Wednesday, November 26

red letter day.

this needed a diary entry, because it is from him that i learnt to write diaries. this needed a mention here because it is to him that i wrote my first letters. and it's him i received my first letters from. days when yellow postcards and blue inland letters were available in local paan shops. when my language and handwriting were equally unsure, but someone was always eagerly waiting to read them. when kolkata meant three months of advance booking for three tier sleeper tickets and three days of travel and STD calls involved the mediation of an operator, but no guarantee, these letters were an only connect. and for him, a window into my growing years. of the many lamps that lit my life and ran out of oil or flame this year, this is surely the one that has taken the most light away.

for the oldest and grandest man i knew, it's apt i write this from the old familiar comfort of a moving mail train.

grandfather gone.

Saturday, November 22


what's a life
without consequences
take a chance

Monday, November 3

my north star

Thinking of five years back, when i left Bombay for my MBA, i remember you spoke of all the things you feared you'd lose me to and I'm now fearful of how true, all of it has turned out to be. Through all this, thank you for being so constant. With you, I'm never lost. Or atleast i know where i have to be.


Friday, October 31


some days I'd like nothing better
than to let you know
that you're being thought of
just so that some day
you could tell me too
that i was being missed.

Tuesday, September 23


with every last breath you draw,
you're taking away a bit of me
but how can I complain
you've given me so much

for amal da.
friend, philosopher, guide.

Sunday, August 31

a deal

I'm only looking to be understood.
By you.
And if you love me for it.
That's all the love i need. 

Wednesday, August 13

brick's tale

that tender clay
in the winter sun
could've been anything
you wanted it to be,
but now it swallows
the flames of the kiln
knowing no fire
any longer, any more
can burn what's left within.

Saturday, June 28

back to bombay

i left bombay five years back and have had many half homes since. now that i must leave to return, delhi isn't letting go of me.

Saturday, May 24


so, I forget who I fell for
and who is the lover you seek

Saturday, May 17

put me to sleep

Run your fingers
through my hair
once again
put me to sleep,
kiss me on my eyelids
and, as you withdraw
your cold breath,
whisper a sweet nothing for me
my ears will hold on to it
until it brings me sleep.
Speak to me
when you think I can't hear
or sing to yourself
like I'm not near;
bring music into my dreams.
Hold me with your soft hands
like yours i'm meant to be
and snuggle into my chest
till you can hear every heartbeat,
slowing down, and slowly.
Put me to sleep, little kitten,
put me soon to sleep;
the night is far too long tonight
and these scars are far too deep.

Friday, May 2


between not wanting to say anything
and not having anything to say
is the river of possibilities
and the bridges we build

Monday, April 21


what could be more hard earned
than fortitude
and what could be more tragic
when that's not enough

Tuesday, April 15


I met him barely 2 months back, at my grandmother's funeral. I had made another broken promise, that next time i came to Bombay, i'd visit surely visit his place. For ghee bhaat and Complan. For old time's sake. He had funny ears, and a funny voice. Me and my brother would still crack up on all the elderly advice he'd give us. I'd imitate him and his funny ways, about things he did and things he said. But he knew me and loved me, from when i was very young. As part of family, he was always there. They're rare now - the people who know you from so long ago, that they don't judge you, just care. So, such loss is significant. Even if you don't miss them when they're alive. You know, in death, they've taken away a little part of you. And left a little part that wishes it could've said, a slightly better good bye.  

Wednesday, March 19

the needle

the thing about narcotic love
is that you know it's meant to kill
yet, in every fix you're chasing
there's a hope, a promise to heal
every trembling push of the needle
unwillingly fortifies your skin
the same pain feels lesser again
until all that's left
is just the needle and the heroin

Friday, March 7


Story of
last 7 days.
to Delhi
for 29th

Monday, February 24


the glass just needs
a little bit more
for every sip
to be fearless
and dear.

Tuesday, February 18


in a little bit here
and a little bit there
little bits of me
are falling apart

Tuesday, February 11

in my head

is this the same voice
in which your words speak to me
or would it sound different
if you read it to me?

Monday, January 27


It rose up my arteries like molten lava. Scalding the back of my head.
This anger had no meaning, just burning fury that put me to rest.
Frozen & brain dead.