Distorted Reflections


This is not about me.
This is about someone I know.
Not too close, not too far.
He exists in fractions,
At the meeting point
Of a hundred parallel lines.

He lives a normal life,
Laughing hoarsely
and singing badly
sometimes, just sometimes,
Dancing awfully too,
When he thinks no one is looking.
He basks in his own little bubble,
Fantastical worlds lacing his bloodstream.
He lives just a normal life,
Or one that can pass for normal anyway.

But between sunsets and stars,
When the tick-tock of the clock,
Turns pitch black with the clouded moon,
He lies on his bed,
Paralyzed by his own beating heart,
Staring sideways at the unopened files on his laptop screen.
That bright, sharp screen.
And his mind reels itself rapidly.

He looks at the ceiling,
At the yellow patches dotted with silky webs.
His mind has its own patches, you know.
Darker than the ceiling,
Way more entangled than the withering webs.
The screen starts blinking now,
Like a bloody crime scene,
And the patches dissolve into nightmares.

He tries,
Tries really hard,
To think about nothing,
To not think at all,
But he is drawn to that beckoning flame,
To that mirage of solace.

He thinks of times he had painstakingly forgotten,
Of the upturned dialogues,
And suffocating soliloquies.
Of the loud silence,
And the quiet crowds.
Of the constant intrinsic murmur,
And the pain at the back of his head.

He lies there,
Till the muses numb him,
Till all he can think of
Is how these thoughts
Drown him
And let him breathe
All at once.


Round Realities

Inspired by a project started by Rabia Kapoor (called All I Have; check it out on Instagram: @rabia2.0), I decided to lend my words to an alien emotion. A dear friend contributed towards the induction. To give it some context, I shall grace this humble piece with beautiful lines from her own expression:

“What if the loneliness is unbearable, maybe even suffocating.

It’s like the silence kills me, and at the same time brings peace to others. Why is that?”

Here goes nothing:



We are insignificant. The dust of a different time. Hurtling through space at thousands of miles an hour.

Going nowhere.

Wandering the nothingness.

Seeking peace, yet,

Running around in circles.


You know, the strange thing about dust is that it mingles.

With its brown self and with red and orange and indigo and blue.


It embroils itself in a gooey mess of handshakes and tears and kisses and love.

It is stuck in space, but never ceases churning.

In its quest for calm, it questions.

It mingles despite itself.

It mingles unknowingly.


It swirls.




It is stars.




Dust needs dust.


Dust is insignificant.


Dust is us.

My Stained Page


The other day, I walked the sunset shores,
Thinking of orange and red,
Of water and ripples,
Of the seemingly random things that ail me.

You know why I talk to you?
Because you listen,
Even when you don’t have to.
You listen to my words, my love, and my tears,
You listen to my broken pieces, my shaking muses, and my fears,
You listen to the wild lies I say, and the truths I don’t,
You listen to the slow, scratching pain I put forth, and the words I won’t.

The worlds I hide within me,
Are the worlds I tremble against.
These worlds, these illusions,
Pulse incessantly within my head.
Sorry, I can’t contain them anymore.

Someone needs to know,
And someone can’t know,
Of the effort it takes,
Of the mind-shattering aches,
Of the numbing cold,
Of the tales untold,
Of the recovery I promised myself,
Of the feelings I rallied against,
Of the temptations I gave in to,
Of the things I can’t bear to do,
Of the paths I’m afraid to lose,
Of getting my heart in a noose,
Of the blood flowing through my veins,
Of the things mumbled amidst euphoric rains.

Listen carefully.
Now that I’ve told you this,
Now that I’ve let it go,
Now that you can probably see,
Now that you possess a little piece of me,
Please keep it to yourself,
Someone needed to know,
But someone can’t know.


Romantic Tragedies

This is a tribute to my love for second-hand books and quaint streets, which can be attributed to this beautiful stretch in Calcutta called College Street. One just cannot get enough of that magical fantasy. Do read on to experience the sweet memories yourself.


No ancient perfume, no dusty bloom,
Only dandy lights and a sprayed room,
No dreams, hopes and lives,
Only paper people with their paper smiles,
No wild calls and raucous bargains,
Only glossy covers and printed grains.
Oh, the worldliness of things!
Where stories recede and money begins.

(There’s a place you might want to go)

Words find their time here in this rainbow street,
Where one smells love like the lost cause it is,
A sea of legacies, old and new,
A gift, a tale, a letter anew,
Where the message of threaded art
Finds a lost soul to part,
Where bitter almonds and vanilla crystals,
Etched in a forgotten tree,
Burst forth into tiny dewdrops,
Sizzling, sparkling, free.

O dear things of a tell-tale smile,
These pages hold not letters and strokes,
Neither do they carry the whiff of your hoax,
They carry a thousand pictures,
And a million shattered pieces,
Pieces of pathos, pieces that scar,
Pieces that burn with your eternally beating heart,
Charring and fusing,
Till no death can do them part.


A Lonely Whisper


Listen to my lullaby,
Far away into the night,
Floating in the sweet chill,
Caught by the frost of time.
Wandering its way through dark lanes,
Turning souls in its wake,
A gypsy of ink and blood,
Burning with a marvelous ache.

It spills and rushes
Into crevices and craters
Filling smoky bubbles with vicious ink,
Pulsating auburn at the brink,
Diffusing lazily into the air
A whiff of my pain,
Searching the skies,
For a parched, thirsty rain.

I wrote this for you,
For loved memories and sour lies,
For lost times and heavy sighs,
I wrote this for me,
For sliced veins and edged feet,
For lonely times and melting heat.

This sparkling pool of salty tears,
Turns into strings and words,
Madness the key to this closed door,
Behind which lies the store,
Of purple scars and blue bruises,
Picked deep by scalding knives,
Torn apart by sharp tongues,
Of a withered lullaby.



A Curtain of Smoke

This is her tale of love, loss, deception, and desperation.

This is her journey through the depths of the nine circles.

This is her encounter with the devil of her life.


An angel of dreams

Swinging in a flourish of stars

Swept me off my feet a fine day

One whisper at a time 

All little things and slow kisses

The meaning of life,

The homely wishes.


I see those little protrusions now

And what all the temptation was about

What those eyes lured me into

What they made me say and do.


He soars flapping those evil wings,

Clawing into my head,

Digging out little pieces of flesh,

Bathing in the leaking crimson.

He walks with a soft gait,

Baring his teeth, rotten, sick,

He pins me on the executioner’s block,

And stabs me dry with his diabolical spear.

Blood curdles and gurgles out of me,

Splashing on the sea of pain,

Mingling, swirling,

And I don’t feel it anymore.


I am reserved for hell

Temptation, perhaps.

I see him, I see him still

That smile, those teeth,

The bloody spear, the omen ill,

He’s here.


He walks with his patience,

And then loses it all at once

As one world collapses into another,

I lose my voice in this pyre of ash

Where infernal sins adorn vernal suns

Where words stagger into abysses of hurt

Where gazes rip my soul into weak, little pieces

Too fragile to be gathered, 

Too tough to be moulded,

Too dark to be coloured.


I can’t rise now

Neither can I drown

Just gasp for air 

Every day, every minute, every second

Wishing, wishing for the smoke

To melt my skin

To take me far away

In a wisp of mist

On a shooting star.


(I do not own any of the pictures used in this post.)












I can feel it
Deep down inside
It is all a blur.

A blur of imagination
Of flooded gates,
Of lost moments.

But what it leaves
Is a feeling, a tingle?
A burnished inkling in my heart, waiting to be sparked
By the tortured wand of time.

Gaining ground in the dark alleys
An unknown laughter
Creeping along the shadowy cells
Murmuring through the silence.

It holds me prisoner.
I am but just that,
A prisoner of my own mind
A shackled slave of my own thoughts
And I don’t want to break free.