Eid Mubarak (Happy Eid) !


Minarets stood like lighthouses over the sea of taqiyahs*,

Lent out was a gigantic shade for the sons of Allah,

As if, the Sun bowed along with a million bows,

On speakers Holy prayers rolled, kissed the skies,

Trickled down the Masjid stairs, sank into the atmosphere,

Smiles in piles, greetings and hugs followed,

Jingled bangles, atar heavy the air, rang laughter galore,

Kebabs, sweets, jewelry and clothes,

Shops ran along the road like the never ending shore…


(On Id-ul-Zuha, from the Jama Masjid, New Delhi, India , October 16, 2013)

* taqiyah – is a short, rounded cap worn by Muslims, across the world to emulate Muhammad. It is a must for men to wear them while offering prayers.



Image Credits:




Words of Clay – “Gardener of Beauty”


From His prison of aesthetics, can you grant me liberty?

From that hypnotic trance of His artistry, can you set me free?

Will I ever be able to alter my duty?

For at the celestial factory,

He sculpted me himself for sheer exclusivity,

To serve my years in flesh till the dusk of eternity,

As a zealous Gardener of Beauty…


Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.

The journey ends with this post…

Thank You! readers for all your appreciation, inspiration and support. 



For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Words of Clay – “Be my King”


Be my King this life,

I shall uproot that seedling of ego,

Shoo away from within my emotions of strife,

Into my ears, your weakness when they blow,

I shall wag it lame, bark it a hoax,

For in the game of  the wise,

The one in checks, without the dice,

Both, the King and his Pawn are packed back into the same box…


Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.


For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Words of Clay – “Danced the Frogs…”


Touched down heavy those clouds dark,

Swelled those droplets Divine,

Beams rolled roaring across the skies,

Stray dogs did no more bark,

Tied helpless, mooed cows from the shed,

Grunted wet that homeless swine,

Visible the pond, swayed away the fog,

Celebrated therein, the tailless amphibian clan,

To tunes of the whistling tempest,

Chuckles of the swaying trees shy,

The hymn of the peacock, jingles of the hopping fish,

Beats of the thunder high,

Danced, Danced the Frogs…


Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.


For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Words of Clay – ” Living Blue, Living True”


Vulnerable, much envied resides the Buddha within,

Inner peace is no more free, a price seeps in,

Yet the blue man continues to live it true,

Crouching under his marble umbrella Trojan,

His need for protection pinches him human,

Humbles him his mortality to respect Nature’s curfew,

Not a stain of compromise could taint his virtues,

Confident in a smile! The toughest of climes pass away, too…


Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.


For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/info

The Postman


Cycling crooked on cobbled ways,

Jingling metal, tinkling bells to another May,

Buttoned in uniform, the postman rides away,

Through coughing houses, withering crude,

The wailing Mistress of Longing, “Wait, take us too”,

Through old aberrant grills,

Locked in greenhouses of mediocrity,

Combed and robed into a stranger with the happy look,

Desire’s young labour plead freedom true,

Glimpses of shadows drooping out of the balcony,

Spitting out rusty lessons, throwing up sanity,

Postures on windows, miniatures once, then magnified,

One by one, they all disappeared for their seeds to re-appear,

Only altered the tone, rang the same wails,

Familiarly helpless beamed through grills old, stares new,

His spectacles caught passing reflections all,

For messages unstamped, he could never spare moments few,

He’d kept himself busy, chose to breathe important all the while,

Probably, he’d always known he would soon run out of time,

Till this day, he has served focused blind,

Could divert him none, could distract him none,

When the witch cried, he’d never looked back,

He made it alive to the gallows of Innovation,

Now, at his ceremony of Extinction,

He stands broad-shouldered, proud and firm,

Done with flashing his dutiful spine,

Lands a wreath on the grave of the Telegram,

Kindles lamps of a billion memories, nationwide,

Bows in front of the evergreen Goddess of Change,

Then, wears his golden swim suit, holds on to his pulse,

Ready for the plunge into the quicksand of history,

Into those blue waves of time, he leaps out of sight…



(This post is dedicated to the dying postal service in India.  The 163 year-old telegram services permanently closed down on the night of July 14, 2013. For more, visit: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/163-year-old-telegram-service-to-close-forever-at-9pm-today/articleshow/21067075.cms)




Image Credits:



On Lungs of Desire…


Shut are eyelids of that ocean of consent,

Awaits the end of those hours black, restless to rise,

Throbs in her depths that urge to blink turquoise,

Boycotted winds blow in strong from the East and the West,

Meet secret, kiss aloud, sands whirl celebrate,

Willfully surrenders quiet that beach at rest,

Footprints of two misfits alight, spot closer to merge,

Then, from both ends of that seamless expanse they converge ,

His drums roll to thuds of her anklets, desire glows red at dance,

While snores their stubborn nemesis to a short-lived trance,

That society under the moist blanket of their city,

Passion rages unbound, in pricked junk spotted arms of that musician,

Clung to his heart feeble and tender,

Blooms the dancer’s wish to set free from behind inescapable bars of gender,

Dreams of acceptance are dreamt, but varies the pace of their fulfillment,

When ready for an unnatural change, for its dripping sour melody,

The dancer switches to medical magic, secretly,

To distort the only definite, the only truth, the human body,

When eyes in the hospital beam to a strange light,

They open up to that junkie, now rehabilitated with a smile,

Gone his rags, now dressed bright and clean,

With his newlywed wife by his side, someone a woman, naturally,

Some vision more pain,

Eyelashes droop again,

A tear stream wedges down curves of the dancer’s cheek,

Cancelled is the vagina transplantation,

Undone shall be the breast plantation,

The ball from the past was a feast for a strange temptation,

Love survived only on unapproved and wishful pumping lungs of desire,

Tides of acceptance hit the beach,

The homogenous voice of the mass in reach,

A welcome with arms wide spread, as it its reception,

The speed freak’s footprint was washed away by that ocean ,

While that of the dancer gazed lonely at the moon, longed another misfit,

Sank deeper, licked deeper salts of exclusion,

That last footprint grew into a Pit…



(Inspired from the Bengali film, ‘Chitrangada’ by the late filmmaker, Rituparno Ghosh, one of the most talented directors from the country with 12 National Awards in her kitty.

Chitrangada: The Crowning Wish is a 2012 Bengali-language film written and directed by Rituparno Ghosh. The film premiered on 25 May 2012 at the New York Indian Film Festival. The movie deals with the topics of homosexuality, gender identity and the freedom to choose one’s role in a deeply heteronormative and conformist society.

For more on the movie: http://cliched-monologues.blogspot.in/2013/03/chitrangada-crowning-wish-2012.html)



Image Credits: http://rhondabuss.blogspot.com

Pimp the Nymph…


Applause roared together,

Leaked, seeped out from every corner,

Excitement murmured out of pitch darkness,

Prophecies of the upcoming brilliance shared,

Passed from one seat to the other,

Gossips cease, Curtains unfold,

The crowd gets ready to switch divine,

Dive and sink in a magical tale,

Babbled by her tip-toeing steps,

From her celestial abode, she has just touched down,

Shimmering in white, her little frock high and bright,

In all that blackness, the only light,

Heads nod, wave, oscillate,

Her toes start narrating volumes,

An instrumental beat, flawlessly choreographed,

Has them all, hypnotized…


Streams of Heaven dry up by night,

By the time, the clock strikes nine,

The milky swan runs out of water,

For she knows I like my bills on time,

On stage, her angelic twirls, twists and whirls,

Breaks my stony heart,

Melts the glacier inside,

I had only been a slave to her will,

Her life, her escalating needs,

A dying mother to heal and feed,

I’d just been chosen by her choice,

A permanent spectator to her daily shows,

Have to escort her every day to her existence offshore,

One in the shadows of greed,

Hanging from her altered nocturnal pretense,

In upscale hotels, shady motels, where lust devours her meat,

The butterfly has her wings plucked,

Savors her descent as part of her fate,

Her bartered flesh, her murdered soul, now accustomed to soaring bids,

She cares more than me for her rich hungry clients,

As much she cares for her artsy audience on the other side,

She tops all my whores, any day,

So you see, there’s much more to this ballerina’s life,

Hid under curtains of beauty,

There boils a lot of strife,

Claps shall die down soon,

Now, I should be waiting outside the green room,

A few minutes is all she takes,

To get rid of that Elysian dress,

To put on a sleazy gloss, to crimp,

Scurry out; grab me by my arm,

Hurl hurry across the streets,

An affair, now almost regular,

Post-performance, she couldn’t wait being served on wealthy platters,

In town, the most delicious shrimp,

Her night shall once again be entirely sold,

While my spirit shall bathe guilty in gold,

It’s time to Pimp the Nymph…




(Based on the life of a beautiful young damsel, a ballerina by the day, and a whore, by night.)



Images : http://www.traderslaboratory.com, http://dreamworldreality.blogspot.in

Florida Street LIVE !!!


Scaling shutters stretched a way, French Neoclassical,

Some open, some shut, some blinked witty high,

Some lost to illusory graffiti on biscuit cheeks,

Suited in different shades of cream,

Flaunting their European muscles, they sank in anonymous pride,

Chiseled Italian, the walls, stood arms in arms,

Towering Godfathers, ignorant of their forlorn present,

Burning fruitlessly in their aura,

Rubbed sticky with a balm, self-perceived Utopian,

Attention starved, tapping away their blues to beats of Tango,

Live on the cobbled sideways of Florida Street,

Touching up the atmosphere with a turpentine base of brown,

Rhythmic strokes on the canvas of Buenos Aires’ ‘Culture Crown’,

Shunning internal affairs to oblivion,

They put up a grin to cover,

Entertained jolly, they’re there to watch, forever…



Strummed guitars, cracked the drums,

Breathless sang flutes,

Violins stroked in pain,

Harps comforted weary brains,

They all joined in harmony,

From pavements, had a smitten multitude stop by,

Thigh taps of melody from every corner, every side,

Floral shirts, baggy shorts, three quarters and pastel linens,

Feet sandal clad thumping to the tune,

Souls free from bondages, make-up and fad,

Jammed music that could have you imagining,

Tom, Jerry and Chaplin strolling free,

Effortlessly, spitting out mute comedy,

Oozed talent from roadsides,

Beside stalls exhibiting aesthetics of the unknown,

In front of galleries for the ones, well known,

Corners of departmental stores,

Shopping Plaza ground floors,

They were everywhere,

Careless of their audience swell and shrink, shrink and swell,

Some donate out of gratitude, all impressed well,

Some simply shake free, stand by and enjoy,

Shop to the tunes, hog on needy culture fries…




(From Florida Street, Buenos Aires, famous for its street musicians, shopping arcades, culture hawkers, and restaurants. )




Images from :http://lh4.ggpht.com, http://www.cooltownstudios.com, http://suanneonline.blogspot.in/,http://worldcruise2010.travellerspoint.com

Run Lola Run


Ruddy sheets on the rubicund bed,

Bloodshot Bettenhaus linens,

Red’s the air in the room,

Red’s the breath inhaled, exhaled by the two,

Entangled, seized, smitten by tendrils,

Poisoned with German flavors of passion,

Lashed, he lay,

Caught up by neck in love’s examination,

Red wine, he’d to taste and tell,

Swear by its strain,

Could he stick loyal to that blend for life?

She took to the roots, plucked to confirm,

Shook the trunk,

A question filled shudder,

Made sure her tree had vestments, forever,

That it wouldn’t mourn every summer,

Basket-cased to a naked autumn,

Lament his inability to alter the Divine course,

Scream ordinary,

Butterfingered at molding prophecies, personal,

Love’s tested precious, now love’s refined,

Locked in arms, unperturbed,

They sail away into the future…


Halt open at that scary stop, that bloodcurdling day,

Bawling telephone talk,

Death chased frightened cock,

Wires stammer, fear into her ears,

From that odd booth,

Standing midway, yellow on the cross-way,

On that toothless road, the only tooth in the center,

Sheep sinks deep, lies flat,

Heart stops, BlaBlaBlacksheep,

Moans at the butcher, his twenty minutes,

Panics uncontrollable into the boogey receiver,

He’d to take that death ride worth the lost million,

Reaching him on limousine wheels,

Bloody pay-up from the God of gore, Narco mafia scissors,

A satchel full of green load,

Rode away into the tunnel,

Bearded bum strikes gold on the train,

Rags to suit, cycles rich below the Sun, fearless in the rain,

On the station, he stood, watched the train,

Shrieks in vain, he was helpless then,

The clock shall soon tick twelve,

His time to report to the end,

He’s only more helpless, now,

Telephonic yells,

Lola, can you help me live? Can you do something?

Screams Lola, hold on, wait,

Flings over the phone,

Runs Lola,

Run Lola, Run…


No stops, No pants, cold feet hounds tireless,

Across the city,

Trying to breathe in ideas fresh,

Begging her mind for instant dough sources,

Scanning faces, stares, favors in memory,

To save her love,

To beat the clock,

Twenty minutes, volatile,

Through cobbled pavements,

Honky roads, assiduous neighborhoods white and grey, in broad daylight,

Touching past, pushing aside every passersby,

Deaf to their curses, angry howls,

Only a bag full of notes on mind,

Love’s tested precious,

Now, love’s refined,

Runs Lola,

Run Lola, Run…






(Inspired from Tom Tykwer’s 1998 German crime thriller, ‘Run Lola Run’ – the story of a woman who needs to obtain 100,000 German marks (50,984 Euros) in 20 minutes to save her boyfriend’s life. )

(For more on the movie, visit :






Image used from: http://yourfriendava.blogspot.in/, http://ait-med1915.blogspot.in, http://www.dvdactive.com,http://www.allmovie.com)