Brain Pain


Nourished and caressed his blood cells,

The tropical Sun’s ordeal,

From the Ganges, humid winds and moist spells,

His body, a mirror to his years,

While post-school, ceased ticking his brain,

At the epicenter of his central nervous system,

Evolved a tumor out of his skull’s membrane,

Only perpetual childhood now to nurture,

Cancelled were all his bookings to a manly future,

Cherish every second was what the docs prescribed,

Now he could be gone any moment, medication surrendered,

Thereafter, his parents gifted him a young bride,

The child locked in a man’s shell had to hear wedding bells,

Chucked out of his ancestral house, deserted to die,

He smiles in a squat on the floor of a mental facility,

Chuckles innocently, “I miss Mom, she used to play with me, sleep by my side,

I miss Dad; he saved me every night by sleeping with my angry wife”


(A Salute to sapiens that surround us…)



Image credits:

Was Under Repairs- The Verse Factory


Apathy stains wore its equipment,

Corrosion from gales of compromise had it dysfunctional,

Cylinders of creative lubricant dangled empty,

Staggering under debts of the womb,

Worst fears of its crafty artisans turned true,

None could make it to work,

For needles of mediocrity were scattered bare,

Flooding roads of my town, pointed everywhere,

With lamed logistics, a hungry nation to scare,

A stagnant fleet of trucks, dusty with lethal punctures,

Maintenance craved every inch of its infrastructure,

Servicing had been the need of the hour,

Engineers blocked the exit, while to mend forced in entry,

Barred the ailing entrepreneur from notifying,

“Under Repairs – The Verse Factory…”


(Sincere and Heartfelt Apologies to all my beloved and precious readers for being away…

For this pothead, rehabilitation was the surprise gift of this kind society.

With my return, awaits you some white-eyed poetry…



Image credits: )

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:




Image Credits:

He runs on…














If you have wheels,
He has his legs,
Untearable muscles,
Stretchable nerves,
Magical arteries that auto-heal,
Immortal strength,
Inexpensively invincible to time,
The drops, the chill and the shine,
Bells tinkling fatigue-less,
Since, the city was a kid,
In years prime,
He runs loaded, overloaded,
And, often empty today,
Hungry against beeps, honks, conks, machines, a mechanical age,
Maintained his steady undying gallop,
Concealed remains his divine syrup,
His secret to time-piercing sustenance, survival, evergreen energy,
On the hot-tempered irritated speedy wheeled streets of Kolkata,
Unwheeled, Unchained, Unmotored,
He runs on…






Tea Pair










Hands for each other,
Her spotted sari,
Against his white shirt,
Four hands, twenty fingers,
Racing time on a tired flame,
Burnt, Injured tea-pans suffered on,
Took lessons of sustenance from,
The charred boiling breakfast bowl,
Tiny plastic cups quacked,
Hungry fleet of lips,
Relentlessly Munched, Sipped, Smoked…




(Image from

Red Traffic-Light Bites…


She jostled, muscled,
Captured her stance,
On her feet,
From the ceiling rod,
Conquered her space,
She did peek out,
Her face, the struggle,
Drops of labour,
Humid hours,
Her early summers,
In anger, did she pop-out,
From within bony branches of skin,
Claustrophobic forest of arms,
Worked out manly pits,
Stinky swamps,
Raged at my empty car,
The pulled-up glass,
Fumed at the lonely passenger within,
At him breathing air,
His ease,
Only fumes of sweat for her,
Could read her well,
Her lovelorn pretty face,
Unscalable walls of dignity,
Tightened as closely as her lips,
Doors of honor sealed,
Shut at strangers,
It was time to reach home,
Unlock before mom,
For now, love’s locked away in a trunk,
Swayed aside,
Hidden, for a while,
No feelings,not a song,
Only glimpses for me,
Couldn’t dare stare for long,
Her folded brows scoffed, scorned,
Spat challenges for the future,
Retinas meant for love,
Now, almost grumbled, abused,
Through windows of her panting bus,
Resting by my side,
Red’s the traffic-light…




(image from

To Calcutta for my Cousin’s Wedding…


Tomorrow, when the Sun retires,

Rests for a new dawn,

You should know that I’m gone,

That I’ll quietly read,

All your posts,

For an entire week,

Will silently watch you unravel your minds,

As you share your joys and your grinds,

I’m heading off to Calcutta,

For my cousin’s wedding,

I thought I’d rather again not miss a chance,

To taste my patriarchal ties,

I only hope I’m not hurt or disappointed,

I only hope I can shower heartfelt goodbyes,

Return with my phone decked with images,

And, maybe, a few merrier songs to sing,

I’m heading off to Calcutta,

For my cousin’s wedding…






( Images from : )

Play us away from Park Street


Looking into your eyes,

Staring wood at every passerby,

Greeting you on all sides,

Taking care of every direction,

Unblinking sets of seven kohled eyes,

The dark and the blonde,

 Both offering out chiseled pouts,

Competing each other to suit your lips,

To fit in between,

More smoothly than the other,

Crying out memories of forgotten flute-makers,

Trying hard to catch your attention,

For a lifetime chance to set out all by themselves,

On a journey of independence, away from each other,

Away from this nomadic life,

On the immature shoulder of their talentless master,

Too busy to take care of them,

Too busy eying, fishing innocence,

Beside the Oxford pillars of Park Street,

In broad daylight…




( Image borrowed from )

*Park Street, Kolkata, West Bengal, India – “…In the 1970s and 1980s much of Kolkata’s night life took place at Park Street. Many noted musicians had played at popular night spots such as Trinca’s, Blue Fox, Mocambo and Moulin Rouge. Even before that, in the1940s, 50s and 60s Kolkata’s prolific night life was centred on Park Street...”, for more visit :,_Kolkata



Kolkata’s Valentine Veggies…


Sacks underneath,

Rugs by their side,

Love flowed freely,

From the stink of cabbages,

From their feet smelling wet hide,

Romance erupted from those rusty plateaus,

Love’s been seeping in their soil too,

Preserving, nurturing active volcanoes,

With love’s lava boiling within,

Waiting for them to be forgotten,

Covered, concealed with paints of a hard, and too regular, a life,

Go unnoticed in the crowd,

Lost in the market,

Amongst the commonest of men,

Peeled skins from greens, plucked cauliflower leaves,

Adorned the front,

Adding to the instant,

A quintessential touch of their reality,

The power of love celebrated, danced in there,

Sublimed in poverty,

For the blind to see,

Naughty comfort,

Amidst sips of tea,

Chirps and chatters out of laughs,

From their list of sold veggies,

Amidst a day gone good,

Thoughts of a sumptuous lunch,

And, moments to secretly cherish,

With their kids asleep in peace…




(The image is borrowed from “The India Travel Blog- Mahindra homestays”,


2012-08-17 12.39.56

She dwelt in her wonderland,

Her world of Hanuman, Tom, and Jerry,

Fascinated by a life up on the trees,

By the heroic ape’s giant leaps,

She assumed a tail was all that we need,

The cat chasing the mouse,

Both learning lessons on the way,

Musical toddles and the pitfalls,

She smiled at everything,

I used to see her giggle,

2012-08-17 13.17.31 Munch on a tasty snack,

Cautious of her mother,

Noticing everything that she gobbled down,

Fearing an uproar,

Every time she had a delicacy in front of her,

Tamarind, fries, pickle or sweets,

Every time she lost control,

A “why”, “what” and a “when” were words of use,

Words that mattered the most,

A question for everything,

2012-12-05 21.52.07 She’d to have a reason to do something,

Like a parrot,

Often, narrated her plans for the day,

Listed people that she wanted nearby,

The ones she wanted at bay,

Flashing a thousand watt smile,

Confident of her needs,

That her heart was sane and kind,

She was waiting for her turn to reach the trees,

I knew then, she would trade those for the stars,

Someday, she would look back into these unforgettable years,

I’m not sure if she’ll remember her pretty little world then,

I guess the only string to her past,

Would be the fact,

That she’d always known,

Someday she’ll have it all her way…