Saturday, 20 January 2018


I remember watching her, it was a long long time back that I can't quite recollect how she looked like that day. She was waiting for bus after college, I don't remember who she was with, all I remember was that I was afraid to go near her, I don't really know why, but I was. I watched, I remember watching her, she looked beautiful.


I don't usually carry my umbrella to places, it's not that I particularly enjoyed getting wet, it's just that I don't like carrying too many things when I'm traveling. I'd prefer getting wet to perpetually living attentive to my umbrella.

It was raining that day, I don't really remember where I was. We were walking, she had her umbrella opened, it could barely fit us both. I could feel her close to me, I could feel myself all messed up. The rain was pouring down and parts of us were together and dry, while parts of us were apart and soaking.


She was by no means the most charming, she wasn't perhaps the most beautiful. But when I think about her I tend to remember a motorbike ride.

It was midnight, or close to midnight, I am not sure. I was driving around to ease my thoughts. There was a storm brewing, both on the inside and out. It rained unawares, it hit me from all sides. There was noise, there was thunder and the more I drove, the more I became weak. I was slowly drowning in the rain.

There were no signs of shelter, and my spects got blurry. I couldn't see a thing, I thought I never had it in me to survive the tempest. For once, I thought I'd pass out, the rain was ceaseless. Occasionally I could see lightning drawing sad silver lines upon a sober black sky. What a sad way to leave things behind, I thought.

I closed my eyes, I knew I may not make it, I cried. Suddenly, out of nowhere it stopped and everything seemed calm. I didn't hear the rain beating down, I didn't see any lightning. I looked up and saw a bridge running perpendicular to the road, it was leaking from places, it looked weary and old, but it was keeping the storm away.


"I don't know why you have to make everything so complicated" she was saying. I was growing numb, I was more and more confused. My hands were shaking, my brain was shivering. I had this cough that won't stop, my throat was bleeding.

"I didn't mean to.." I was saying "I never meant to"

I kept walking up and down the whole night and I couldn't understand a thing. I had this great ledger of failures and losses that when I rewind I have plenty of negativities to hold onto. She is here, I was thinking, she is here with you now. Maybe if any one of those failures didn't happen, you wouldn't have even known her, I kept saying. I got up, I couldn't lose her, not today.

"I'm sorry" I said. She had slept. I kept walking around the whole night.


That night, it was cold that night, but I didn't feel a thing. The valley before me was covered in fog, all I could see was bleak darkness. We were.. no.. I was smoking and was so far away from everything I've ever known that it almost seemed like complete freedom. I always had this idea of leaving things behind and traveling till I die.

There was this song, it still catches me sometimes, but the more I heard it that night the more I felt I may ruin everything. I was still pulled apart by ideas of home and ideas of freedom. I was lodged between currents of thought and the satisfaction of letting things go. What is the purpose of life? Yeah, I'd say it never had any true purpose but the ones we make.

She was texting me on the other side, I knew it was a question between living a sane life or trying to survive an idea which may make me go insane at the end of it all. What is the purpose of life? Is it to live an idea insanely, or is it to live by a life normally?

I don't remember much of what I said to her that day, but then I said if you could tolerate a mad poet I will be here waiting for you. I smoked another round, the fog cleared in the valley, I could see lights.


"Given a chance would you not meet her, again?" the doctor asked.


"Your friend, or lover, or whatever she is?"

"Why do you have to ask that?" I said.

"Leave it. Can you tell me why she was so special to you?"

My hands were getting cold. I badly wanted to find her hands from somewhere, it was freezing.

"Anand, can you tell me?"

I felt a strange sensation to run away, or to punch this guy straight on his face, or both.

"Have you ever rode a motorbike in the rain, doctor?" I asked.

"I have" he replied.

"Then you'd know.." I said.


One thing I tried not to do was complicate things, I was unsure of many things going on with me and inside my head, but I am sure that I never complicated it.

"But I always thought you loved me" I said.

"I do, but it is not how it seems"

I was confused, I was doubting myself, I was doubting whatever notions I've ever held. I may very well be an average writer, I maybe only a mediocre thinker, and maybe I couldn't do anything good with my life.

"I hope you'd understand me" she said.

I have reached a point wherein I couldn't understand myself. I was lost midway, I was neither living the idea, nor the normal life.

"I do understand you" I said "But it will take me every ounce of love I have for you.."


I remember watching her, she was beautiful. I knew it was all about taking that first step, going towards her. It doesn't have to be today, you can tell that you love her some other time, I thought. Just make that first step now. I was afraid, I was childish, I was stupid. I stood there and kept watching, she was beautiful and I could never move an inch.

Sunday, 14 January 2018


Can you hear me Amma?
Sometimes I can't hear myself,
Sights remain blurry,
Voices frail,
Paths I walk infect me,
If I stop now,
Can you survive?

Do you remember Amma?
The day you left me alone at school?
I felt being ripped apart,
From you, trees and crows,
Earthworms and centipedes,
I cried,
You never came.

Did you know when I first lied to you?
"The wound in my hand was
from a fall in the playground"
Would you have held me close,
If I said the truth then?
Would you kiss me to sleep,
If I say the truth now?

Could you come here Amma?
Will you rest me on your lap?
Will you sing me a lullaby,
of butterflies, flowers, and love?
Will you stroke my erupting head?
I need to sleep.


For those who don't follow Malayalam, 'Amma' is the word we use for 'mother'. I could've used 'mother' itself here, but then it wouldn't have been a poem at all.

Saturday, 2 December 2017


Between you and me
spreads this sea
of irreversible void,
I swim through it,
I run whenever I can,
but I pant, I faint,
I lose hope eventually.

Will you remember me?
How I was, how I sounded,
How my dreams were purposeful,
And my arms rigid?
Will you remember me
and the depth in my love when I said so?

I am replaced,
I lose my sustenance,
Filled with vacuum,
Within, around, everywhere,
I am now meagre,
I am now meaningless,
I am now nothing.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

White Dwarf

Let me go,
For I've stood here long enough,
Leaking out all that is left,
To show you your way back home.

Let me go,
Into my morbid universe,
Holding onto the heaviness inside,
I will walk with you for a while.

Let me go,
Let me fall into myself for a while,
But tell me you will come someday,
And maybe together we'll evaporate into space.

Till then I will wait.

Sunday, 12 November 2017


It burns,
My skin, my temples,
These violent tempests within,
Love always takes a celestial suffering,
But then you churn my insides,
My golden arms stretch,
Your skin, your temples,
Clothing them,
It glows!


I feel our bed teleport-ing,
Wormholes and next,
Stars burning out and bursting away
into clouds of velvet, purple and blue,
We move on through,
Pulsating lights around, lighthouses in space,
And our hearts beating wild,
Our bed, our dreams, our thoughts,
Your laughs echoing through the infinite,
And my words failing to grasp
the universe in your smile,
We move on through,
Onto our moon..

Monday, 2 October 2017


"Is there anything that shocked you at that time?" asked the interviewer.

I was bemused at how insignificantly she raised that question, it was as passive as the fan on top of us which moaned stress-fully, on and on and on. The heat of the day was forcing my armpits to overflow and my muddy cotton shirt to stick onto them, this greatly exaggerated the unpleasant stature of my existence at that time. I thought about insignificance again, how my story mattered the least to her day-to-day affairs. How it eventually meant nothing but a secure dinner maybe, with her middle-class husband perhaps, who can't wait to hear her torrid tales of routine.

"I don't know" I said "Looking down, I felt my legs never belonged to me."

"Why is that so?" she persisted.

It seemed as though the fan was moaning after every word she spoke with even less a vigor.

"Perhaps it was only then I really began looking down."

"What does that signify?"

I looked up, the fan was choking.

Why do you want to know bitch, I thought of asking her on her face. That would be worth trying, the thought was in fact strangely exhilarating, maybe that would turn her emotionless image more demonstrative, maybe that would let her know I meant business.

"It signifies I am not someone who looks down often!" I said with a grunt.

"That is quite something I must say" she remarked without changing her appearance.

The fan stopped.

"May I ask you something?" I interfered as she was about to ask something even more nonchalant.

She looked disgruntled and nodded in the affirmative. A universe of emotions suddenly erupted inside of me, I could  no longer contain it. I felt words crawling like freshly pumped blood, through my heart, into numerous cells, empowering them in ways they never experienced before, making muscles in my cheek move, my voice box to clatter and to release air which turned to involuntary words, lost and never reclaimed,

"Miss" I felt the lost words hit my eardrums, "Does it cost you anything to fuck off from my place?"

And then silence fell on us. Heavily.


"Look, I know life has treated you in ways you don't want, but surely look at me. We've been living together for 7 years. Please Anand, please.."

I could scarcely make out what she was saying. There was paint on the floor, on the dinner table, on the plates, in fact, there was paint all over the dining room. Surely who must be insane to paint from their dining room? Her eyes looked blue.. no, maybe someone painted it blue.. How I hate the color blue.. Who invented blue?

"Who painted your eyes blue?" I shouted.

"What? They.. They look.. They look that way.. What's wrong Anand?" she replied stuttering.

"I hate blue!" I could feel my noise echoing through the hallway, hitting all the blue colored canvas, taking a tinge of blue from them all and hitting my ears again. It was horrifying, all the blue in the world.

Her face showed horror, I approached her cautiously as if not to upset her blue well. It may spill and spread all over the floor again, I thought, I must be careful. I took out my silver colored brush, dipped it in the darkest of red I found in my palette and slowly approached her. It should not spill, I kept on thinking and gently pushed the brush into her eyes, it turned red in an instant.


The fan continued to moan as I saw the interviewer step out. The hallway seemed lonely and the dinner table abandoned. The heat was incessant, it was raging. I tried to close the windows but it found ways to claw in. My blood continued to hit my temples, and a migraine was slowly boiling inside. I must find something cold, I kept murmuring.

I climbed up the terrace of my apartment into burning sunshine. It grew around me the more I stood, making my cotton shirt to hug me around like a naked lover. My face was dissolving, and my eyes were developing a sore. I had to move, movement always makes things better, I thought. I took the ladder, which laid unused for quite sometime, and made it stand upright on top of the cement tank which satisfied my thirsts. I felt my cotton shirt pressing against me now.

I climbed the first step.

I removed the first button.

I climbed the second.

I removed the second.

I climbed the third.

Fuck it, I'm going to tear this up. The tearing sound of cloth may have been burnt out by the Sun. I moved on.

The tank grew closer, I threw my torn shirt away into scorching sunlight and stood for a moment looking at the water. It smelled pungent, and there were all sorts of insects floating around. I closed my mouth and held my nose tight. I wanted to shout something, but as I began to do so I felt my feet hit something cold and whatever I might have shouted went muzzled by the surrounding water.


There was paint all over my legs, wherever I walked I left prints. I saw footprints on our television screen, I saw footprints on every single canvas that remained dead on our hallway, I saw footprints on vessels, plates and newspapers, I saw footprints on her face, her hips, her stomach and her breasts.

Everything around was cold, everything around was covered in paint. I felt my head ache as I tried to make sense. I began searching for meanings, for new colors that could paint my fantasies. I took the color palette and mixed every color I had, it showed off a reddish-orange. I sat and began covering everything I owned with this newly made glorious-colored paint.

In between I stopped and stared down at my legs. These legs, these prints, I thought, they don't belong to me.


The water around my body curbed the aches inside my head. I climbed down the terrace and walked into sunlight again, it felt less painful now. A passing breeze went onto cool me and my senses, I walked on. I should get something to wear, I thought.

There was a textile store nearby, I decided to let my body taste freedom until then. I walked into the store, half naked, all wet.

"I want a shirt!" I said  plainly to the bewildered salesman. "I'd take that blue one on the top"

As blue as her eyes, I smiled as I thought, I mean I don't even know if she may have a middle-class husband.