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

We’ll lose the Magician


Lies dusty his crown,

Locked tidy in his closet, his golden gown,

The sorcerer is withering away, simple logic,

Assign a magician, tasks that require no magic,

Then, watch him self-destruct,

For there simply can be nothing more tragic,

Sans, the stage, the jeering crowd,

The wide-mouthed claps, hoots and the cheers,

Life slowly blurs in the rear,

The end’s then too hard to resist,

Sheer futility devours his fear,

For a final glimpse, he draws life’s bowl near,

Finds dried up and gone are those last drops of purpose,

No miracles in store, he re-assured clear,

Empty white shines porcelain,

Now he knows, he’s breathing in vain,

Untraceable now, his prime reason to exist…




Image Credit : http://www.tripadvisor.com

Personal Diaries- ‘STRANGER’


This isn’t my world,
I’m naive to its ways,
Born out of place,
In another age,
I’m a natural misfit,
Meant to quickly fade away,
My mind and its sways won’t let me survive,
But there should not remain any sad vibes,
Coz maybe when i wink again with new baby cries,
I mite just turn out into the right seed in the right soil…



Image Credits :


Mission India’013: Kill Poor Kids


Your crawl from rags to riches,

From broken pathways of mud,

Running like streams through harvested fields,

To sovereign bungalows looking over the Capital’s naval,

Gorging on the country’s yields,

Was balanced on your labor wheels,

Yet, what ignited your engine for the victorious path,

Were blessings from a million hearts,

Many a brother of yours might have toiled more hard,

But, power awaited you, your ambitions shone right from the start,

Into bureaucratic caves with the nation over phones,

Your lifetime opportunity to eat to the bones,

The crouching tiger, snarling hungry, beating years,

Is now unlocked, unchained served with meat,

Will he only eat only whatever’s served?

Or, will he hunt down darling helpless babies, call a curfew?

Your hungry past has stirred you so well in that greedy beer,

You’re scoring acres in ripening lands, blinded you’re poisoning our future,

Or maybe it’s your plan to relieve the nation, slash the burden of its poor,

Let’s see how high you soar,

The Mother’s curse shall soon break your oars,

Let your sins mount, breathes heavy this blood-stained topography,

Trust me you’ll be painted naked on wall graffiti,

Stripped off, your serious mask of philanthropy…




(An enraged expression directed at a corrupt governmental machinery, responsible for the recent headlines :

“22 children die after eating mid-day meal in Bihar school”

“Autopsies find insecticide in food given to Bihar school kids”







Image Credits:




Special Powers to Murder?


Safeguarding our crown was their responsibility,

Long back, when that paradise was losing out on peace and stability,

Years after that bloody decade,

When the valley gears up healthy,

Yearns to lick tourism and trade,

Craves attention, gears up to resurrect wealthy,

How did uniformed hatred never grey?

How many more young corpses will grant them content?

Or, does it take one to feast on sacks of religious contempt,

Or, grow brainwashed blind into monsters, death-hungry,

To join this faction of the Army?

Do you hear that lull? Do you hear that guilty silence?

Crouched they sit, count moments for another sin to age,

Consumed is the nation, the youth is diverted dead,

Let the heat sway away, the news grow old, they’ll soon forget,

At times I gaze startled at the brilliance of this government machinery,

Tactful and wise, under curtains of the largest democracy,

Ethnic cleansing wages rampant,

Sanctioned green, invisible behind myths of our secular skin,

Secured and shielded to raze a limping J&K*,

Have you heard of a country where no terror strikes?

Does that mean an entire community and its youth will have to perpetually pay a price?

Unheard flies the mother’s wail,

Here to stay, those black clouds of an obsolete AFSPA*…



Based upon the headlines “Protest erupts in J&K after 2 civilians killed in firing”-  The Indian Express.


http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2013-02-23/india/37256692_1_return-of-guru-body-anantnag-and-kulgam-curfew) – Protests erupted in Kashmir after the Army allegedly shot dead two civilians in Bandipore district on Sunday morning. The police have registered a murder case against 13 Rashtriya Rifles (RR) of the Army. Though the Army said it will probe the killings, the J&K government said there is “nothing to investigate”

– The Indian Express


*AFSPA– The Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act (AFSPA), was passed on September 11, 1958, by the Parliament of India. It grants special powers to the armed forces in what the act terms as “disturbed areas” in the states of Arunachal Pradesh, Assam, Manipur, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Nagaland and Tripura. It was later extended to Jammu and Kashmir as The Armed Forces (Jammu and Kashmir) Special Powers Act, 1990 in July 1990.

For more on the act, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armed_Forces_(Special_Powers)_Act,_1958


*J&K– Jammu and Kashmir, the northernmost state of India.




Image Credits : http://www.movieballa.com

Mountain Bus Driver


Nature’s challenge,

He wins,

Takes away life and destination,

He loses,

Scales down to his end,

Till out of sight into the deep ravine,

On his performance,

Clings a bus full of lives,

On every steer of his,

On every inch that he rolls,

Squeaking diesel, up and down the hill,

When the road spirals stiffer,

Narrows, turns steeper,

No matter the visibility or the hour,

Snow in the day, pitch dark at night,

Or, hazy noons and nights with chilly showers,

With that wide-eyed insomniac stare,

He carries a sleeping, stretching, chatting, yawning herd,

On his shoulders, wheeling risky uphill,

Protruding sharp edged rocks,

Apple trees, Milestone blocks,

They all respect and know this alert tiger,

Unsung remains his skill,

Pale, unadorned remains his craft,

No medals, No stars does he deserve,

Not a token of our gratefulness,

Not a hug of gratitude,

Unvexed, Unstirred, Graying Unhailed,

Rambles on the Mountain Bus Driver…





Images from : http://pknlr.blogspot.in/, http://en.paperblog.com

Doctor This, Doctor That!


The Allied-Eraser grew monstrous,

For stubborn stains, it had direct orders,

To tear pages off the flap,

Customized to rub Nazi land from the map,

Came along Soviet scissors,

Armed to the teeth, yawn-less with night-vision,

To snip wings of lethally toxic ambition,

Switch off German National Socialist lights, forever,

Featherless, stripped naked of power,

He scavenged the ground for scattered dreams,

Leaves from his meritorious past, devilish conquests,

Snaps of enemies in blood and screams,

It was all over, damn ‘Heil Hitler!’

The Dictator now, imitated the rag picker,

Sins wore his soul weak and weaker,

He had to depart, then and there,

Summoned him ‘Failure’,

His most competent Archfiend,

For his final lap, his walk of retribution,

The last stretch to his end…


This was the time, when unnoticed served this scarred angel,

Deep below that violent surface of this earth,

He tended thousands of injured, bleeding and the wounded,

No else, could cook some medicinal stew in there,

Until he reached them,

Limbs were sawed down, not operated,

Crying mouths with tranquilizers were stubbed, suffocated,

No one could be cured, no one could be medicated,

Amidst that mutilated, sobbing multitude,

In that make-shift hospital,

Out of an underground bunker to escape air-raids,

With unskilled aid,

Relentlessly at service, that doctor lost count of nights and days,

He drank horror, on insomniac glimpses he fed,

Images of slaughtered green heroes,

In repentance, wails of limbless carnivores,

Unstirred, unfazed, by infectious fumes of brutality,

The only one who survived those lethal gases,

Sprayed to suck out of creatures around, every trace of humanity,

Forgiven were murderers,

No confessions needed human-butchers,

Roamed around zombies, once soldiers,

Dead were their ideals,

Dead was their honor,

Gone was the Führer, their Protector,

Abandoned in Berlin, for duty Divine,

Unnerved served Werner Haase, that Nazi Doctor…

With the century ready to wake up to a new morn,

I wonder if that selfless spirit of service is still there?

Or, with that doctor decayed in Kazakov’s Butyrka*,

That spotless dedication to God’s work is gone?


This doctor from the Latino city of Curitiba,

Unscathed by human suffering and pain,

Wore Thanatos’ robe to decide ends,

Terminated the ones critically ill,

To reduce her workload against Lord’s will,

Empty captured ICU beds,

Get rid of escalating stress,

Murder, present her patients, a quiet death,

And be done with, after quickly distributing death certificates…


Though, both dealt in human life,

This doctor served to terminate,

That doctor served to preserve and recreate,

In the Gallery of Motives,

One stood statured in wax,

While, the other chose to hide…


(A reflection on two doctors – Dr. Werner Haase and Dr Virginia Soares de Souza, influenced by the 2004 German film, Der Untergang (Downfall), world history, and the latest global headlines.

Dr. Haase fought death, served to heal like only a few could, when Russians were taking over Berlin in 1945, while Dr. Soares had the audacity to grant death to her patients, only to reduce the mounting pressure in the ICU of Curitiba’s Evangelical Hospital, Brazil.

*Butyrka Prison, Moscow (Matvey Kazakov, its architect) is the place where Dr. Hasse died in the year 1950, serving his term as a POW.

For more visit:







Images from : http://www.vebidoo.de, http://www.saglikekibi.com

Love’s Forever…


Flowers on her tiny frock,

Danced restless, like the roulette ball,

Tumbled from one corner of her room to the other,

Nothing seemed pink enough, not anymore in that pink room,

Shadows of death raided the house,

Got her little mind drawing merry prophecies to stay afloat,

When voices outside soared,

To lash, hold back her galloping heartbeat,

Shouts rang in competition,

Louder, baggy with moisture, more binding, more final than the other,

Unable to get used to it,

Seek carefree shelter in maturity like her sister,

She had her ears against the door,

Used them to swallow whatever she could overhear,

Mom and Dad sinking deeper in fierce argument,

Screams ripped her heart apart,

So did every painful howl that sneaked inside,

A tearful fight, both wept aloud,

Their yells were oozing, flooded, they leaked, they seeped, emotions clamored,

She’d never heard anything stranger,

A brawl to bequeath enough love behind for each other,

Little did she know then,

This wasn’t going to stop, anytime soon,

Their strife to hold hands together till the very end,

No matter, Thanatos had planned it, altogether differently for them…


Mom could sense her bones rolling into rapid decay,

She knew soon, they would powder away,

Her body dipped deeper, more consumed in the termination show,

Soon, it would be packed with only dead cells,

She’d held Dad’s hand all the way,

And, she hated the prospect of presenting him eternal loneliness,

His return gift for painting her life golden, all the way,

Their two angel-like daughters,

Will they survive gloomy, motherless for the rest of their lives?

Once, she left for her heavenly abode,

She wanted him to remarry,

Ensure her kids were never less cared for, never less pampered,

This was her last wish, and she demanded firm assurance,

The family that she had nurtured, watered all these years,

Shouldn’t dry up, affliction starved, shouldn’t wither away, incomplete,

Only sweet memories should exist, tears should go missing,

Like all these years, there were none,

This was how she wanted things to be,

The moment she ran out of time,

Closed her eyes forever,

The moment, she was gone…


With every new Sunset,

Would arrive dark confrontations,

Dad would relentlessly deny accepting her plans,

Raging panicked at the future,

He made it clear,

Impossible would it be for him to hitch again,

To pack peace for her in her grave, this way,

The same stance each and every day,

Sitting away from one another,

Ceaselessly did they mourn the swift advance of the devil of wrath,

Fighting, mourning the soon-to-arrive immeasurable void of distance in between them,

Waging an already lost war against nature,

That an entire life shall stand in their way, have them permanently separated,

Was something that none of them could accept,

A truth that both wanted to fight till the end,

For he knew very well, he could never turn into a new path, ever again,

Without her, he could never have things her way,

That life, out of her shade, would soon go haywire,

Attempts to hold back his soul from wailing aloud lonely, seemed futile,

For he knew, by then he would already be half-dead,

On and on, they fought, bled love,

Till the day, her young daughters made it in a hurry from school,

Ill-informed that she was back home to celebrate,

That cured, she could now start afresh, all over again,

Things could be the way they were, that they could be the same,

Only to find Mom lying unperturbed in death’s embrace,

Dad staring numb into a lull,

She’d quietly passed away…






Images from : http://www.marketplace.org, http://www.ramonazabriskie.com, http://ruiizu-chan.deviantart.com, http://perpetualfolly.blogspot.in

The Last Party

Ran here, ran there,

They ran towards me,

Against my face,

More of them,

Rushing at me,

Couldn’t get through,

Couldn’t pass any,

Clogging my nostrils,

Blinding me,

Breathing all the black smoke,

Choking, I couldn’t see anymore,

Clashing against chests,

Trying to push me down,

Run over me,

My feet felt them everywhere,

I tripped on a leg, hand or a head,

Soon, amongst them,

More crashed on me,

Burying me suffocated,

Pressing on my eyes, my mouth and my nose,

Pitch dark, breathless, crushed, trampled,

…a ping in my ears,

And, then charred silence…



(I dedicate this post to the victims and their families of the 27th January’2013 Night Club fire in Santa Maria, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil that claimed 245 young lives.

The world mourns the incident, and so does my country and me…)