THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

Let’s steal some moments today. Moments of love and laughter… Moments of belonging and holding… Moments of joy and wellbeing… Maybe some Eureka moments and some quiet solitary satisfactory smiles. Let’s steal some moments today. Let’s hold on to bed a little longer, not caring about the alarm… Let’s have a day without alarm today…lazing away with your eyes shut, listening to the rain shattering on your window pane. Can you hear the faint sound of the leaves drooping with water? Let’s listen to the rains today. Let the boiling coffee’s aroma fleet across the rooms, tickling your taste buds, nose buds and memory buds .While away into your memories. While away into the past. And then sneak into a cosy corner with your coffee and day dream… Let’s steal some moments today. Let’s dust the old gramophone player lying in the corner. Select a vinyl record of some long lost songs and caress its glossy dark skin .Relive with your parents the years they left behind…your chi...

Elsewhere is a state of mind. Elsewhere lies another door, a window maybe...where a country flute fills my mind. In a life with no strings attached I have known the feeling of abandoning too many times. I have abandoned lesser times than people have abandoned me.Perhaps the result of a futile attempt to make me love them back.Perhaps not noticing that I run towards and away from love at the same time.In a city you do not hear flutes as much you hear the screeches..the earthy tunes that brings back memories that I cannot grasp..memories that are a part of elsewhere where love and song was all that I had.I have been a fugitive of sorts,while being ashamed and proud at the same time. They told me I will gather no moss, no wisdom coz' I slip away.But even a mossy stone will slip at some time and make them slip too. So whats the point? Elsewhere is the love I have known.Yes! I have known love and never fell out of it. Elsewhere is a music man, who never knew the name of the son...

She stood counting the beads. Each bead a year. Each scar a war. The dusty smoke pilfered life. The bronze sweat reflecting windows                                                         that did not look out. Under the dance of lights Stood a lifetime of mayhem Under the riot of colours blurred monochrome memories It took lifetime of scar and s c a t t e   r  e d beads, to witness the northern lights to empty whatever she earned.

The fire in the kitchen tent had gone out. The moon was still behind the mountain in the east. Just a snow covered peak to the west, faintly shone with the pale glow from a fragment of light. The darkness that stretched below him, in front of him and at the back of him was solid----almost with no beginning or no end. Only if he looked up, could he see a sky dazzling with dots of light. His personal source of light, a three cell torch, lay cold and unlit beside him. He was sitting on a flat slab of stone, quite a few meters below the other tents. It was almost nine thirty at night, quiet an unholy time, going by the chill that had already set in. But it was holy, almost pious, he felt. Rest of his friends had gone to sleep and he had the silent valley all to himself. If one could see into his eyes at that time, all one could see was plain wonder, of amazement, of fulfillment...yet of a strange madness. His mind was full of thoughts that crawled its way out of nowhere and which perha...

"no ship will ever take you away from yourself"---Constantine Cavafy That was long ago. Very long ago. It was that particular time of year when the shadows dance around your face as the moonlight seeps through broken clouds. We lay close, your hands trying to sketch the reality into my ears----the existence of a career and success, of a circle of friends and family, of fame and of you.  Your soothing words were covering my eyes like a lullaby, I was slipping but slumber wasn’t heavy on my eyes. I heard your voice. I saw the clouds. There was something I was waiting for. I didn’t know. Maybe a kiss. You kissed me tight. I was still waiting. I looked at the sky. The place where the moon supposedly hid herself was dimly bright beneath the clouds. I heard you say something… "your skins dirty from all that walking. Go have a bath and see you at work tomorrow”. You left.  I lay there numb , playing with my hair …minutes lapsed …I don’t know when but I slipped into a...

for those of us who love everything about night…. the grandeur of a black canvas sprinkled carelessly with dusts of diamonds… thrown to the infinite imaginations of streams of human minds. connecting dots….watching snakes and queens embrace the hunter… and the inquisitiveness of insatiated human thirst stand constant like a question mark …. what it asks forever… whilst there are many sleeping through the darkness which is always meant to be// but those of us who happen to love the darkness, the silence, the insights and the cover… called the recluses… what are we awake for??? so that even if we cry, it does not have to be silent tears. so that even if we dream, we dream with our eyes open. so that we do not have to show disgust at the noise around… at the treachery of human kind… so that even if we love, we do not have to turn around to hide from someone who cannot be ours..

It was his idea to skip the main road and go for adventure at the middle of the night. Her mood was already bright as she laid her head on his shoulder. Driving through the woods, suddenly the tyre went flat. It was an abrupt jerk. Comprehending the situation, they both felt elated. Except the slow waltz that played in their car, everything was quiet. Wasn’t this what they both wanted? Albeit, for different reasons. Quelling their excitement, they wore the well-rehearsed masks of fear and disgust for getting caught in this unwanted situation. She had carried the knife hidden securely beneath the drapes of her dress as was his lust, veiled by the clemency of his innocent blue eyes. Already in her 40’s, her body exuded the rare combination of sensuality, intelligence and beauty. As an artist, she always had her muses in younger men---guys in their 20’s. The passion that these men enthused kept her adrenaline gushing and her arts towered to their crescendo. Her paintings were vividly...