A Scintilla of Thoughts

the cat’s pajamas


Don’t fall in love with someone who writes, because

They will scratch your heart and
creep through the narrow
passages in your head which were
destroyed by landslides and
blocked by boulders.

They will pick up shovels and
every other tool that they crafted for their art
and shatter the mortar in which
you trap all the memories
which still nail you to a cross.

People who play with words can
sell their soul
for a sliver of precious gem
hiding in mounds of coal

People who pen their minds can
destroy your soul
hit an axe at your pretense
knowing that there is something beautiful to

write about
in everyone.

Don’t fall in love with someone who writes :

they might damage you while they dig,

and might leave what they find untouched,

after they have told the world about it.

Sawed and shaped, gnawed and nailed,
The Broken Bench stands haughty and frail.
Without purpose ;
Which hikers back would it comfort?
Which mothers distress would it guide?

As a futile life – sinking in parched sand ;
It finally rests as it fools a sadistic sun ;
Underneath some soon to be demolished futile wooden planks.


Your short lived life, child, was already inked.
Long dried on to pages of history books,
where diplomats in neat cut suits –
took delirious decisions for land, for money, for you.

Your years on this much talked of planet
The only one with life they say –
were already penned when powerful men
chose brainless butchering again.
Laws and rules and faith and belief,
clouded their judgement of grief.

You had no say ;
You had no guns ;
no nuclear weapons, no shield against explosions.
Laws and rules and faith and belief,
just sounds trying to creep into
your vocabulary.

Burnt up forests, shattered walls,
Battered buildings and broken roads.
They wrote down every heartbeat of yours,
as they fought over these blooded bodes.

You were too naive, child,
a mere puppet whose strings lie
in hands of men with neatly cut suits
and camouflaged boots,
who’re simply trying to protect their
Laws and rules and faith and belief,
and lands more precious than you.

You had your time, child,
Your next will probably be better –
far, far away from where logic bows down to savages.


Street Art in India : Details

“Vishvaroopa by Inkbrushnme.
Vishvaroopa is an all-encompassing omniform of Vishnu and marks the beginning of 18 day battle of Mahabharata. Vishnu manifests in his cosmic grandeur hypnotising Arjuna, the supreme warrior, and shows him that all universal matter, animate and inanimate, is him.”


The yearn for sunlight in a dull and dingy corner or the first drop of rain in vast seas of sand?

Is it really the fulfilment of your needs ; your greed ;
What you have – or have not?

Or is it when
On an empty stomach
You step back and gaze at
how perfectly,
lapped up in a dull and dingy corner
a dainty peacock sobs for a shower

Or is it when
On a ragged beach
You choose the most uncomfortable rock
but it is a perfect spot
to catch a crow spread it’s wings
a contrasting silhouette
on the cherries added in by spring

Pastels put forth by who knows who
interlocking perfectly
creating life
magically devastating even the smartest
of human minds –

– or is it a cold glass of water after a hard day of work?



“If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!”


Churning, crisping, crushing, brushing
Scratching, scrunching – and then slightly blushing –

There was something slightly perfect ;
About the way, first, her eyes would begin to glaze –
Proficiently disguising the battle of chemicals
right behind, as she would raise
her head, and a tear-drop
finally took shape –
and then came the storm.
Slyly pacing,
condensing clouds,
which had taken days to muster up and form.

They poured and poured ; a misery ; a tragic song
Leaking all she held
For so long, so long.

And when it was empty – all over – all done –
the sea which
up till now was dotted
with tiny troughs made from droplets
desperately trying to make their mark
was sober, serene
washed out, clean.

I began to miss wondering about the trumpets of grief that would rumble inside her mind as she stepped on the doorstep to welcome Summer.

How To Save a Life

A Piece of Advice

Age, race, gender – yet what remains undivided is our ability to give advice. We always have a scoop of this happened to my neighbours sibling, poured to the brim of our necks, which obviously gives us complete jurisdiction over any matter. Coming to terms with the harsh reality – that each one of us is a blissfully small vessel with a leaky hole at the bottom – is something best avoided.

I do sometimes let my particular wisdom overflow, because having had a shallow experience of over twenty years – of no particular tragedy, it is my duty to show those around me the passion I contain for understanding humanity. Hence, here’s my very irrelevant, just-thought-of, delightful secret – live and let live.

No seriously, as long as it is not mentally or physically devastating anyone – it is not a problem. If it is, do your fundamental best, with whatever knowledge or power you’ve garnered over the course of your short guest appearance, to stop it. If the laws of nature do not allow you to help it be stopped, bottle your delicious pieces of advice up and give hugs and comfort to whoever might need them.

That’s all I have in my cup of tea right now.


I want to tell them what my flesh
dies to feel everyday
but they won’t understand.

I go every week, to their home
And the Queer there
Call me weird.
I try to talk to them
They’re comfortable with who they are
but I’m torn.
between who I am,
and who I want to be.

They hug and kiss on the roads
and shed off
what people may say,
but I can’t.
because what I’ve been taught since
I was 6 was
Loving some is good,
but loving others is not.

But I love him,
and my wife cries at home when
I can’t love her.
I can’t even cry.

Why can’t I drape myself
In pastels of yellow, blue, green?
And walk what they call a pride parade?

Why can they express, but
I have to sleep in a closet
Under my fathers stairs?

So I’ll walk into
their home
to see
they bleed pink
or silver
or any colour they’ve painted on their faces.

Why isn’t anyone listening?
Am I alone here?

They bled the color red.

My heart goes out to the families of the victims of the Orlando shooting. In regards to the shooter, it kills me to know that people struggle with their identity every single day, in all corners of the world. We have a long way to go.


Twisted and shuffled
What I spoke
Built walls around me.

When my words had fought with angst
Along the neurons,
Desperate to find a suit.
And create a set to compose a
beautiful symphony,

Confident of their abilities to enchant,
The string of letters,
which had won the moot.
Trickled down my lips and fingers,
My heart trustworthy.

Twisted and shuffled
What I spoke
Fooled those around me,

Into believing
That I really meant what I said.

When it was just a battle of syllables.

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