Hour 12- Can we choose?

Can we choose

to surrender the preconceived

assumptions, notions, suggestions

to find meaning beyond the shores of language,

to break the chain of absolutes,

to make words breathe freely

from the trapped monotonous semantic and textual worlds

to make them spin

perch delicately?


Can I choose to redefine

rediscover myself

relearn beyond the boundaries of symbolism –

a Jane Eyre always in contest with a Bertha Mason

beyond the usual markers of 30, teacher, professional and female?


Can I choose to retreat

to a writer’s room

without the usual burdens

of productivity and utility?


Can it this time be merely

fluidity of words, names and identities?



Hour 11: surviving

the twisted tree is hit by the storm

grandma forgets me

but remembers the young sapling

right outside her home

she checks on it hourly

but walks carelessly to her bed

getting scrapes

she asks me questions

gives me names that she likes


the twisted tree survives the storm

she lavishes love and affection on the survivor


my grandma still does not remember me

the storm in our house rages on

Hour 10: day it all began

  1. let the sands of time turning
    as I relive each moment

the day it all began
I was only holding your hand
on an evening over icecream

fears, insecurities and doubts
that nagged our paths
melted with your touch

this day when it all comes together
we will embrace forever

the sun will shine on us
in this moment trapped in eternity
however our reality may spin
in practicality

Hour 9: the color of aundance

the humble watermelon

red and juicy in its plumpness

bought in abundance by my father


because I was fond of it

brings alive his love and warmth,

recites my parents’ endearing touch

and their wishes of seeing me flourish


nurturing and nourishing

extravagance and luxury


we will cut it into slices early

Sunday morning looking at each other

smiling and laughing

with newspapers spread on the table

to catch the sweet red drops if they may fall

to not ruin the sofa

to not invite an army of ants


a tender moment

separate from the rush

of never ceasing, pausing, ebbing flow of life

Hour Eight : reshaping roots

smooth and shiny

white blue pebbles lie strewn

on the shore

after the storm

that uprooted

their strong and firm roots with force

the Banyan tree that crashed

through the roof and burnt the car


after the storm

that made them hunt for

their family histories all over again, their large wall sized family tree

of names and relations

turned to dust leaving sporadic traces

in debilitating memories


smooth and shiny

white blue pebbles lie strewn

on the shore

after the storm

calling out to the young children

to rename, reframe and reshape

their destiny

free from the burden of


Hour 7: The Parliament of the Crows

the crows debate
in their parliament
the taste of bread crumbs
and the old man who throws it
he’s throwing more crumbs to the fish
they need to change directions

the crows discuss
the white cat with the brown ear
and green eyes out to get them
who will bell the cat and save the crows?
anonymous votes are cast, decision to be taken in the next session

the crows decide
to uphold the divine duty
to announce guests in different houses

matters of the day done, parliament dismissed,
they fly with loud and friendly calls
black blurs on branches
sending orderly homes into chaos
with grandmothers exclaiming
about guests arriving

(Clicked during a morning walk)

Hour Six: Dear almost

Dear almost friend

I would have still met you
at our secret place to exchange
our sweet sorrows and star speckled dreams,
to imagine a brave world where we ruled,
free from restrictive curfews
and the necessity of social choice.

How naive were we to believe
we could mould and carve our destiny?
it was laid for me as for you
but i will still give you strength.

I will not compete, I will not complain
I will not act selfish, I will listen
I will give back the love that was duly yours
I will not guard and fence my thoughts
I will pick up the phone to dial your contact to speak to you,
I will not merely be a flickering flashback
in the long reels of bittersweet memories.
after all these years, i will be the friend you needed me to be.

We would still buy coffee
and compare notes on cheap paperbacks.
In the tide of time, you and I will still exist,
as if we are friends and not just like friends.

Hour 5: glowing iridescent

torn pages from a Christie mystery
scattered on a hardback chair,
cracked wine glass
dripping blood red drops of wine
on the oak floor,

she left in haste
running away from the scene of crime.
the space where her happiness wilted
and almost died.

now freeing herself from the
meditative monotonous melancholy,
heading towards adventures unknown.

…the sunflower on the pavement glowed iridescent,
swaying to the fading footsteps.

Hour 4: Neon lit nothingness

years and years later,

a neon lit cheerful

looking museum enshrines,

 memories- silver and black faded 

photos of human faces;

preserved in their emotional intensity.

a careful study for all to 

observe and consume.

purple flowing rivers,

black dahlias blooming in crystals,

simulated fifth dimensional

bird sounds,

pink and blue mynahs,

the perfect preserved habitat

with orange horned elephants and pink flappy penguins.

“Ahh! perfect nostalgic times,

we captured it exactly as it was.”

rue the other worldly spectators


as the little black-silver faces and smiles

fade further and further…

into the neon nothingness.