Monday, April 17, 2017

Sleepless Nights

Sleepless nights don't mean you are thinking of someone.
They often mean you are thinking of so many things.
Thoughts rush in through all windows--the mind's eye, the two eyes, ears
Every possible pore in your body is active and refuses to let you sleep.
Sleepless nights are when you watch TV in the middle of the night
Write poetry at 2 am and still your body refuses to sleep.
Sleepy days are an outcome of sleepless nights.
Both go hand in hand.
How do you find respite from sleepless nights.
The tired body and mind refuse to rest and you long for the knotted feeling in your stomach to release.
At the end of a sleepless night you rush to sleep
Receive some respite from the tiredness of your body and soul.

Sunday, April 16, 2017


Today we were cleaning our shelves. In the process we discovered old albums. Pictures of 90's and the following decade. These were our family pictures when we were young and our father was alive. While rummaging through the pictures my sister remarked, was I ever this young? The remark set my thought process rolling. Do we miss our days when we were younger? I think we miss the beautiful times we had together. Going on outings, shopping, cooking and eating out. These are things we are still doing and life is more relaxed. So, what do we miss? I think it is the presence of our father, who was in his sixties at that time and still lived life like a young man. He drove a scooter, did shopping for the house, looked after our pets and lived a full life.
I want to grow old like him, graceful and able till the very end of his life. I want that I should be walking on my own feet, till I'm dead.
Does nostalgia hit me every time I look at old pictures? Yes and no. Yes, because I do remember the beautiful old times and no my nostalgia is not limited to old pictures. Old friends, old cards, old e-mails do this to me. I think of the beautiful times we spent together. Not necessarily as young people but as happy people at all ages. I know that change is the only constant in life so dear soul move on the path till the very end, happy and cheerful.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

New experiences

One step at a time
One new experience at a time
New souls, new meetings,
Each one promises to embrace me with love, emotion and kindness.
Whispers in my ears of promised love
Make my mind dither to embrace the promised love
Or to move on a solitary soul
And never forget the lessons taught to you in childhood
songs like walk alone ring in my head.
The promised love pulls my heart strings,
But fear of unrequited love and remarks like it was an inexplicable phenomenon
Pull me back to my senses.
Sleepless nights and sleepy days add to the angst.
Oh lord give me some respite,
I too deserve peace.

Thursday, August 18, 2016


I nurtured the baby.
watched his two lips suckling my nipples,
A tenderness envelopes me,
Is this motherhood?
I watch the toddler walking,
holding on to my finger for support.
Feelings surge through me,
Is this motherhood?
I watch a twelve year old walk into the house,
flinging his arms around me
feelings course my veins,
Is this motherhood?
I watch a handsome young man walking out,
leaving home in search of greener pastures
tears fall from my eyes,
Is this motherhood?
Tell me my dears,
what is motherhood?
Is it the emotions running through my veins ?
Or the toddler turning into a grown-up man,
No longer needing his mother

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Lambasting Poets

Recently, I read a blog post where the writer had lambasted poets and their ilk, by saying that they are fake. Their emotions are fake, as according to the writer they genuinely do not feel for a cause they just feel so that they can produce a fine work and win accolades.
Harsh criticism indeed! I'm sure the writer has come across such fake people who genuinely do not feel for any cause. But most of us whether we adopt the poetic mode or use words to express our feelings genuinely feel for a cause.
For example, yesterday I wrote a poem about the poor in Mumbai, I feel for the cause. The sight of the poor suffering distresses me, and I want to do something for their cause but I'm helpless.
The writer also accused the poets of experiencing the deep emotion of love in a fake manner. The writer said that the poet simply falls in love to create a work of art and once it is created falls out of love. I beg to differ. I feel it is the human lot to fall in and out of love and I'm sure the poet undergoes deep agony that moves him/her to create the work of art.
While each  one of us is entitled to their opinion I feel lambasting poets or writers is unfair as the agony of love makes poets and writers of us all and not the fact that to produce a work of art we fall in love.
Falling in love is natural and unrequited love makes us go through deep agony which might have outpourings in the form of a poem.
I hope my critic friend reads my post and changes their opinion about the harsh criticism inflicted on the lot of the poets. Trust me dear friends Keats went through the agony of consumption and also died at a tender age. His unrequited love is expressed in his beautiful poems.
So think through your criticism and don't judge all poets by a harsh pen.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

The city of Mumbai

Lost in my reverie I walk on the road
Shaking my head at the bystander reaching out to me to ask for some money
my reverie is shaken as my thoughts shift from my job to the poor condition of the beggar
Thoughts rush to my head whether the mangled condition of the beggar was caused by an accident or the notorious beggar mafia had cut off his hands and legs.
I shudder at the thought
I wonder whether to drop a coin in his bowl or to move on unaffected
This is a daily sight for me as I traverse through the length and breadth of this city called Mumbai
I wonder at the ruthlessness of the beggar mafia.
With these thoughts I move on to watch many such ugly sights
I wonder at the disparity that this city offers.
The poorest of the poor and the richest of the rich live across the road from each other
Why this disparity?
Why this suffering in this city that offers opportunity to all.
With these thoughts in my head I walk on again lost in my reverie
but this time of a different kind

Friday, June 17, 2016

Nurturing life

One day while going for my walk I saw a small plant raising its head and trying to grow from the earth I walked on inspired by the struggle of the plant.To me it represented the struggle of life we all undergo.
After several days had passed I saw two green leaves shaking from the plant. its struggle was bearing fruit. I thought about my life and thought my struggle too would bear fruit.
Several days passed and the plant bore a bud. I felt excited as I was seeing my life in the growth of the plant.
Next day I saw someone had uprooted the plant and thrown it. Dejected I picked up the plant and brought it home. I planted it in my garden and today it is a beautiful rose bush.
I see the metaphor of life in the growth of the plant. As life thrives when nurtured with attention and care and withers away when left unattended so did my plant.
So care for life in whatever form it comes your way.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

The making of hard Jake

As I look yonder below the cliff I see the mighty sea. I think of my life as a sailor. I have sailed through the world. I have seen life at close quarters and experienced the highs and lows of life. I have two wonderful kids and am happily married. But this is not my story. This is the story of hard Jake, and how he acquired such a strange name. He was not always hard and serious. He was a boisterous, affable and lovely boy who had one love in life and that was red lipped Gina.
We were all residents of Goa and life was good. Merchant navy is a good profession and you get to see a lot of life, I had sailed a lot with hard Jake and can vouch for the fact that he was a hard working lad.
Let us go to the time when hard Jake did not have that nick name and was simply Jake ( I didn't know him then). People say that he was a very charming lad and was loved by all. Hard working and sincere he was the apple of his captain's eye.
Let me also tell you about red lipped Gina, she was a pretty gal with a laughter that sounded like bells jingling. She was Jake's love interest and was very popular.
One day there came green-eyed Romeo on the shores of Goa. He was not a native of Goa, and had sailed from a far off land. Nobody knew his actual name. Everybody called him green-eyed Romeo because of his green lusty eyes. From the beginning he had eyes on Gina. He would cast lusty long looks on Gina, who was aware of this but ignored him.
One night Gina had gone for a party, she was looking lovely in red dress and had applied red lipstick which looked lovely on her. Jake had gone sailing and Gina missed him. It was a dark night and she returned late to her apartment.
Green-eyed Romeo had followed Gina to her apartment and knocked on the door. Wondering who was it at this late hour Gina went to answer the door. She saw Green-eyed Romeo and was about to shut the door in his face. But he barged in and caught hold of her hands. He then struck a hard blow on Gina's face which sent her reeling. He next pushed her on the bed and parted her legs and raped her.
Gina was reeling with pain she took a rope and hung herself from the fan.
When Jake returned from ship he came to know that Gina had committed suicide.He was shocked. He also came to know that people had seen green-eyed Romeo entering her apartment. He immediately rushed to green-eyed Romeo's shack and struck him a blow. He hit green-eyed Romeo hard but being a law abiding citizen he did not kill him.
He was heart broken and spent many days at the bar drinking himself to the death. But gradually he sobered and went about life as usual. But life was not the same without Gina and the happy lad had turned into a hard man who did not have feelings for anyone. People started calling him hard Jake and when I came to know his story I told Jake to move on in life but he said there was no life without Gina.
Jake is an old, lonely man now. He never took another partner and lives a lonely life.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Portrait of my teacher

She was a woman short in height with sturdy legs that were pock marked. Her sturdy legs and plump body carried her everywhere. A familiar figure in the small town where I lived. She was a mother of two. Her son was afflicted with down's syndrome and daughter was married when I first came to know her.
A strict teacher, she enjoyed teaching and went about the chores of life in  a disciplined fashion. A fighter to the core she used to walk to the school where she worked. Sari tied high on her torso, one could see her sturdy legs peeping beneath her sari. I didn't like her as a teacher but she was an inspiration to me.
Nobody ever saw her husband, perhaps he was no more or perhaps she was separated from her husband. The word divorce cannot be associated with a traditional woman like her. Come to think of it, she didn't look like a woman who needed a husband to complete her life.
I have seen single men complaining that they have to look after their children alone. But never did my idol complain. She proudly paraded her son afflicted with down's syndrome and looked after her daughter when the daughter was pregnant.
I wonder where she is now? Is she broken down in spirit or is still her tall, proud sturdy self?I thank life for giving me a glimpse of a tall woman who was short in height.

Monday, June 6, 2016

Writing poems

I'm not a poetic soul, hence writing poetry doesn't come naturally to me. Yet I have taken to writing poems inspired by a friend. Poems help me satisfy the sudden impulses within me. I don't follow any rules of poetry just pen down my feelings. Hope my poems appeal to my readers. Please comment on my poems and let me know how you have liked them. I express my inner self through my poems and in the process let go the stress which has been bothering me. In one of my poems I expressed the inner torment that I was going through. It helped me get rid of the noises within my head. I wish my readers would comment and let me know what they think of my poems.
My favorite genre is short story and I have read short stories of O'Henry, Guy De Maupassant, Ruskin bond, RabindranathTagore, Anton Chekov and many others. Short story as a medium appeals to me.
I began writing short stories when I was in the 12th Grade. I didn't publish my first story and I'm planning a book ( A novel). But it is still to see the light of day. I want to write about life as I have experienced it. The joys, the sorrows and the pitfalls. Each event shaping my personality.
I think of myself as an optimist, still better a realist with positive leanings. I have gone through a lot of pain and suffering at the personal level. But it has not made me bitter, rather I have developed sensitivity towards my fellow beings.
Pain of dejection, unwarranted sufferings have all been my lot and I want to write a story with a positive end, though life doesn't always give happy endings but I feel my cloud always has a silver lining. I will begin my novel soon. Till then keep reading my blog and commenting on the posts.