Concealing storms underneath the feet, slippery with mustard seeds, walking on Edges crease, burning holes with use. There is a pontla* throbbing between the palms That can be carried everywhere, that burden of dreams that seep into A womb that speaks quietly to the feet,…

I leave a trail of dots in the bathroom as i look for a sanitary napkin in the shelf. Later that day, my son asks me soothingly what colour is the blood of ants. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know if squeezed out of them, …

As i sweep the rooms , water splashes around, leaving a trail. I follow it around, a dog at its tail. There are no fine bone china to be broken by bumping on to a table, i curse my good luck as i mop away…

I never wandered enough through you, mostly keeping away from dryly lit lanes even under the hot summer sun,  except A couple of times when i wanted to ruin my name in your honour, in your lanes I cajoled myself to collect faded paper tickets…

Look at leaves closely: They reflect light, perspire, respire; each of them exacerbate the human condition – They can’t act selfish or foolish, ruthless or naive, as each of these little things continue to gift Look at leaves closely: Sometimes they are smaller than the…

There’s dead grass growing all over my body as i annihilate another day in the shower, the water Drips off my chin into the rotis i make. I think of myself as a shop owner, a service provider to a variety of people in need. Paid…

I fold the bed sheets, thrice. Lining them against the front of the bed, i look at the corners of the bedspread. I tuck them neatly in. I need three more hours to dust every nook and corner and plunge the dirt out Of the…

In the culpable darkness of the shadows, there is a thin stream of light, bordering the darkness, shining mutedly- patient, and cynical of the possibility of dawn or rainbows Homely little pockets of grief simmer at the edges, waiting to be cultivated by greedy words….

There is a silent truth that fully obeys the plausibility of nothing. Between my fingers, i see one of them growing flabby upper arms and a bloated face While the other one i try to look for in the attic of memory There is a…

There is a desire sometimes that one will travel back in time to negate. The blackberry bushes being manicured. The mowing of the lawn killing the wild flowers. The moment of conception. A meteorite hitting this earth. A word spilling out. Deferring the continuous future…