paperback. Sometimes it is on the twinkling translucent wing of my tablet or mobile phone. But it is always a flight.

A flight into the nebulous world of Fionn and the wisest of poets Finnegas where you sit by a river waiting for a poem; or into the torrid dreams of Ruskin Bond where he writhes around with his sensuous Indian princess; or into the tenuous maze of Basho's Haiku, tender strands of gossamer poetry that a spider might weave; or into the fervid garden of Dorian Gray's painter friend where laburnums burn on tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs[2]; or into the world of Vedic myth where Gods and Demons confound good and bad in subtle nets of hypocritical stratagems; or into the alluring rain soaked rivers of Tagore where sorrow matures into silence and life fruits to death. Away you fly, flit and escape the monotonous vagaries of life.

For a book, a tale, a poem is a cocoon that protects you from the infectious stream of commonplace thought that permeates the very atmosphere we live in. Alone in a crowd, with a book, you are a knight in shining armour battling forces of evil ennui. Alone in a crowd, with a book, you are a Zen monk, resting your trembling mind on a lotus leaf. Alone in a crowd, with a book, you are a Bullet rider who glides where others flit and swerve.

Alone in a crowd, with a book,you are a solitary reap(d)er, reaping silvery herbs of immortality beneath a blooming full moon while the rest of the world suffers in the glare of neon lights. 

[1] - Night thoughts, Edward Young
[2] - Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

Image courtesy: Deviant art

Monday, October 14, 2013


WARNING: Offensive and explicit content ahead. When I say offensive I don't mean this will unintentionally hurt your feelings. This will unintentionally hurt you as much as a guided missile from the U.S. would hurt a Syrian civilian settlement. Or a racial insult from an Australian would hurt an Indian. (Or vice versa if said humans are cricketers with near simian intelligence) Or how the previous statement would insult simians all around the globe. This post will intentionally knee you in your balls, give you a wedgie while you keel over and then post the video of the whole incident on YouTube. So, read at your own risk and don't bother complaining. (Now that warning's got you trapped nice and clean didn't it?)

Any kiddie in school can love like a fool. But hating, my boy, is an art. - Ogden Nash.

On the subject of cursing very little has been said. While some may argue that a lot has been said, looking at how much cursing gets done these days, the fact is, little has been said on the subject itself. Think of it. How many articles do you read on a daily basis that teach you new curse words or tell you the appropriate curse words for a situation? If you answered more than one, you probably have a mental problem, you bastard!

Which brings me to the subject of this essay. My favourite curse word. How I wish schools included topics like these instead of those boring my favourite festival (everybody's was Diwali) or my favourite season. (everybody's was monsoon) My favourite curse word, my favourite murder modus operandi, my favourite torture technique... what delightful flights of fancies could have emerged from the budding imagination of innocent youth with topics like these! But I digress.

My favourite curse word, for the moment and for a while now has been bastard. Observe how it begins with an angry plosive consonant that explodes from your throat and then follows that up with a slithering 's', before again throwing another explosion in your face! This word was designed to hurt.

I always had problems with many other curse words. Motherfucker (or any other fucker, sheep included) sounds too crude and you will, I am sure agree with me when I say that any word with a fuck attached to it is just met with nonchalance nowadays. Honestly, who gives a fuck? Arsehole sounds like something a pompous British beggar would call you if refuse him a penny. Humiliating yes, but not venomous. Cocksucker, faggot, pussy, etc., do not make the cut either. They all sound so pass'e.

But bastard, now that's a curse to use on someone. Because you see, the primary purpose of a curse is not to vent your anger, but to elicit a reaction. If you just wanted to vent your anger, you could bloody well just punch the wall, now right? But you don't want that. You want to get down and dirty. You want it primeval, medieval, primordial or something like that. Really ancient, that is the point. Clubs, stones, animal skins, grunts, blood and gore.

And to do that the only thing that would work is bastard. Especially in India. Why? Let me explain. Bastard, as any decent 3rd grader these days knows (if yours does not, you should possibly follow up on him/her. How else are they going to find a healthy way to vent out all their frustrations from FIITJEE, swimming, singing, dancing and abacus classes? Murder you in your sleep?) means a child born out of wedlock. That sounds totally romantic to me. You are a boy/girl born out of wedlock and eighteen years later you find your father is the king of the neighbouring country. You embark on a journey to unite with him and claim the throne. Halfway through, you trip over a stone, awaken from your acid trip and die slitting your wrists in depression.

But no, that is not the notion entertained here in this country. In this country, the word connotes a stain on your mother's character. It paints her as a woman of questionable morals, a lady of the night, a woman of pleasure, a wanton wench. (which still appeals to me as a romantic idea, if you can add the right mix of Burton, Wilde and Poe.) And that is supreme offence in India, where the air is so thick with mother sentiment that you can slice it with a knife, tetrapack it and sell it as dehydrated mother's milk.

So you call someone a bastard, that is the Royal British equivalent of removing your glove and slapping him/her in the face challenging them to a duel, only in this case, you first scratched your crotch with the glove on before slapping. The reactions that might ensue can range anywhere from fist fights to gory combat with melee weapons.

Yes, of course, there is always the chance that you might get hurt, amputated or murdered. Perhaps you might get murdered in your after-birth as well. But those are trivial objections to a man with a dauntless heart and a brainless skull. Come what may, call someone a bastard when you are angry and like the Bride, you too shall roar, rampage and get bloody satisfaction.

For women, I prefer the other B. Bitch. I have always been a gentleman (hiding a brute underneath of course. Deep down, we are all cavemen anyway, cause caves are you know, deep.) and I intend to extend courtesy to the gentler sex. So bitch it is, a brief explosive draw of the sword followed by a swift stroke to decapitate the target. Quick, merciful and yet painful enough. And rest assured, this word too will elicit a desirable response. No woman wants to be compared to an animal species with a few exceptions made in the case of cervids and felines. In this case, while the reaction might not be violently satisfying as the other B word, you can expect slaps, flying slippers and perhaps a mixture of both. If you are really lucky, you can expect a full-fledged physical assault with possible injuries to both parties, with you shouldering the bulk of the injuries (thanks to her irate boyfriend or husband joining the fight and ending it prematurely and unfairly, when all he needed to do was keep her on the leash!), but hey, that is what gentlemen do.

So there you go, those are my B and B's. My favourite curse words. My pick of the lot from the verbal gutter that flows down our guttural cords.

So, what is your favourite curse word bastards and bitches?

P.S. Many reasons have been provided to explain why this curse word is my favourite. But the true reason is, 3:20 to 3:32 of this movie clip.

Gravity - A must watch

I went to see Gravity in the blackest of moods. A continued illness followed by a day that did not go to plan combined with an ill-timed nap made me as foul as Sweeney Todd when he found out Mrs.Lovett's treachery. A couple of hours later, I returned, a transformed man. A man much humbled, made to feel completely insignificant and yet blessed.

The film's story is just a one-liner - astronaut gets caught in space debris and separated from her space shuttle makes it back to earth. As simple as that.
*Spoiler end*

No twists. (So that spoiler alert's pretty useless.) No turns. Nothing else apart from that one line to be talked about at all as a plot.

But who needs an elaborate plot, when you have the best tool in film-making ever known to humankind - screenplay. From the very first short, Alfonso Cuaron (the man who made the best and possibly the only good Harry Potter movie till date - Prisoner of Azkaban), casts a wizard's spell over his audience that will not fade a long time after they exit the movie hall. Mere events, one following another with sparse dialogue sprinkled here and there keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Mere events indeed. But how they come to transpire. Like flies trapped in a bell jar, we see our own projected selves hovering in the emptiness of space and the even more dreadful emptiness of time clutching at straws to survive. One minute you push yourself back at your seat trying hard to evade debris from the Russian space station. Next minute you are at the edge of the seat trying to thrust yourself at the Chinese space station. Here at last, after a long time, ladies and gentlemen is a movie that truly makes use of the 3-D medium unlike those rubbish factory made super-hero trash that we've been fed in recent times. Here at last, I daresay is the successor to 2001 A Space Odyssey in sheer visual power.

While the visuals do stun you, they would fall flat if the acting does not measure up. Here, I feel Clooney stands shoulders above all. (there are very few people in the 'all', I know) We barely get to see his face, but the actor shows he can still charm the pants off anybody with just his voice. Too bad we never get to hear the ending to his rather interestingly set up Mardi Gras story. Sandra Bullock delivers just about perfect. She has now officially proven that marvellous acting can be produced by just breathing. The dialogue as mentioned above is spartan and very effective.

While not as great as The Odyssey's score, the movie's music stays true to purpose. If not anything else, it definitely gets your heart racing and pulse quickening at the right moments.

Well, that's about how much I can analyse this movie. Cause words only go a certain distance. Here we are, ants on an anthill going about our tiny lives with our insignificant worries and cares, while just above our heads lies not a world, but a universe to explore. And exploring we are, like a curious child stretching out his arms to cross over the threshold of his playpen.

This film, my friends is a homage to all those intrepid souls who sit on the childlike fingers of humanity and seek forth. Not because we must. Not because we have to. But because we want to. Because we can.

P.S. In the film, Kowlasky (Clooney) gives a bit of advice. 'You are low on Oxygen. Sip not gulp. Wine not beer.' That applies to the movie itself. Sip it and savour it.

P.P.S. After you have watched Gravity and got your spirits up, go watch Children of men by the same director so that you can harbour delicious dark suicidal thoughts! :-) He is good, this Alfonso.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Begging a boon

Even the great Vishnu Himself
wasted away years lost in sorrow and falsehood,
when born as a King.


I pray to you, O charming Kapali
who roams the graveyards
filling your broken begging bowl with endless joy,

Bless me with emptiness.

Gopala's last lullaby in Vrindavan

Sleep my little boy, sleep my blessed rain cloud.
Sleep my night's soothing song, sleep my lovely dark calf.

Tomorrow the demons shall come for you
and spirit you away from my grasp.
The flute shall fall from your hand
and no more song shall you sing.

Tomorrow the wraiths shall ensnare you
and you shall go their corrupt way.
No longer will you lie with your charming tongue
about how monkeys stole the butter or
about how a peacock with its glorious plumes
distracted you on the way to a rendezvous.
Lie you shall for kingdoms and princes,
for land, gold, power and victory with
cunning words that are wicked arrows
laced with honeyed venom.

Tomorrow you shall walk away,
no longer a cowherd's son,
no longer a cowherd.
Tomorrow you shall walk a king,
whose sleepless nights are lost
longing for a woman's touch,
a simple meal and the dust under your feet.

Tomorrow my child, you shall lose your song.
But tonight sleep in peace.

tomorrow you shall forsake me.
But when you are forlorn and bereft of hope
I shall not forsake you.
The hunter will give you
my last kiss of peace.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013


We bow to you, O ancient of Gods.

You stand erect,
your head reaching the clouds
your feet never seen.
We bow to you, you who are endless.

You stand in penance,
in perpetual silence
unmindful of rain and shine.
We bow to you, whose penance is forever.

Your head is awash in the Ganges of the skies.
Your form is home to serpents
that entwine you in eternal delight.
We bow to you, whose beauty is forever.

The vilest of venom
you draw unto you
and yield forth the nectar of life.
We bow to you, whose grace is endless.

To you we give water in prayer,
You who were born as the first seed in cosmic darkness
and awoke into eternal penance.
To you we give water in prayer,
O solemn Tree who is Siva indeed.

Curse us not with your silent anger.
Forsake us not by denying the rain of your nectar.
Bless us O God of Gods with your blissful shade.
Bless us O God of Gods with your ambrosial fruits.

We bow to you, O ancient of Gods.

Image Courtesy:

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Cattle grazing

To you I pray,
the God who sits in the eye of the Sun.
You send forth your glorious cattle
laden with divine nectar of rain
To graze on the azure fields of the skies.
The Sun is your shepherd
Ether, the music from his flute.
And when you send forth your cattle, it becomes dawn.

To you I pray,
I who sit in the eye of my Soul.
I send forth my numerous cattle
laden with subtle nectar of emotion.
My Soul is my shepherd
Breath, the music from its flute.
And when I send forth my cattle, it becomes my life.

To you I pray,
protect you my cattle.
Guide you my thoughts, even as you guide your shepherd, the Sun.

To you I pray,
milk you my cattle.
Draw and drink their words, even as you drink the nectar of your cattle, the Rain.

To you I pray,
slaughter you my cattle.
Sacrifice them at the altar of death, even as you sacrifice your cattle, at the altar of Night.

Gayatri Japam

With my left eye
I look below,
that realm of time which we name as past
and worship Her by the name Memory.

With my right eye
I look ahead,
that realm of time which we name as present
and worship Her by the name Cognizance.

With my third eye
I look above,
that realm of time which we name as future
and worship Her by the name Imagination.

With the three eyes open
I look at the many universes
that realm of time for which we have no names
and worship Her by the name Sakthi.

With the three eyes closed
I look in the cave
that realm where time does not exist
or only time exists
and worship Her by the name



Saturday, August 3, 2013

The Tree God

Hush my friend tread thee soft.
Nary a noise not sound thou make.
For here he stands with head aloft,
this august tree aware, awake.

This he learnt in his earthy womb -
Silence silence and silence again.
And silence in his heart did bloom.
And silence in his heart did reign.

Now he stands in a penance grave.
Feet austere secrets pry.
Glorious hands the sky they crave.
Terrene heart with soul so high.

He stands and stands and stands forever
in rain and sun and cold and heat.
Stands he thus and flinches never,
while life moves on and times repeat

And while he stands cometh the rain.
Cometh the sun and sweet nectar.
And while he stands cometh again,
all of life to his altar.

And yet he yields forever and more,
his deathless fruit and soothing shade.
Love him you, perchance abhor,
grace in him is never unmade

A thousand words of your empty mind
do not to his wisdom compare.
Lift your eyes O mortal blind
gaze on him and thence despair.

A God he is in penance deep
beyond thine reach thy mind's ken.
He is the universe awake and asleep
beyond thy truth, thy peace, thy zen.

Friday, May 24, 2013

The ordinary death of an ordinary young girl by ordinary causes

There was nothing extraordinary or fantastic about the death of the young girl. Just another bud that withered off before it bloomed, like the many who did in those dark days. Reason was still in her infancy and life had but a tenuous hold on her children, especially on the children. Plague, fever and a host of other maladies did not merely torment humans, but filled them with indescribable horror, for they were not mere malfunctioning of the body but curses and spells of unseen monsters and demons. And the supreme father of all these unholy spirits was death, that infernal devil who blew away the lamp of life with a single whisper of darkness.

Thus it was that this girl's lamp too was extinguished, before it even glowed.

We know not her name for she lived in a time when people were mere leaves falling in life's autumn for a God's evening of pleasure. But that eve in which she died was a glorious hour of tragedy, for amidst the many copper leaves that withered for His delight, she was the only golden bud that drooped and fell. And her tragedy was glorious for when He stretched out His hand to receive her, an icy cold draught of wind blew her out of His grasp. Therefore was her tale preserved and therefore it shall be told.

With her face we shall begin. For her face was a river. Limpid, kind, turbulent, silent and lost seeking an endless ocean. And her eyes were eddies of emotion that drew the unwary in and held them in thrall for eternity. Her form had the pallor that ails children born of a winter night. In all, she glowed faintly like a full moon viewed through foggy windows.

Such was a child that died under entirely normal circumstances.

She was a quiet pensive child. She barely spoke and when she did, her words seemed like tears of sorrow laden with meaning. In the early hours of dawn, she would seek the first rays of the sun and look up with earnest yearning. Her eyes which spoke of a darkness trailing her soul found succour in those golden rays. But then these are but conjectures. For the girl herself of a young nebulous mind could barely grasp her own thoughts and feelings. And we rush in where angels fear to tread.

So this is all then that we say. The girl was quiet and pensive.

A fortnight before she passed off, she played on the fields with extra vigour. She ran through golden corn like a bounding mare. Her mother looked on proudly hoping that the coldness that shrouded her child had at last melted away. She smiled now like a frozen moment of an endless summer. Her delight had a bit of innocence, madness and naive cruelty. She scared the chickens in her eager rush, startled the dog with her laughter and put the birds to flight in panic when she sang.

Yes, she was innocent, but not the innocence that looks up with sweet believing eyes when told a lie. Hers was the innocence that plucked a flower too fast that its petals came off.

Yes, she was mad, but not the madness that rambles incoherently in the night but laughs with equal mirth at both pain and pleasure, its own and others.

Yes, she was cruel, but not the cruel that makes little boys tie strings to dragonflies or pelt stones at dogs. Hers was the cruelty that seemed to pain mute creatures by her mere presence.

And thus she roved and roved as if all her life's energy were to be spent in a day's afternoon. Her father often remarked, 'It's as if some new blood has got into her; some new life.', which is rather remarkable. For her eyes shone with some other light, her voice sang in some other tune and her feet ran in some other gait. She had the glow of a mother who carries the seed of some other inside her. But these are mere fantasies. She was a vernal girl, her own soul running far ahead and far too swiftly for her to comprehend. And we with our souls ridden with mundane worries and morbid thoughts, what can we fathom of hers?

So this is all then that we say. The girl was now filled with some unseen vigour.

A week before she slipped into darkness and dolour again. It was as if a bright summer morning had turned into a cold winter night with a pale moon. For her form wasted away, her eyes grew sunken and her lips frosty. She shunned the windows at dawn, looking up to the sun with malignity. If a chance ray of light touched her feet she coiled away in horror. As dusk fell, her face lit up with the lustful yearning of a young bride. She pined away silently at the open door, her lips parted and hands clawing. And in the darkness of night when her parents happened to wake, they heard her laugh the cold contented laugh of pleasure or mumble incoherent sweet nothings of desire. She was a fruit ripened too early and sucked too fast. Her pure snow white heart now had unholy streaks of passion. And passion it is that drove her to beat the dog when he growled at her, bite the chickens when they clucked at her and scream curses at birds when they fluttered about her.

Passion it was that supplanted her innocence, madness and cruelty. She spoke words that dripped crimson, bore looks that shone like sapphires and walked in a gait that was at once weak and strong. Passion it was drover her to fury one moment, desire another and ecstasy immediately then. And while her soul shone thus in a red flame dancing on a glass of absinthe, her body wasted away like the peel of an open fruit. But these are mere imaginations. She was but a nascent bud, who barely knew what fragrance and what poison her heart held. What do we speak of her, we, with our rotting souls and waning spirits.

So this is all then that we say. The girl had slipped into darkness and dolour again. But of a different kind.

Then came her hour of glory and terrible agony.  A pale dawn it was that day as if someone had commanded the sun to rise feebly so that her hour of darkness might extend. She awoke fitfully, her body quivering as her eyes opened. But she moved no further. Her father rushed to the physician while her mother wrapped her in hot towels. But her body grew colder like a tomb. Her lungs struggled to suck life out of the air and what life was taken in, it appeared like there was not enough blood to spread it over her. By the time the physician arrived, she was in delirium her hands clawing at her throat, her feet flailing in the air as if she were reliving some memory of a nightmare; only the nightmare seemed real. The physician, a frail old man took one look at her and shrank back. 'She is gone, lost.', he whispered before rushing back in an expression that seemed to suggest he had seen a ghost.

In her last minutes, she grabbed her mother's hair and drew her close. She whispered in some strange tongue,

'Il vient...

Il m'appelle...



dois aller...

mais je ne veux pas


J'ai dit oui

J'ai deja dit oui





And then she fell, a limp rag thrown to her bed by a strong cruel hand and breathed no more. Her brows were knit in anxiety. Her face was twisted in pain, as if her death were merely that of her body and her soul awaited more torture. Her hands lay about in despair. She lay there not a child asleep in peaceful death, but one has been snatched away at the fair by a stranger's hands. Above all, in death, she exuded fear. Fear of the most terrifying nature for it had no name and no form but mere darkness. But these are mere illusions. She was but a pure child, one so pure that even death and devil should have feared to touch for fear of the sin it would bring on them. How can we describe what her pristine heart felt, we with our sinful jealous hearts  that is infested by green-eyed monsters?

So this is all then that we say. The girl died in an hour of terrible agony.

Late that night, when her father laid her in the grave that he dug in mad fury and her mother stood one last watch over her child, they spoke.

'It's as if her life, her soul were sucked out of her. It is as if her innocence attracted a terrible fate upon her.' Her mother wept.

'Hush, my dear. We do not speak of such things in the night.' Her father whispered while adjusting a wreath of wild rose with their branches intact around her neck, as far away the darkness howled in gleeful hunger.

And they spoke nothing of her anymore... till now.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Summer rain

In summer,

The sun smiles a golden smile
of manly charm wrought with heavenly glory
His hair drifting in matted clouds.
From afar he stretches his hands, a thousand and more
calling to his dusky love.

In summer,

Earth stretches herself languidly,
her curves punctuated by soft sighs of the breeze.
A thousand fingers and more of the rain
caress her 
awakening the the serpents of desire 
coiled in her fragrance.
Lust spreads her wings of ego
and dances like a proud peacock.
Rivulets of sweat flood her heart
and burst their banks.

In summer,

the rains flood the heart of earth
filling her with the seed of sun
making her the mother of the infinite.

In summer,

lust pines for love.
Love lusts for desire.
torrid heat seeks thunderous rains
thunderous rains seek sultry days

And when they meet in the henna stained evenings
Life is born.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Hope (Less)

We are all children of death; begot in silence; born in darkness. 

Death is our mother; silence our womb; darkness our home. 

We gestate an eternity in the cool comforting love of or mother. 

Then when forever ends, we are born and with us is born our shadow.


Forever has he been smothered in the silent womb by our slumber. Now,he breaks free with our awakening, our birth. He runs besides us with feet of day and night. Every breath of ours he steals jealously, this ill favoured twin of ours.

Unmindful of this, we, the nascent child, enticed by light, by life we crawl forth. We breathe, dream, dare and do. Life catches us in his capricious embrace, spins us in the air and folds us in his arms. We, the morning dew of an age's dawn melt in the gaze of his sun. He makes us his bride and we swoon in his kiss. With passionate fire we lust after him. Our soul yields and spreads to receive his numerous seeds of desire. We multiply in deeds, good, bad, small, large...

All this he watches, our twin Time. He eggs us on with anxiety, with fear, from one spell of life to another. For life throws no favour at him, nor does death bother him. Alone he dwells, this Time and in his loneliness, he broods and devours our days in envy.

Then in an hour, the thrall passes, the charm pales, all the gold turns to dust. And in that hour, cometh the hour of Time! 

Life, who drinks forever from the fountain of youth mocks at us, who's youth is forever drunk by time. Our weakness wearies life, our wrinkles annoy him. His heart flits about and he finds a new soul to dole out his passion.

We lie in sorrow alone, while finally Time mocks at our loneliness. But not alone. For in sorrow there is but darkness and silence. Home beckons and we gratefully crawl into our cold comforting graves. Death our mother is always there, patient and infinite in her love.

Hope is not the thought that one day we can build castles to the sky. Hope is the thought that even our castles will find peace in the dust... One day.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013


Even the Buddha
After realization
Must eat and excrete.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Pretty woman

The most beautiful woman in the world
Is a winter morning
Masquerading as a summer day. 

Monday, February 18, 2013


Oh ye that we call as love,
To your name
Which is but
A reflection
Of your shadow
I'm a slave.

Friday, January 25, 2013


And when I was young,
I gathered the ripest blossoms of my orange spring
love, a pristine jasmine
lust, a flaming laburnum
knowledge, a blooming lotus
and fed their fragrance to my raging fire.

Now I age some more
And dried leaves of broken philosophies
crackle in the blaze of my quill.

Be as that may,
to burn is destined
to be burnt too is destined.

தமிழில் -


In the garden of the hermit
who worships the one true God of his faith,
lives a honeybee
that fleetingly drinks the nectar
of many a flower.