God Speaks


The world existed before you

And it will live long after;

The last sorry specimen of you  perish and leave.

I created you

Just as I created billions of other things before you

But you cast  me into molds

That fit your narrow imagination

Wind, birds and the trees were my voice

You gave me words confined to a language that you spoke

The books you worship in my name

Were written by you

Their thoughts and diktats

Your interpretation of what should be

You made ‘Sacred’; and You created ‘Sins’

I am free of ego, desires, pleasures and whims

I who gave innumerable forms to  countless things

What makes you think I will bound myself to a form?

I who have nothing to  be ashamed of

Why will I hide myself in a garb?

I am formless



Why will I confine myself to a shrine?

No matter, how spectacular!

Your words don’t hurt me

Your actions can not provoke me

You are but a blimp on the vast horizon of my time

For I am…


Eternal; Encompassing; Indestructible and








Prized Possessions

What are My most Prized possessions? 
I was tempted to say my kids. The ones I made with my flesh and blood. In who I have poured everything I had and to who I will leave everything I have left. But our children are not our possessions. Though I as most others often forget.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Kahlil Gibran

And if my kids are not my possessions how then can my husband or my other loved ones be?

My home – The one I live my life in.  Its every nook and corner spills over with me. It reflects everything about my family and me – our personalities, priorities, interests , memories – Our lives. And yet, its not mine too. It has seen people just like me  before. People who dreamed their own dreams and made their own memories within its four walls. It has witnessed times that are only known to me from pages of history and it will live to witness an age that I will never see. Many others will walk its shady verandas, play on its mosaic laid terrace and dreamily watch the moon from its elegant verandas. No! My home is not my possession. It is just something I  have been loaned for a fraction of time.
My books, clothes , gadgets, jewellery – The millions of small things that cram my shelves and fill my cupboards. Some of them bring me much joy. Others are dearly held as tokens of places and people significant to me, as keepers of tales that I love to recount and as snapshots of moments I treasure. And yet they are replaceable. Each one of them! Not one of them prized enough to  really matter.
What is it that I prize over all others? The one thing that is wholly mine. That defines me and completes me . That if lost will leave me incomplete, fragmented.
For me , its my memories – Those that I have created with my children and my loved ones over the years. Those little snippets of my life that got embedded in my brain forever by some unknown, mysterious process . They are mine in a way that nothing can ever be. Not even my hopes and dreams because those belong still to the future and change and mold so quickly that I am almost unable to keep pace. And when I look at a dream I held a few years back I often just scoff at it wondering how foolish I was at 16 or 18 or 21.
My memories though stay the same – Bound in sepia colours they remain unchanged. Like good friends to be visited any time of the day. Everyday if I please. Or after years have rolled by. Secure in the knowledge that no matter when I go calling, they will always be there.  A little dusty sometimes, but essentially the same. Bringing me the same joys, laughter, smiles & tears they always have.
My memories — are and will remain my most prized possessions. I cherish them and they define me. In moments of confusion or anger they guide me. Reminding me gently of what it is that truly matters to me.
Without them I would be incomplete, fragmented  – An empty shell …Without a beginning. And how can anything that doesn’t have a beginning ever have an end?
That is why I dread, this passing time – I fear not the wrinkles it brings. Not even the drudgery and disease that is inevitable. But I do fear with all my heart and soul – The memories that slip by as time takes hold.

The time thief

  Attempts to  steal

What’s dearest to me –

A jar full I surreptitiously keep


Tucked under my pillow

At night as I sleep

Lest the thief

Come stealthily by

And from my sleeping fists

Attempts to pry

My most precious memories


Through the day

I peep in to check

And when my lovelies

Beam back at me

A deep sigh of relief I heave


We are not equal

Time and I

He is mighty and I am slight

Yet In this battle between

the thief and I

I am determined to Win

In response to The Daily Post writing prompt: “Pride and Joy.”




What you do

With that.

Lay it

Someplace high

Don’t let it be stomped upon

Its precious secrets squashed

Spread all over the road

For all to see

Yet don’t hold it too high

Or it may topple over


Millions of dearly held dreams

All over the pavement

Where he walks

Crushing its every beat

With the harsh tread

Of his heavy heartless feet

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Careful.”


The Lonely God

Here I sit upon the hill

Where I was placed so long ago

With rituals, ceremonies

And immense pomp and show

Much feared and celebrated

Everything  that happened  attributed to my ‘divine’ will

Bathed, anointed, glorified, so revered

That I lost sight of my own flaws, my innate failings

Each day I was inundated

With requests and with pleas

“A little more money”; “A good job”

“Please god some peace!”

 I looked on helplessly

Wondering at the irony

Of men with brains and limbs

Begging from a ‘stone’ like me

I ‘left’ them to their fate

The human race

To hunger, to pine , to starve,

To cry, to die, destroy and hate

They bore it stoically waiting for the ‘miracle’

Their eyes  blind with devotion just couldn’t see

The paradox of my creators

Relying on a ‘miracle’ from me

For long they bided for me to reveal my ‘holy’ plans

But when it finally seeped into their rhetoric drugged minds

Nothing could make me act

Not gifts, nor sacrifice, no amount of time

They left…

Their belief though vast turned out to be but finite

Their love though copious turned out to have a limit

Their patience though immense was tested

On the day when they could take my indifference no longer

When just seeing my stony face wasn’t enough

When the promise of a future heaven was no longer sufficient

They stopped coming

The children, men and women

In that order they fled

The priest hung on for a little while more

The  look he gave me as he went beseeching…

As if to say  I am going too! now!

At least now take an action; prove you exist

Prove that the dreams I showed those people were real

Show that you care; that you are really there

That we are your children

And that you are in control of our lives

I remained silent

Stonily I watched as he too left

Now I sit alone ; Perched on my throne

Surrounded by the paraphernalia of their dead faith

A faith I didn’t deserve

A faith I didn’t demand

A faith that was thrust upon me

By the  statue maker’s hands

A faith that expected  miracles

From a piece of ‘stone’

A faith that absolved

Them of their own indolent ways

and hateful deeds

I can’t say I don’t miss them

Those faithfuls who called me ‘God’

The endless chants of ‘devotion’

Their long list of demands

Here I sit upon the hill

Forgotten and forlorn

I once had a crowd of  followers

And then I was ‘alone’

Writing 201 – Day 7

Prompt:Neighborhood                 Form: Ballad                   Device: Assonance


The Day of Divisions – When the faces came off

“A Day of Divisions” – A ‘Found Poetry’ on The Dadri Beef Lynching Case

A Day Of Divisions

Another Ordinary day had almost drawn to an end

Dinner was well over

And lights were being switched off

In the village

He was chatting with his family

There was a sense of revelry

Within the walls of the Blacksmith’s home

He had a lot to be thankful about

A little distance away

Two young boys, maybe three

Three young boys, maybe two

Were sitting and chatting too

In the labyrinthine maze of half-fulfilled dreams

Tomorrow held little promise and no relief

No relief and little promise held tomorrow

From the drudgery of everyday existence

When they saw a dog wrestle with a packet of bones

A packet of bones they saw the dog wrestled with

The loudspeaker magnified the message

A cow had been slaughtered

The ‘proof’ was enough for the neighbours

The same neighbours who had embraced him on Eid

Three days back and

Complimented his mother for the tasty mutton

Suddenly turned blood thirsty

Blood thirsty they turned suddenly

Neighbours became killers

Killers became neighbours



All faces wore masks

All masks were removed



Day Six of Writing 201 : poetry presented the following challenge.

Prompt : Faces           Form: Found Poetry       Device: Chiasmus

For me this was the most difficult challenge till now. I used an article from Hindustan Times October 11, 2015

I went about it in the traditional way. All words (excepts masks)  used in the poem have been cut out from a single newspaper article. I have only taken the liberty to rearrange them.

found poetry

writing 201

My skin

Finally caught up! the last from the pending assignments of week one.
Prompt: skin         Form: prose      Device: internal rhyme

It tells me all I need to know – My skin. That person there, sitting on the back seat pretending he is fast asleep. He is a creep it screams with goosebumps . And that one right there – the one with the innocent boyish smile. That one needs to be feared. Yes the smile is genuine but it has a power, power to make you weak. A weakness that you do not need. Not now! Not ever! It tells me with a shiver. My skin – it speaks, It speaks of times gone by. It speaks of tenderness and care. The touch of my mother. So long ago, the memory barely there. And yet it remembers. Somewhere in its blemished, calloused folds – it remembers and craves. Craves not in a pounding, throbbing way but in a duller subtler way. Like an ache so mild that I do not realize it exists until it dissipates. For a moment. For a moment, when you lie next to me , your baby – soft , dimpled skin touching my limp, lined one. It tells me , it is whole again and luminescent and unrestrained. My skin – It overflows, expands, heaving little sighs of happiness. The knots untie, the bruises heal and the years of craving are fulfilled. My skin – it becomes perfect –  just for a moment right there!

writing 201


Still playing catch up. Day Two:

Prompt: Gift  Form: Acrostic   Device: Simile



Silently her solemn eyes convey

Her inner strife

At six she has already seen the

Macabreness of life

Ending her innocence with a gift she didn’t ask for



Not been able to weave in a simile.






writing 201

The Veil

I am trying to catch up.

Day 1 of Writing 201: Poetry – Prompt : Screen ; Form: Haiku; Device : Alliteration


Vilely, I call her name

Her valiant eyes defy me

Through the vigilant veil

Vilely, I call her name

Her virtuous eyes deny me

Through the vigilant veil

I love the economy of Haiku and am amazed by the way changing a couple of words changes the essence of the verse.


writing 201

Trying my hands at ‘Limericks’ – Writing 201

I have signed up for Writing 201: Poetry and though I am starting out four days late I intend to catch up! Here is assignment for day Four.  Prompt: Imperfect  ; Form: Limerick ;  Device: Enjambment.

I have always enjoyed limericks but never ever attempted to write one. Have written four for this assignment. Though the last line is two in ‘Clueless in Wakaloo” and “Bookworm’s Choice”.


Imperfect Me

Too short,  too thin

my crooked nose, my clumsy chin

Broadcasting to all

my many faults

Does putting me down make you win?


Perfect World

Song-less birds, Leaf-less trees

Fragrance – less flowers, Sting-less bees

Skies without white puffy clouds

Young minds devoid of  doubts

Anomalies – I wish never to see


Clueless in Wakaloo

Once an old man from Honaloo

Walked a thousand miles to Wakaloo

But when he got  there

He was filled with despair

Why he had traveled; he hadn’t a clue


A Bookworm’s Choice

There was once a bookworm named Ted

He loved to eat his breakfast in bed

Happily he gobbled on Stephen King

Rowley, Hemingway & Charles Dickens

Biting into Plath; he requested some Rumi instead

I would appreciate any tips and advice from seasoned poets.