“Who am I?” Cries delusional disappointment From the other side of silent silences. “It is I!” replies the forgotten folklore Soaked to its bone with the mythography of Amnesia and madness. “It is I!” cries the fallen leaf Which was born “x” billion years ago In the shared womb of a strange sameness, In the throes of the same tragic groans and moans, Which delivered or vomited the Universe into being Identifying and relinquishing its cosmic responsibilities. “It is I!” cried the Mother, Bu…

On a veranda with intricately carved and Filigreed doors, Dancing lights and swaying shadows: Etched is childhood, at my grand-mom’s in Dehradoon. We children watched as the kathputliwala outside Made the kathputlis (wooden dolls) Swing up and down...up and down... Long shadows of tunics and lehengas twinkling In beauteous delight - kings, queens, peasants, priests, Villagers, horsemen and weavers at work, what a sight! How fabric and its motifs Flow along with time Moving through differ…

How far from the truth do you want to stay? Is it just the rules you wish to obey? Rules! And who made them? Some for her and some to condemn? She is soft, she is humble Yet, she is the fire and makes others fumble! Why her opinion is not considered? Is it her intelligence that makes you flitter? Oh! She is supposed to be calm Or does her aura gives you a storm? Well, she is the woman who shall lead With all the abuses she bleeds Her heart is made of love and power She is supreme in all re…

I shun my gown and tuck my shirt, I dab some lipstick and slide a kohl stick, along the lids of my dream-laden eyes, and after I am all decked up, I leave for work. My eyes long for the warmth of home, and want to stay put, but weary of the questions, I adorn a different role. Questions that confront me during the day and haunt me during the night, and with the choice of my work, tend to test my worth. Work that is honoured only if I slog in the fields, and not in my home— where my heart b…

Dawn to dusk, she hid Herself with a dark lid Of a cheerful mask Not an easy task When the innards screamed Of freedom, it dreamed Afraid of unfettering The fear of chattering That rebuked any difference Instant interference Conform, conform! Or be labelled thus Social pariah, oozing pus. Eat, sleep, defecate, fornicate Added bonus, pontificate But keep to the line Be a creeper, a beautiful vine And everything will be fine! But this can’t be all? What about the soul? Well, what about it? Just ch…

The mother smells flood, as the rippling water, comes crashing at her door, singing an ominous song. It’s thunderous voice, asks for alms, she offers her lone utensil which washes away through the sheets of rain, bobbing up and down, without apology. Her roof as short-lived as the life of a small golden fish, drips and cracks with the next roar. Her children huddles together, under the big bucket. Like a wet crow waiting but not uttering a single ‘caw.’ A blurred, bedraggled destiny, stares …

The alarm sets off the day Responses on auto pilot The drudgery of daily routines The white noise of words, gestures, postures, acts. One day slips into the other In seamless motion, no jarring stress Tick-tock, tick-tock, chimes the daily clock Surface, a limpid pool of steady calm Inside the mind, the ghostly self pushes itself up on its haunches And launches off a silent scream The ripples of that sound Ricochet off the walls Bouncing off with sharp jabs of something like pain. Smilingly, han…

I am a simple face mask of this century. Which protects against the pollution and pandemic, I serve as a useful aid. I come in various prints and mixed shades, Purple and yellow, red and green, black and blue Pink and white also in different sizes and shapes, Cloth, surgical and N95 masks are much in vogue these days. By covering one’s nose, mouth and chin, This year I have indeed made a mark In the world of trade. All treat me as a VIP for they are afraid. During annual festivals and celebratio…

Pretending to be pretentious someone wearing a mask of subtleness and gratitude still inside that shade of guile carrying the existence of grins and lies. Never caring enough for the people rejoicing the false bombastic ego living surpass the fragile emotions moulding the rhythm and caricature of demotion. When I think of such crooked mania my blood gets a boil to see those concealed faces charming away with their persona in the realm of races. Still, the mask is on on those smirked faces …