Life is much more than an experience

Freedom from the Known

If you think it is important to know about yourself only because I or someone else has told you it is important , then I am afraid all communication between us comes to an end. But if we agree that it is vital that we understand ourselves completely , then you and I have a


When i smell the white talcumsmeared across the soft bumsof the new born child,held tenderlyBy her protective mother’s armsacross my verandah,I think of her When i sight my morning porridgemixed in a sluggish slurby the chequered breakfast tableIn my morning rushi think of Farexyesteryears and beyond,I think of her… When I step across my landing

The magic of the blue

The mystic blue spreads his eons So like a wingless angel Flying high in infinite feel Healing but some tired minds ( and some distant ailing bodies too ) With his soft deft invisible touch In heavenly grace, Upon the wanting soul. As if, for one brief magical moment Pain seemed but a reprieve And

A Golden Harvest !

Oh yes,It seems so many glorious seasons agoMeandering through life’s spirited decadesIn one slow motion of eternal joyWhen every momentseemed as preciousas its previous,When it seemed as ifYoung ‘Uttam’ met ‘Suchitra’,and some sultry spurious secondsWere wrapped in gilt edged memoriesand bound togetherin one sublime gold etched framesuspended in time,( And then perhaps lost in timelessness…)When

Time Passages

  It’s late at nightand in a restless stateI stare outwardly, blankinto the deep dark corridors of timeand i see nothing. But a faint outline of an imageless imagination Wrapped in a void, Floating freely, lost in the vast cosmos all around as if not belonging to it all.. In one measureless measure far beyond

Just a reverie ?

In quiet moonlight I wrote her name upon the golden sand etching in movements deep & slow with hope of eternal stay. But alas, the waves rushed in and washed her away… in a single flash of gushing embrace my golden sand etching. But once again, i wrote with a second hand her name, in

The final calling

He lay perfectly quiet, prince like godot Still in sublimity In a deep peaceful sleep By the warm comfort Of his wide bedside. Not a muscle moved and his perfect countenance Lay in singular surrender, in a deep yogic trance, In reverent submission, To his final supreme provider Awaiting him with open arms For his

Just another moment

As they sit across the inert wooden table in sheer boredom of their midlife, She stares boldly at his daily newspaper eyes fixed upon some distant thought aimlessly, and his cup of hot tea languishes in similar toil as the spiralling steam of insipid dreams, diminish, in vanishing trails of yesteryears She raises her moist

Being alone

She sits by the window All quiet by herself At the crack of dawn Listening attentively to the carefree chirping birds And something enormous Tries to fill Her empty soul With a million Smiles of nothingness She then clutches onto the grey round grills By the alley window Securing her firmly From the rush outside

Me the candlelight

I am but a meek candle light Sleeping invisibly Cradled deep within The shiny brass candle stand Upon the wooden mantelpiece Right in the centre Of the decorative room Almost like a firm fulcrum To the entire universe. I am like A quiet observer Sitting bored through my day And often mischievously alive by night,