wish I could skip the day

I wish I could skip the day

Seven years to culminate the 20th century,
Nine less the middle of the year was it,
I wrote the opening page
Of misfortune at twenty past the four
with the first cursed breath on the Lord’s day
Becoming the author of my own misery,
and of the souls around me.

I wish I could skip the day.

Every single word, microscopic or vast..
Every single page since then
Has been an epoch of errors and omissions
Penned under the shadow of abject laxity.
The price of each direful page
That has been jotted down,
Or the phrases that are being moulded,
Will continue to be paid till
The earth is rambling around the sun,
Or the sun is swallowed by a gloomy pit in the sky,
Or the sky breaches its own limit
With its fragments scattered at the horizon.

I wish I could skip this day.

The loathing of this unwanted day
Refuses to make a comfortable place
In tomes of formidable vocabulary.
The hate is impressively more than
The word hate could impeccably reveal.
And yet, the unspeakable suffering of
Holding the cursed quill has to be endured, for
Neither earth is wishing to hang inert,
Nor the sky is ready to open its cakehole.

I wish I could skip this day.

For this one insane pleasure of planet voyage,
I stumble from midnight to midnight
Celebrating the revolution by counting
Tears fallen on forlorn pages I authored.
Meanwhile, another page is written
With pristine melancholy proses.
Even poetry eludes the sheets as
The attraction between the giant stars
and the sole animated piece of rock continues.

I wish I could skip this day.

The infinite folios search for the climax
But the anthology of agony is perennial.
It refuses to end, adding to the suffering.
The quotes are embellished with indignation.
So much of helplessness…
Can’t even strike down a single memory.
The fate is written, the ink is dry.
I can’t skip the page till I’m alive.
Till then, the journal of pain will continue,
And one day, just like that, the unfateful draft
Will be forgotten in the annals of prose.


As a writer, I write what I believe in.
I also write what I do not believe in.
Often I forgo my identity when I write.
I write what amuses me.
As a writer, everything amuses me.
I write serious, I write weird.
Sometimes, I even write foolish.
Maybe I’m stupid, but
I’m a writer. As a writer,
I take pride in my stupidity.
I laugh at me.
I write sardonic jokes
in matters of life and death.
As a writer, I have no qualms.
I write because you read.
Before you, I write for myself.
Because it is recreational.
As a writer, I entertain myself,
before I write for other reasons.
I write pain with exuberance,
entertainment with tears.
As a writer, I’m timid too,
afraid to recall the
bogeys of my past.
Sometimes I do, and
it freaks me out.
As a writer, I meet my lover
on the forlorn pages,
with every word like
a blissful memory of her.
As a writer, I fight with myself.
I write to rescue me
from the unwanted existence.
As a writer, I’m unaware
of the destiny of my words.
The battle will be fought
between poetry and the insane.
As a writer, I’m not bound to earth,
or to the perennial sky.
I go beyond the horizon
and write revolution in the universe.
As a human, I’m fearless.
As a subject, I’m afraid.
As a writer, I’m rebel.
I write bitter, I write sweet.
I’m hated, I’m loved.
I’m abused, I’m praised.
As a writer,
I give no f*cks.
I know you know,
the poetry is immortal,
the words won’t be erased.


Mother’s Day is a celebration honoring the mother of the family, as well as motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society.


motherhood poem

As long as you are with me,
I don’t care about me.

Cocooning in your arms since I was born,
you are my redoubt during the storm.

You embrace me when I feel alone.
For my well being, you deny comfort zone.

When I fear, you become my knight.
I sleep, and you are awake all night.

You let me fly and traverse the sky.
You give me energy whenever I feel shy.

I can’t imagine life without you.
Just your love, nothing else is true.

Your selfless love is limitless.
Under your shadow I am fearless.

I walk every path holding your hand.
Your velvety touch is like a magic wand.

Your cuddle feels like a paradise.
You brighten my world before sunrise.

You find a laugh in my laughter.
If I am a book, you are the writer.

You are like an umbrella during the rain.
The whole…

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The morning was normal. Although physically awake, my mind and soul refused to liberate themselves from perennial slumber. After conceding to the overpoweringly bright sun, and completing the morning drudgery, I went, as usual, to fetch the milk. There was no enthusiasm in life- it was dull and fraught with despondency. The only element of excitement though was the expectation of seeing her on my way once again. Except, she didn’t show up. It has been a week now and that sole element of excitement still eludes me. Today also, like the past seven days, I returned crestfallen. She didn’t show up. She has gone. She must have. 

Although reluctantly, I have come to terms with the fact that I would never see her again. It is as if a beam of light has vanished into the universe with an intention to never touch the earth again. And gone with her the mystery of the somber expression she used to wear on her face all the time. She was hiding something-something painful. Watching her, I used to forget the agony of my life.

She is no one to me. I am no one to her. I don’t even know if she has ever noticed me. But I used to espy her. I did have a hankering to bump into her coincidentally and start a banter. That coincidence never happened. I lacked the courage to launch an overture to her. There was no way of breaking the ice between us. I had no crash on her. I was just unnecessarily curious. After all, I have a history of doing unnecessary things. There is an exotic kind of pleasure in doing that.

I didn’t even know if she had a voice since I never saw her speaking. Though once I watched her smiling hesitatingly at something that I failed to comprehend (or, was she smiling at nothing at all). She was a solitary soul, never having any interaction with the world. You won’t see her goggling into a smartphone, chatting with neighbors, or playing with pals. “Does she know a world exists around her?” I used to wonder. I never saw her going to a school or a college or a job. She was either mopping the estrade outside the house wearing no footwear or fetching some stuff that I won’t be able to behold. “Who is she?” I thought every time I passed by her.

One thing can be said with certitude: she was completely abstracted from the hustle-bustle of the city. She gave no damn about what’s happening around her. I must accept, I envy her for this rarely found quality among the people. She was unusual but unique. Although away from the world, she seemed to hold a whole different world inside her eyes. Although her lips were locked every time, I heard her through her eyes. They indeed used to speak. I floundered to decipher their language though. It was encrypted in so many expressions that it was like a ‘labyrinth’ of emotions emanating from her innocent eyes. I don’t know her identity, her name, her story but I could discern that her face emanated a lachrymose tale, her expressions told a history of pain, that there was some calculated amount of agony in her smile. Everything about her befuddles my brain. I couldn’t approach her to ask her story, I tried to read her expression. Words may be manipulative. Words may lie, expressions don’t. Every person has a story to tell, but rarely do they have legitimate words to deliver it- the words that could do justice to their unique stories, words that won’t betray the original feeling they involuntarily express through their outlook. For a human being, his expression, when no one is watching, is the purest form of existence. People learn to cleverly maneuver their expression as per their vicinity. She was different though. Her was an ingenuous expression no doubt.

For others, she may look awkwardly ugly or peculiar. For me, and for everyone with an unprejudiced heart and objective brain, she was the most innocent and pure being with a cherubic face, who doesn’t mind the way she dresses in torn clothes, the way she leaves her hair uncombed in an eerie form, the way she is always absorbed in her chores, the way she looks into nowhere when not preoccupied with her tasks, the way she refuses to make eye contact. It was this eccentric way of her life that aroused in me a desire to understand her better. I saw inspiration in her. She motivated me to be myself, how to love yourself the way you are despite a past as worrisome as it might be. She told me to not be clever, but original; to not try to impress others by cosmetic behavior; to not feel sorry for so-called weirdness; to not seek anyone to befriend,  but love and cherish your own company. She reminds me of what Dr. Seuss, late American author, and filmmaker, once quoted. I quote: “Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you.”


Vacant Canvas cover

is a vacant canvas,
which waits
with baited breathe,
for an invader
to fill its inanimate landscape
with an eclectic hue of bliss
that would capture the
the imagination of every vagabond,
and mesmerize the onlookers;
that would inebriate
a habitual boozehound
more than the hookers;
that would end the
aeons of gloom and darkness
that has long engulfed its vicinity;
that would offer a cornucopia of pleasure
with a smidgen of insanity.


Lane of Memories


In the lane of memories
the crispness of your imprints
is still alive.

I’ve faced storms,
escaped the pit of chaos,
dodged the death
by the skin of my teeth,
I’ve survived lies and deceit.

I lost the battle
in the lane of memories.

When blows the wind,
the air would take
the shape of you.

When falls the rain,
I could see your reflection
through the blue.

When rises the sun,
its brightness would diminish,
by the smile of you.

When blossom the flowers,
and their fragrance wafts in,
I could feel you.

When arrives the night,
I protest in sleep,
dreams have no clue.

The building blocks
of my universe are
made up of your memories.

Your memories are
my only interaction
with nature and its vagaries.

The world does not exist
or exist only in a blur,
without your memories.

Your memories keep me alive,
they sustain my life,
despite all the worries.

I can’t breathe air,
can’t quench my thirst,
if it were not for your memories.

Every gravel in the paths
I walked on with you
reminds me of your presence.

Each corner of this world
where I held you in my hands
reminds me of our romance.

Each star in the sky
which used to envy you
reminds me of your bliss.

Every inch of my soul
still remembers
our last kiss.



It is not the end yet
Believe me, I can bet
If you face a defeat
Get up and repeat
Expand your feathers
There lie mystic weathers
Flicker as you fly
Smile in your cry
Never forget to shine
Every cloud has a silver line
Learn to bear the thorns
That’s how you fight the storms

The world is jet
Get up from the bed
Hurtle to fight
The sun & its might
The blossom is scanty
There are thorns aplenty
Force yourself against the crust
Leaving behind every lust
Recharge yourself must
Lest you get burst
For every twinge of pain
There is waiting a gain

Put sorrow to rest
It is the time to jest
Wave your hand
Like a magic wand
Sweetness is not a pipe dream
Before sleep, eat an ice cream
Lit up with impish glee
Let the blues flee
Don’t forget under the din
there exist kith and kin
With them, you run
Till comes the horizon

Plans will be backfired
You may feel tired
Don’t let the hope die
You have to traverse the sky
Just like the flowers
And the idyllic showers
It’s time to nourish
For your dream to flourish
Let the darkness wanes
Get freedom from chains
Be honest and be true
There lives a legend in you.


The train not taken blog

“Newspaper! Newspaper!” incanting the boy in his teen. Men are scampering like bairns. Women are jabbering incessantly. I am standing aimlessly, pondering over my future course of action. I start walking towards the exit gate and, in a hushed tone, am speaking to myself. I could hear the train I just disembarked from making a squawky sound, signaling its imminent departure.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is to inform you that the train standing at Platform No. 1 is ready to leave, passengers are requested to take their seats. Wishing you a Happy Journey!” says the announcement at the railway station. The same announcement was made when I boarded the train at my home station. I did not find anything happy in the journey though, for who could call dirty toilets, broken seats, jam-packed coaches, etc a happy journey. After completing my work, I am now heading towards my home.

I am now standing, almost downcast, at Platform No.2 waiting for my train to arrive. I check the time by my watch and it is 9:15 pm. I have already bought a ticket. There is some unusualness in the vicinity. Thanks to God, for, at least, the platform is provided with a smidgen of lights, if not ubiquitously luminous. Freakish weather is hovering over the only shed at the platform I am sitting under. It makes my flesh crawl as there is rarely any other passenger, only some beggars, sleeping, with some snoring, some with brassy rhythm. This, along with the sporadic barking of dogs, and some unfamiliar snort of unknown animals, is making the whole surrounding more spooky. A squall is broke out. The robust branches of tall trees are jiggling with the wind blowing at bullet speed, taking with them the twig that has fallen from the branches, making an eerie sound while striking with the earth. A whole gamut of dust, broken leaves, used rappers, etc have gathered around my feet dangling down the bench. There is only a want of thundering clouds with the lightening sky. But the caliginous sky is not less scary.

“What is the correct time of train arrival,” I ask the guy sitting motionless next to me.

“It should have been arrived till now,” he says, “now it may take even longer, providing the worsening weather.”

He sounds like an automatic bot as if someone has programmed him to speak predetermined statements. I could not see his face as it is down.

“There is no damn announcement either,” I grunt.

“A lady. This time?” the man mutters, as he moves her head up and takes a gander at opposite platform.

I look around visually and there is her. She is standing there stock-still like an effigy of a young woman with irresistible beauty. She has ensconced herself on the platform and is not quivering at all, that is despite the tempest that has befallen on the desolate junction. Only things I could see moving are her attire and a paper she is holding in her hand. She is not even looking straight but gawking at the perpetual railway lines.

“What is she exactly doing there?” the man asks, rubbernecking at her.

“She must have been playing Statue-Statue game,” I mumble in my head, try to cut a joke.

“Is she waiting for a Train? But Alone. This time at night?” the man continues his investigation, like a sleuth-hound.

Suddenly, a wacky idea strikes to my naive brain. I want to get my head off the odious environment.

“What if she is a ghost?” I ask the man with a spine-chilling voice.

“A banshee?” he says, not at all frightened as I am expecting.

“Banshee…?” my curiosity increases, so is my breath.

“A female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in a house,” he replies. “But why is she not screeching?”

I stand up, my legs shuddering. At a gallop, I march towards the Ticket Counter to ask the ticket vendor about the train arrival. The counter has been shut down. The blood-curdling cadences of the man sitting with me under the shed have already scared the pants off me and now this. I leer at my watch. It is sharp 12 midnight. As I am goggling my watch, a sudden burst of a jarring noise jolts me. It is the train horn. The train horn- the sound I have been waiting with bated breath. I rush briskly towards the train. I want to go home at the earliest and once at home, I would not even think of traveling in trains, leave alone arriving on this platform, I think.

“Should I entrain or not?” I think in a jiffy while boarding the coach that appears at first to me. I wish I would not regret it.

The coach is out of ordinary and is quiet and secluded. There are hardly four or five travelers- a usual thing at night. But what is not usual is the peculiar expression by which they are gawking at me. It is like if they have seen a ghost out of nowhere. I prod myself in the back of the neck and tell myself to refrain from thinking about something like ghost and witches as I am already beleaguered by something like a banshee. I swear that the man I met under the shed is befuddling and scary.

“Oh My God! How could I forget about the man?” I reprimand myself.

I ensconce myself on the bench adjacent to the window and see through the window to scan the platform for the man. There is no one on the bench the man was sitting on with me.

“He must have boarded the train, might be some other coach,” I guess.

“Jai Hanuman gyan gun sagar
Jai Kapis tihun lok ujagar”

I could not recite any more. Today I regret not learning Hanuman Chalisa despite being exhorted by my parents since my childhood. But I don’t lose hope and keep on chanting the two lines again and again as my breath gasp in horror.

My chant is interrupted by the shrill siren of the train engine. As the siren reaches its crescendo, the train begins to depart. I am a bit solaced now.

“Where has she disappeared?” I cringe as I see through the window other side and find no lady on the opposite platform now. I feel the ground slipping under my feet, not because the lady has vanished but because she is sitting in front of me on the opposite bench, her face down, veil on.


motherhood poem

As long as you are with me,
I don’t care about me.

Cocooning in your arms since I was born,
you are my redoubt during the storm.

You embrace me when I feel alone.
For my well being, you deny comfort zone.

When I fear, you become my knight.
I sleep, and you are awake all night.

You let me fly and traverse the sky.
You give me energy whenever I feel shy.

I can’t imagine life without you.
Just your love, nothing else is true.

Your selfless love is limitless.
Under your shadow I am fearless.

I walk every path holding your hand.
Your velvety touch is like a magic wand.

Your cuddle feels like a paradise.
You brighten my world before sunrise.

You find a laugh in my laughter.
If I am a book, you are the writer.

You are like an umbrella during the rain.
The whole life, you hide your pain.

You quietly cry when I am hurt.
I am safe because you are alert.

You keep an eye on my every turn,
without expecting anything in return.

Your blessings are above all possession.
Being a mother is the toughest profession.

On your lips, there is only one prayer,
for my well being and for my care.

I’m only a sculpture molded by your caring,
You fill colors in my achromic painting.

Sometimes you are soft, sometimes tough.
But at no times, never, you could be rough.

You are the beacon of light in dark hours.
For me, you have won many wars.

You are a synonym for tenderness.
No one could question your parentness.

You fondle with me in a garden of roses,
protecting me from thorns and chaoses.

No doubt, you do miracles for me.
You blossom up the world around me.

Your hug can heal any scar.
If life is a movie, you are my star.

Let me confess to God.
That you are above Him, Mom.

Even God can’t do what a mother could.
Let’s agree, there’s nothing like the motherhood.



Betrayal of tree image 12

The shades are not cost-free,
don’t wait for the betrayal of the tree.
Even the limit that you exceed
won’t serve your perennial greed.
Compare with benefits you reap,
your creed looks so cheap.
Prosper not in such a hurry,
lest you watch the betrayal of the tree.

We wear a selfish glee,
ignoring the betrayal of the tree.
The green is humble of all,
the color seeks a courtesy call.
We, the Master of earth,
are guilty of creating dearth.
Beware you being, I foresee,
an imminent betrayal of the tree.

Infatuated with calamitous spree,
we invite the betrayal of the tree.
Unperturbed by irreparable damage,
we fail the nature we ought to manage.
Without mercy, by hook and crook,
we welcome dry spell, parched brook.
Natural power holds the key,
to stop the betrayal of the tree.

Are you guys prepared to flee,
in case there is a betrayal of the tree?
The destruction we cause is rampant.
We are ignorant, our attitude flippant.
Disguising as the Supreme owner,
we would soon be the moaner.
Staggering at the abyss is a queue.
Is it the provenance of betrayal of the tree?

Solitary cottages, near diminishing sea,
tell us about the betrayal of the tree.
Blindfolded by luxury, blind to reason,
we fail to envisage vagaries of season.
Cost of this lifestyle is not discernible,
haunted by Cassandras are the vulnerable.
Who would be there to file the plea,
after the eventual betrayal of the tree?

The folks don’t easily agree,
that there could be a betrayal of the tree.
Your tomorrow is in your hands.
Help nature, save the lands.
Have the eyes of the hawk,
say no to shrugging off.
I afraid if you would see,
the absolute betrayal of the tree.