With you my love...

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There are no shadows cast

On the peeling pale yellow walls

In the flickering light from the

Bulb.

 

Up above, the fan continues

to move in  a circular motion;

Slow and  steady. The mirror,

mirrors the  unkempt feeling

in the room.

 

The damp smell mixed

With the smells of love

Heightens the silence.

And the dripping water

From the basin tap sounds

Like an explosion.

 

The pillows of the bed

Lie on the torn carpet below.

The sheets; crumpled

Barely cover our bodies

Spent.

 

Your eyes look at me

Every few seconds.

The contentment on your

Face. Sleep has eluded us for

Long, but slowly the sandman

Creeps in close to you.

 

Outside, the bright sunlit

Corridors are bustling.

But the noise doesn’t reach us.

Its you and me, like always.

Together. Me lying by your side

And the hint of a smile on your

Face.

 

Suddenly, all the trouble,

The long distance travel,

The lies, the stories cooked

Up, are all but just right.

 

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Today my mom asked me to go get fall bidding done for her new saree. Navratri has begun and Durga Pujo is just around the corner. This year we are planning to go Pandal hopping on a Saptami instead of an Ashtami or Navmi to avoid the jams and the crowds. I will wear a saree too and my Punjabi husband will tag along for the delicious food.
In a multicultural household like mine, most festivals are a big deal, especially Navratri and Durga Pujo. But in the hullabaloo of festivities, we don’t stop to think of its essence – why do we celebrate Durga Pujo or Navratri at all. To celebrate Ma Shakti – a prompt answer from my mother. Navratri is a celebration of the nine stages of womanhood – a tribute to the power of the female.But to us commoners, it is a festival of dancing to the tunes of Garba or dandiya or Bollywood music. It is our turn to wear our best clothes, head out in the night, meet family and be merry. And once, this is over, the female form goes back to being what they always a…
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Mind vs the heart

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Picture courtesy: Google. Only for representation purpose.
Standing on the highway, Roads leading both ways to somewhere, I stand still and wonder, Where do I belong?
The soothing lullabies of the green mist fairies call.  With promises to wrap me in the cool calm fog, Holding me in wet, gentle caresses, lulling the storm within. 
The call of the shrill, salt-laden sea sirens,  from the sun-baked rocks, Pull me back To join them as they make me one, in the fathomless abyss of wonders unseen. 
I lament my fragile being,  Born with one heart, not two, Torn between the ebb and flow of waves, And earthy scents in muddy dew. 
Both offer me refuge,  Cloaking me whole in their embrace, Dust to dust, flesh to flesh and soul to soul. 
In this battle between the mind and the heart, The heart but loses steam,  Leaving me stranded on a path to nowhere, never to be seen. 
My mind has been wrought with depression and all things crappy. This is a result of binge-watching a…
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#Sorry not sorry

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I feel sorry for ‘Sorry’ – such an abused term. When you come to think of it, it is just a word, right? It holds significance in some instance and at times, it is a mere excuse. But we humans absolutely love it as an excuse, don’t we? I use this term a lot; I mean a lot! I think of myself as a kind being, and hence, if I happen to push or ignore (deliberate), I say ‘sorry’. I say sorry for things that may not need a ‘sorry’. I say ‘sorry’ to people I am not really feeling sorry for (don’t read this the wrong way). In short, I say ‘sorry’ a lot like I have already admitted. It is my ticket to moving on, a ticket to redeem myself for mistakes and sometimes, tinged with slight sadness (maybe).


But is ‘Sorry’ the right word? Mean, is it even appropriate? Like they say, first you commit the murder and then say sorry. What is the point of it? I would say nothing. Sorry – the term originated from the West Germanic term Sore that evolved to Sarig, meaning pained or distressed. It is also known…
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I Wonder What Ants do on Rainy Days…

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Source: Google Images
On days when the sun has abandoned us, hiding behind the grey, moody clouds. Do they sit inside their hills and wonder out loud? Do they stare outside at the rain, measuring the raindrops, letting thoughts splotch all over? Does the earthy petrichor take them down the memory lane? Or are they content with what nature has to offer? It is a part of their lives, isn’t it? They dredge up foods daily, diligently build their hills, even if it is to serve their queen, only to enjoy it on days like this, no? Maybe they do take stock of things, of their bearings. They ought to sleep it off, take a day to rest or do they lament on the lost time?
Unlike me.
When I gaze out, a gazillion thoughts fly by; some worthy of the pen, some so disturbing that I often question my sanity. I like the grey skies though. They seem like textured canvases waiting for me to scribble something. The lazy raindrops wetting the streets below and casting a temporary stain on window ledges bring a…
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Summer Lust

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I have lusted after her for as long as I can remember. People speak of true love, smitten at first sight but for me, it was every bit lust. My desires, my dreams, my feelings… she drives me wild with frenzy. In fact, as soon as I realize, she is going to arrive, I feel my body stiffening. There are things I feel about her I cannot pen down; no, not because of its ‘adult’ nature but because I don’t know how to describe how I feel about her.
She is like no one else – born perfect as she is. Her curves, the buttery texture of her skin, her complexion! My days and nights are filled with her thoughts. I know if I could have my way with her, I could lose my mind. Whenever she is close or in the same room as I, I feel a strange tingling rush through me. Its like she knows she has that effect on me. Her scent, sweet, subtle and ripe like her. If I could make her mine, I’d run my fingers all over her, memorizing her body – every dip, swell and arch.
I do lust after her, but I feel she has the…
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