granny’s song

You heard me and put a name to my songs.

Clad in the sparkling azure attire, bedraggled with splodges of mud

Hunting for witch hazel and at times ill at ease yet, I was your ilk.

Who abode in a mangy mud house with her granny.

There was a little room for a cat to swing and not a single light-switch.

Round the clock she had to keep her ear to the ground.

The overgrown crops between flapping lugholes and burning words

nourished the laborers who slogged their gut out during muggy summer days.

They made love holding the gun to the beloved’s head.

I didn’t know where I stood with that untold lore.

Hark at them! granny said.

When she muttered ‘salsa’ I didn’t have the faintest idea of it

Since I couldn’t discern between Dan and Sau.

Little did I know that she had the thespian prowess,

As she could only sing and dance about

saucy quarrels.


A breath of wind ruffled your hair and the blue gasp sounded ever so wilder

Pronto you spun on your heel and the graceful whirl of my dainty hands

flicked in your salty stares jousting with mine

You chuckled, your feet treaded the soaked sand when cachinnating waves sluiced them out

tucked away behind the stealthy sun your eyes gilded my corsage

It was Sloe gin poised over my glass and yet I was an abysm

Like an unsown land reeking of a smidge of yesteryear.

Photo courtesy:

i won’t ride you

I stepped down the ball-girls place quickly and swathed my face with a dusty brown scarf. Running my eyes across I slinked past the market by making swift strides. On reaching home I removed the scarf and knocked on the door.


But the door came unstuck abruptly as it was already open. The voice coming from inside was rising to a crescendo. Suddenly the maid leaped up into the view, her face smeared with red tomatoes and mango juice. She ran slap bang into me.

” Salah Bihari Mango!” Bhindi who was culling the harvest rumbled. I suppose he had figured it all out so made an effort to lend the maid a good kick up in the arse. I couldn’t think straight and lickety-split called a number. Well, they didn’t wish to ride me.

(after an hour)

I killed the last bottle of whisky and scrambled to my feet. There were a lot of quarrels going on around and the ride wasn’t fun even. Ugh! I gathered my wits and had a dip into my list of dos as there were no don’ts therein. (Bi)cycle, Eggs, Milk, Bananas, Mangoes, Dogs, Cats. The list was tickety-boo. Cool!

I had collected all the items due to my unremitting poverty. But my empty pockets hardly came to the fullness. The wads weren’t fat enough to bear on the propriety of quarrel to say nothing of slap bangs. Steered by the law of attraction I chanted it day and night. At the same time, I stood guard over the hand pump all the time where at the moment crows were feasting upon the piles of mango stones, skins, saggy bananas, leftover vegetables, rice-chapatis, and so on. In my own courtyard. It was so humbling!

Mumbo, our buffalo had finished her chocolates and sweets by then that I hoped my guests should have carried to my doorstep. In fifteen-sixteen years, I might have a room full of chocolates… I tee-heed and continued with other weblogs. Something hither and thither. I had done a lot of research in these neighborhoods. I went on with the next day’s adventure. Bantu and Ghambu Bhaiya…

telltale whiff

We got the rollicking for the telltale whiff

Of the savory roar of our teenage dalliance

In the liturgical hickeys that furl and flourishes

behind the tattering piles of blossoms

masterfully camouflaged behind the camera

I’m yours… then I whispered

at the nape of cold and satin-smooth pebbles

knelt on the marshmallows

Cloyingly sprawled across the sticky lips of

Pillowy clovers of the sky

i will meet you there

There is a field out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing. I’ll meet you there.

~ Rumi

As the silver clouds which are swirling and running an errand across the flickering horizons augur auspiciously, I know you’re awaiting my arrival in the temple sited by the babbling river. Perched on the marble floor, I see you aflame like camphor and I can catch the warmth during the freezing winter mornings. And even now the scented smoke of incense is scribbled in sombre and sedate gloamings, as soft as the grazing of your lips. Ever so lightly. And it claims its eternal tenancy, ever so compellingly.

The path ahead is slippery and precarious and the impending danger looms on the horizon. Underneath the searing blaze of the sun, these trees will guide me through the way, lending their bountiful shadows without any trace of ostentation. I will tryst you where all cascading brooks coalesce and the brisk water becomes fiercer crashing and puddling the rocky banks and making the pebbles bound and twirl in an incomprehensible precision. Where the spectacular fall feels fated and inevitable…

Photo saved from Pinterest

a shadow in the evening

It took me a while to find my tongue. …Who are you? Staring in amazement I muttered under my breath.

Wrapped in the evening blush a callow youth wet behind the ears, you were standing in the doorway.

Holding the cup of non-dairy butter and cream I vegged out in the veranda. I could feel your gaze lightly skimming my rose chikan saree. A waft of steamy momo balls immersed in hot, tangy sauce bursting with exotic spices kissed my senses out of the blue.

In the dim light, I watched you sauntering towards me.

…Who are you…?

my first anniversary

Warning! : Rotten Humour is injurious to health. The reader is requested to read at his/her peril.

A close look-see exposed the news to my view. I’m a year old ( WordPress is lying! ) and 195 wisest people of the world chose to follow me without any noticeable regrets! And maybe I am just daydreaming, but I like to believe that they are reading the last edited version of my posts that take some time to appear after they are published. After all, the wish is father of the thought! Tee-hee! Feeling like a dog with two tails. I offer my infinite gratitude to all my sagacious followers and envious readers. Pumpkin Pie is on the way though I am afraid, I am hardly for pumpkins. Yet I would as lief pray for the well-being of all the tiny pumpkins.

Here dark clouds are gathered and the overcast sky heralds another rainstorm?

Another year has flown out of the window. It’s like time has turned full circle. Back in the day, odds were staked and still, I put someone’s nose out of joints. Or, maybe I was caught with my pants down while cuffing my goats. Eventually, the Herdman was back and I was out of the mad scramble forcing me to cook omelettes. Phew! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!! I like only French omelette! By the way, India is still relying on Amul Milk for strength and fitness for that matter.

So what’s your recipe for a kickass day? Do share your omelettes 🍳 below. Feel the sunshine in your bones, more vitamin B12 for stronger bones. 💪 Ta!

Photo saved from Pinterest (site’s address’s slipped my mind)

in the forest

A detached calm and unabashed power branded his craggy visage. A lacuna would deputize for the stoic, the heartening splendours of humane spirit, the grit and glory of the gold dust but I will call him the brute.

Photo by Ali Arapou011flu on

The scent of mossy soil mingled with that of wild plants and bustling creepers that carpeted the floor of the forest scampering every whichway to snare the invaders and sinners that set their feet in their land. The land of perplexity and prophecies, epic and enigma and indelible lore. The ogre and carnivorous plants that swallowed humans alive, their hearts are stoned and don’t melt whether you are a baby or having the buns in the oven for that matter. What if someone gets caught short halfway through? My flesh almost crawled off my bones..

“Stark staring bonkers,”

Plunging in the pit of despair I hollered. I heard my heart knocking. The last time when I kneed him in the groin, the taste wasn’t that delectable or to my liking.

“Life isn’t the barrel of laughs,”

It was like water off the duck’s back! Nothing riled the brute.

As to this jaunt, I didn’t have the foggiest where he was taking me or whether there is light at the end of the tunnel.

The forest was punctuated by stones of different shapes and sizes. As I paced ahead, I tripped over on the foot of a colossal tree that too with a bump.


The unexpected turn of the tide made the brute dead in his track. He turned to me but didn’t offer the precious little help to bail me out of the trouble. His nut-brown crook blazed in the dark. Giving me a hard look he spun on his heels and flounced off.

I gave him a dopey grin and hoisted my rucksack on the back wrapping my mind around the daunting prospect. Though the woods were dark and deep which make you scared witless, the night was closing in.

I gave a sharp pull forward to match his stride.

“So? Are we heading to the temple?”

My voice was so much softer than the earlier yelp of dismay.

“Brothel or temple, you will find whatever you are seeking.”

Slightly tinged with angst the tone of his voice brooked no argument.

That’s a bit of a tiff that doesn’t sit well with you but the sombre and ascetic life of the brute evoked an unbidden feeling of reverence and respect.


Photo by Krivec Ales on

Incandescent peaks of halcyon hills seize your gaze in the evening when weary sun grazes those hilltops and sky simmers with crimson, vermilion, azure and milky white lights. Slowly a fiery red flush creeps over the valley and spills around the horizons sprinkling the sneaky woods with a soothing blush. Leisurely the dimming sky gathers darker, exotic cosmic shades of night. The river, the woods, that narrow track snaking along the river leading to woods, placidly all pass to slumber. Trees become sombre and quieter, mysterious and resting for the night.

In the morning, a soft golden glint slowly bursts through the sky. Trees patiently await the sun to rise while birds trill their flurried chirps. The glory of the pristine mountain, bit by bit, heaves to the sight. There’s a dignity, an incorruptible beauty in the solemness of the robust hills. Wholesome perfumed air conveys the scent of pink and maroon whispy blossoms and fills the whole valley. The spectacular vista of lush little folds of majestic mountains and the free-spirited river is spellbinding. There is a deep calm and stillness that blooms into an intense and profound peace. An extraordinary sense of life overflows. One can lose track of time and still a tiny whit of life is never missed.


As though I am indigenous to a quaint, sequestered isle riddled with damp mossy soil and scads of jutting peaks. I have sought solace in the penny-pinching halts amid the frantic sand of time careening along days, weeks, months on and on. Quietness in the world is a different kind of necessity. Thousands of nights I slipped off into slumber awaiting nothing, anticipating the morning never arrives. Nevertheless, it did. The grisly clamorous morning, screeching a wound in the hidden recesses of your soul in inexplicable respect. You sink and smother in the thick mass oozing off the surrounding that preys and feeds upon the reaction. When living simply implies either ignoring or responding or reacting. You need to be registered in a certain manner that has to be understood/misunderstood/un-understood by a certain kind of mind obliquely but forcibly demanding you to be adjustable, to suit its reactions. This phenomenon itself substantiates that one cannot meet the blinkered or imaginary expectations even when reduced into what one isn’t. You are here, at this moment, and this is sufficient. Who you are isn’t contingent upon anyone’s understanding or reaction. Anything in nature never depends upon the mental dexterities of a particular person, his beliefs or ideas. It isn’t necessary to be presented to the world for further distortion. You are always present without that. Is being not enough? Your presence is perpetually disturbing. Who you are — is a problem that needs to be solved. You can’t lay your mind to rest. You have to shut down or open up on someone’s commands disregarding your inner guidance. Your natural response is consistently contorted or off-balanced that eventually yields to silence. You endeavour to protect it for all your worth. This invisible struggle ramifies into a myriad of repercussions.

Peace is supreme triumph

Photo courtesy: Pinterest &

selling habits

It’s a desolate place to be where the finger of blame and suspicion falls. Sooner or later you return to your fold and let them embellish their hand-pumps to use as the tipping bin. You no longer make allowance for the heaviness of heart, the pitch-blend, dramas that devour your peace. Your flesh crawls and you are apprehensive about the possibility of not choosing better or rather best choices.

A decade ago, back when I moved from the village after the enlightenment through the monstrosity in relationships, it was the phase when you scream but want to keep it under the wrap because no one would lend a sympathetic ear without malice. Malice quickly covers a long distance. Everything must be enshrouded in the thick blanket of haze. It was the time when the world is witnessed through rose-tinted spectacles because the truth is something you’re yet to acknowledge and accept before you overcome.

We lived in a rented house. The landlord had gone to meet his maker. He was bedridden for a long period due to cancer and had a son who was “over modern” in the traditional sense as he chose to marry an inter-caste girl and was employed in the technical field. His then yet-to-be-married younger sister who also went for intercaste marriage, tiddly after a peg or two during her brother’s wedding danced up a storm and some of them called some “funny” names for her dance in the wake. And these examples are rife as it is the only way to ginger up your listless days when there’s no chance to reach out for your dreams dangling from the sky or maybe stowed in the innermost part of your dungeon where you hide the coffee that only you can sip. Because you’re not addicted to it. A lot of people who don’t drink, invariably show tendencies and still feel inclined to get addicted. Such is the addiction to coffee. Then you root through the world map and suss something out from the Great wall of China.

Flocks of birds had littered the boundary wall with their droppings. Every flap of hair, every move, each dance, each song enshrined a story awaiting the storyteller in the world where divorces are gruesome and abuse is as easy as falling off the log. Each dot counts.

I don’t nurse ill feelings towards inter-caste marriages, drinking, any dress, divorce or dance. Lately, I came across a concept concerning our buying and selling habits that – you shouldn’t sell what you can’t buy, this is integrity. Even though I am not buying what you’re selling. I can’t be lenient to someone and rigid to another just because that makes it convenient to abuse someone. But there is little to be said for pebbles in your shoes for that matter.

It’s quite amusing to see that seasons still fall whether you’re there or not so you watch the world go by and observe the rising and falling, you do ride the waves. Thanks to the English language, you don’t have to pick up the fallen things and hoard them for future use.