Vanity?

Many a men came from far and near,
Both mighty and valorous, and those with fear,
They dreamed to enter my soul,
And consume it whole,
But nay, wouldnt anybody have it so easy,
So much so, that they prod and play over my being and body.
A soul, the most pure and naive one, alone has known mine,
But that has been in a distant land and in inseperated time,
Enchanting, i must say, the magic was,
Love, love and love alone was the cause.



But the Sun of my life has taken a new turn of late,
The reason for which is beyond me to calculate,
Old has been oldish, though i cherish it beyond,
A sweet Life, a bygone era, that this heart shall preserve
till Life itself be gone.
"Must you, fair lady, limit yourself to the past?"
So says in retrospection, my wonderfully primitive heart.
And for it knows me best, i deem this young heart true,
Thus, with all facility, let the canvas of my being
be painted with Your hue.



You, young man, are extremely raring and childishly eager,
Waddling your unrestricted brains hither and thither,
Though you must know that which my mind holds,
For its capacities, before you, it can nomore withhold,
Heavens have attested to the prodigy of my life,
Alas! I'm human, by all means, should i survive.
The rains and summers have known it all,
The autumns have known it true before the winter fall,
Having lived a little more over a score,
And having known a little more than each before,
Let no thrall prevail, let curtains concealed neatly part,
This ambiguous night, i invite you to fathom my silent heart.

Rediscover Me?

I am forbidden territory,
Undiscovered land,
Unsettled waters,
Virgin soil.
I am an un-entered soul.
The divinity we shared so long,
Wasn’t enough to reveal my sparkle,
Not wholly,
Not so soon.
But ‘twas too soon
When you assumed,
You’d discovered my all.

One day when you’ll crave
To re-discover me back,
I’d have acquired new dimensions,
I’d have taken one more step
Closer to perfection,
I’d have revelled in the joy of my beauty,
Celebrated my pristine self.
Then, you’ll return
And realize,
“I wish I'd stayed long enough to make
this part of her, mine”.

The perfect frame

On a sunny winter noon..
When we decided to take a walk..
The roads wound up..
To a rather curious path.
Laid with gravel..

I found my feet walkin slow..
And steady..
And upon a turn..
I saw the most wonderful pair
Of pillars.

So i rested my shoulder..
Against the grainy old thing..
Whose texture felt cool..
On a sunny winter noon.

And made me a perfect frame.

Delhi junkies and Me

From morn till eve, my neighborhood is not one those perceptible Delhi neighborhoods where the sight is met by plump, grey haired Punjabi aunties trying hard to twist and bend their XL sized bodies to the whims of Ramdev’s yoga methods, while throwing wistful glances at those with more petite frames, or by older, jollier uncles running their Labradors or Golden Retrievers in the community park who simultaneously share loud guffaws with their little grandchildren.

Not that such a scenario is completely absent, but there’s a darker, shady side to such posh localities of North Delhi. No sooner evening falls, than the narrow alleys that form the backside of most of these luxuriously constructed houses become the hotbed of young lads in shaggy clothes lying carelessly on cold cement.. some half asleep.. others with lopsided heads and brooding faces.. some whose eyes seem to be staring at nothing in particular.. and others, poorer with almost no clothing, mustier flesh slumped dead against the wall.

As I step out of my apartment’s back door to purchase milk at 7 in the eve, I’m welcomed by this dreary sight. Those, particularly the younger ones who appear to be boys from the local government school, pass me leers and may even hiss or click their tongues if I happen to brush past them. The look in their stoned eyes is evil, foreboding and ludicrous. They don’t like me stepping into their portion of the road, or they enjoy it so much that I form the topic of their next hazy conversation. A quick glance at them reveals empty syringe tubes, hordes of Erase-X bottles, liquor bottles, bidis and more. They’re sitting amidst a pile of those- greedily sniffing their tubes/bottles/napkin or wherever the intoxicating drug may be. In most cases, one semi-stoned junkie is administering over another very-stoned one, blabbering slow, unidentifiable gibberish. As one helps the other inject the drug into his body, it is done with such great craft that the recipient feels no pain and is instead lifted to a higher trance. An incomprehensible murmur then emanates from his quivering lips as he lies slumped with his eyes shut. You could even be welcomed by a few wily swears, if you’re a woman passing by who catches his eye! Sometimes, one may come across cash deals being carried between these young men, consisting, of course, of the numerous injection doses and liquor.

A slightly appalling sight is when you not only encounter males, but even females strewn along such shady avenues. This class consists of thin, frail dark bodies wrapped in even more papery cloth of distinctly unrecognizable colors. Some may be seen crying.. beating their chests.. or simply lying unmoving by the side of their male counterparts. My memory holds the vision of one such group near the Hanuman Mandir at Connaught Place. What was more shocking was that there were little children crying piteously by the side of their semi unconscious parents.


Coming back to my neighborhood, it probably forms the favourite spot of young junkies in all of North Delhi. This implies that I have to be double careful of my safety and keep my guard at all time. The lustful letches with their wicked grins and snake-like tongues make a rather spiteful sight, and one cannot think of too many smart moves when they feature in your proximity, considering they’re regulars in your area. But how you wish you could swat them with one blow! And how you also wish, were there a tad more security in your area, you wouldn’t have faced this daily evening ritual of humiliation but rather let your hair down and walked with greater assurance of safety! On a somewhat distant thought, you also strongly wish your government could take the responsibility of not just your dignified security but also of the well being these many young lads who’re out there crumbling their budding lives in their own hands and enjoying it all the same.

When the gut ditched me

Surprised.
Surprised at my ability to have studied 18 hours in one day at one go.
Surprised. At the fact that one goof up changed the face of my entire exam.
And utterly dejected that those 18 hours didn’t pay me off the way I deserved.
Preparing 11 long topics for a daddy-of-all history paper like Mughal India is a big feat. Those of you who’re aware of the context here will understand. And achieving the same in a trifle period of 4 days (plus nights) takes the supposed wonder of that feat a grade higher.

I know I make it sound like I’ve flunked my exam. But before we pity my case, I wish to paint the bigger picture.

An average history paper has 12 questions, which the Delhi University twists and presents with a different garnishing every year. Out of these, 4 are to be attempted. So either you prepare a good array of topics in order to keep your choices vast (like I did this year), or you could risk the exam and prepare an average of, lets say, 3-4 topics( which I would do otherwise). Those who play safe are the ones whose noses bear the weight of large spectacles, with their beings immersed neck deep into books on an average of 5 hours each day of the year. And there’re others who rely on their two-nights-before-the-exam strategy, light an agarbatti, and walk into the exam hall with the heavy gust of a “winner” printed on their faces.

I belong to the latter, minus the agarbatti.

But this year was different. Coz I studied. And studied so well that I was rather amazed at my own abilities..! Abilities of controlling sleep, of eating lesser than required, of controlling my want to ‘take a break’ every 2 minutes, and of course, pulling up the preparation wonderfully well in just 96 hours.

However, today’s tale is about an exam and a gut feeling that ditched me.

Sitting in class, I veered around the paper and flashed obvious smirks at the printed sheets, realizing how every question in there was tastefully crafted for my skilled mind and fingers to work upon. Ah, I glanced at my mates with an inflated chest too.
Upon completing 3 wholesome questions in 90 minutes, I smacked my lips in delight and my face shone like white chalk dust!

And then I steered to the last unit, stared at the questions for some instants, drew my face close, let speculation dawn into my eyes, and zeroed in on a rather different question that didn’t fall in the usual league.
From there on it only took me another 40 minutes to hurriedly pen down 10 pages! What I basically filled the sheets with was boring facts, disarrayed opinions, and infinite vagaries. And haunting me was the thought of the answer turning out wrong. But the overdose of confidence that I’d been feeding on past so many days thrust me to trust my infallible preparation and waste some more ink on the paper.

And then at the 11th hour, realization sinks in..
That I’d written the wrong stuff.
That I’d screwed up a whole question assuming that I should experiment with a new topic and see how I fare with my ability of forming spontaneous answers! Talk about abilities. Bah.

Yes, in a history paper of final year bachelors, you are NOT supposed to litter the paper with spontaneity.
Just what on earth!?

And here I’d sat, preparing my answers all day and almost all night, snugly victorious at the fact that my exam preparation was heading an unusual course.
Boy! How I chuckled at the thought of writing a most beautiful exam with every word and fact in place. The assumed success of the exam pictured a triumphant me emerging outta the exam hall, with the head held so high like I was craning it out for the world to see the sparkle in my eyes!

That thoroughly deceptive gut feelin that poked the wrong rib of my frame.

A poem. One to inspire me.

I’ll have to swim oceans to breathe life,
Seems so distant,
Across the mighty waves,
Dark waters,
My spirit awaits.

An audacious fish, I’m not.
Instead,
A young lion cub that tests the depth of the river with its inept paws,
Only to dip his face,
And wet his vibrissae.

The waves are strong as jute,
Holy! This is absurd.
But the wind plays a subtle tune,
Waves do a lap-lap,
Invite me to enter them, fight them, resist them.

And I know,
As I overlook the ocean,
Under the scarlet- pinks of the evening sky,
That just as it encourages me to travel the waters, and
Unravel my frights;
Similarly,
The ocean snarls one huge splash of advance,
And lands deliberate droplets on my face,
So do the waves challenge me to enter them, fight them,
Win over them.

Seasons. The tale continued.

A sunny noon had given way to a cold eve, as the earth released the last few bits of warm energy into the night.

He lingered around the parlor for a few minutes more, thinking that staying there any longer would simply mean killing more time. Wading his way through the crowd, he started in the direction of the road to the right. That would lead him to the 5th Avenue- A place where he knew he’d find her, a place where she still lived- or at least so he hoped.

This evening, it had exactly been seven months and five days from their last meet- equaling the time she’d been gone. Gone? He wondered. Why’d she gone? WAS she REALLY gone? He probably had answers to neither.

The screeching sound of wheels hurled him out of the dark maze of thoughts. “Watch it, dude. You coulda come under my wheels!” A frantically angered man at the steering of a grey sedan yelled at him. He made an apology gesture to the huffing driver, collected himself and got on the pavement.

Dark clouds had come up on the pale blue night sky. He cast a hopeful glance at those and earnestly hoped, “tonight if it rains, hope you receive the same drops as I do.” With that he hastened his pace, covering two blocks each in a stride so he’d make it to her place before it poured. He’d hug her tight and she’d melt in his arms, and then she’s smell him up and complain about the change in perfume.. and he’d end up convincing her ‘twas a present from his mother.. Oh! How he wished to get to her so soon but for the only pair of feet he had!

In the other part of his head were other thoughts. He remembered that fateful day she promised it were the last they were seeing each other. She made him promise he wouldn’t bother her whereabouts, let alone try to track her down. She’d said they both needed to come in terms with reality, which was that their future was absolutely unthinkable.

The weather grew colder with each step. It was below freezing and snowflakes were just a matter of time. It seemed to remind him of the first time they’d met.. on one of these empty roads when the night was just as cold. But that night’s stillness was altered by tonight’s swishing ruffle, thanks to the wind that tossed around the dried leaves of maple. The stark reality, however, was that destiny had led him back on the roads. That night was the start of the journey. Tonight, was its culmination.