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A Traveler's Saga

Oh! What are these days I have found myself in!
The bagpacks I carry no longer feel that heavy;
What have they lost if not for a few coins, a few notes,
some letters written long ago, a few locks, a few clothes?
Or is it the loss of some fears, some shackles, some thoughts tied to their waist belts several years ago?
Where is the fatigue? Where are the tears that drenched my pillow?
Where is the inability to wake up early in the morning and the incessant desire to sleep forever?
Today, every time I close my eyes, I need to type, I need to write.
Where is the indolence, the procrastination, the lack of, as I would say whenever they ask, the "limited time"?
What is this insouciance called?
Where have eloped the eternal need for love, money and the things I've already sold?
Why Plath has shut her eyes today whom I so deeply adored?
Bukowski's Bluebird is set free now while Sahir's pleas I dearly hold,
Because when he asks his muse not to leave before the fall of th…
Recent posts

Not All Women

I remember I once told a woman
How I felt
 And how terrible things happened
And how I couldn't sleep at night
For there were fears
Of predators lurking around my home
Looking for the next prey they would eat up whole
I remember
I bared out my heart and soul
I remember I couldn't breathe as I stopped my heart to beat
To tell her how I really, really feel
How I wake up and I just want to go back to sleep
How broken memories of a broken me
Shattered my past, my present, my dreams...
I told her how I needed a new home..
And she said, 'hold a second, I got a call'
And she walked away for a while
And came back as if nothing happened
As if she didn't hear anything I just said
As if she wanted not to be where I am
Yet she didn't want me to be the one pulling me up, making me whole
She wouldn't want to be my friend
She wouldn't want anything more to know
And later would pass around my past
To other ears, of other people who didn't know me well
For I was som…

Exploring Pyramid Valley and my Public Transport Fiasco

So I haven't blogged in a long, long time but my self-enforced expedition on myself made sure I write this travelogue.

Let me tell you how I landed up where I am currently writing this- an empty bus I am seated on from the past one hour.

It was a long weekend and I was tired of the  idea of visiting beaches or metros on unplanned weekends. So a week back, I decided to visit this place called Pyramid Valley which I found on a listicle suggesting weekend getaways from Bangalore.

The twist in my plan was that I will land up there by taking public transport and figuring out my way as I go.
I was eager to breathe in the dust-filled air while traveling on a public transport without worrying much about the time taken while traveling.

I was supposed to start early in the morning because of the timings at Pyramid Valley (9am to 6pm).
But I woke up at 9.30am and left my house only at about noon. So I packed clothes for a one-night stay at the place.

Leaving from home was simple. I googled t…

Testimonials

B for Book Review

"This book is filled with poems about loss and closure and for me it was heavy stuff. It takes you back to things you went through in the past and although it might re-open some wounds it may also bring some solace and give you a push to go on. If you are struggling, give it a try. No need to finish the book in one go. You can take you time and read one a day, one a week, one a month, … at your leisure. They are beautiful and I am happy I took the time to open my mind to them. 4 stars." - Els, Book Reviewer from Belgium on The Art of Letting Go

Clare Shaw "Many of these poems are painful to read but they still made me smile with recognition. It's a comforting thing to see yourself reflected on the page. So you won't be surprised that "Moving On" was one of my favourites! And how so many poems in this collection make a lie of it - you do move on! I loved the fierce imagery of "Burning Bridges and "Moonlit", the melancholy an…

Featured

Tea-stains on my T-shirt

I wouldn’t think of it much If the tea I so love to drink Wouldn’t have found a genius way To trickle down my white t-shirt Leaving a stubborn brown stain. She would then find her way down Every time I wear a white top. If what I wear is already stained, She doesn’t bother to leave her mark again; Maybe she knows to not knock the same door twice, Maybe she identifies her own marks. There are seasons when I love to wear white But I can never wear the ones I own, not again Because her scars don’t leave And I can never give up on a cup of tea, So I let her spill and stay where she wants to be. If the top’s not white, she doesn’t bother to drain Maybe she knows to not hurt the ones that don’t feel pain. I never spill her on my black cardigan- She is picky that way, not to fall for anyone. Every white t-shirt I have ever owned Screams of her taste, of her skin tone, I wouldn’t mind losing so many clothes If it weren’t for her pickiness About the hues she chose. Because every time I look…

In the Pitstop of the Race...

I cannot stress on the fact enough that life has changed after working. Well, it should because what good is stagnancy anyway.
After a year of working, I find myself tired by the second half of the day. No wonder, every time I take a flight I doze off even before the flight takes off.
I remember, I was traveling on New Year ’s Day and the flight was delayed by multiple hours. That was the first time when I woke up from a nap on a flight and didn’t find myself on air or on a different city. I woke up and we were still at the take-off area. But I had a good nap anyway.
It was last week when I took an afternoon flight but couldn’t fall asleep for some reason. Like most journeys I was seated near the window, but unlike my previous journeys, this time I looked out of the window. We were just a couple of metres above of the clouds but the view was great. A blue horizon on a sea of clouds. I was lucky enough to spot a rainbow amidst the cirrus; the hues getting clearer with each passing s…

Weight of a Word

Your thoughts, your feelings, The emotions you’re perceiving- What are they, if not fragments of beauty?
Epitome of beauty be that mind of yours, That heart that loves simplicity, The beauty you see around- Invisible to busy eyes, Incomprehensible to worried minds.
How do you pen a poem then Of the beauty you see From that heart of yours? Do you break sentences? Do you rhyme words? Or do you just read, And, after every four seconds, pause?
How would you express your heart? With long words from a heavy lexicon? How long should each word be, Sitting on someone’s dictionary?
And if all you want is to gently read, Write the poem a broken heart would need, Not simple meanings behind words too-long, Write your heart out to a simple song. Write the word that makes you believe Not the one that looks good on paper. Choose the word that weighs more No matter the length be nine or four. Ask yourself, what would make you believe, Choose what would make you read and re-read.
Ask yourself, how you…