Thursday, 13 December 2018


Heavens accomplished
and a hell, gone through;
A home awaits me.

 Known faces and
familiar voices
surround me.

A certain comfort and
strangeness of the native
grips my soul.

I can smell
 the fragrance
of those times.

Those antique days
of the past, chronicles
colorful tales.

An archaic and
unsullied child
was left behind.

To satiate an
yearning that
 never ceased.

To satisfy a
burning desire
that hardly stops.

Fire in the belly
brings both
survival and extinct.

That fire of passion
brought me places
yet drove me home.

All agitated self
needs a home
to go back to.

A weary wanderer
with a fatigued spirit
has to get back home.

A serene slumber
and an acquainted bed
awaits its old pal.


Saturday, 8 December 2018

Lessons from an Antiquated Life

There once was a life close to nature,
Where folks tilled the soil together.
        Hangs on the wall as an art portrait!-
        The by-gone days of a community spirit.
How the times we live, soon turn folklore!


Poetic style: Limerick

The Street Vendor Lost:

Shouting and barefooted, entered a vendor.
Bargaining her way in, she battles the seller.
    Proud of the deal, my Mom mutters:
    Where do these vendors all vanish?
Is she preparing a list to hit the Big Bazaar?


Poetic Style: Limerick


Tuesday, 13 November 2018

Shitty Nation!

There lives a man who cleans shit,

In the name of Caste, people insist. 

      Left behind in a great nation,

      In deep shit, he seeks compassion.

Call the emperor! Who gave him a clean chit?

- S

Poetry style: Limerick

Friday, 9 November 2018

Boxed Existences

Ostracized by civilized hearts,
A dalit girl with dark complexion
built a house out of dark nights;
Stayed within it, day in and day out.
Oppression was a daily experience.
Humiliation, a day to day reality.

On the search for herself, people around
Offered a hundred labels, suggestions abound.
Her neighbor next door has an opinion:
That she's a girl with questionable character.
Her ex-boy friend has an 'honest' remark:
That she's a slut, playing the victim card.

Emptied bottles of wine helped;
Kept the whining away, scars remained.
Life tendered no respect;
Death promised no dignity, and so
Sleep was her daily kiss of death- often,
She slipped her way into broken slumber.

Buried between the pillow and the bed,
wanders her mind like a bird
that sits on the tree of happiness
for a moment, on the sands
of disappointment, after few seconds.
Frustration looms and sadness chokes.

As she keeps thinking them all over again:
A theater of internal conflict, inside her mind.
Who're these humans? she wants to know.
Struck by realization, she found
They're, but entrapped beings;
living in their boxed existences.

Chuckled, as she thought of it,
Repaired she, her broken self.
Despite that comeback,
The circus of civilization
never seizes to amuse! Only
that now she has the last laugh!


Monday, 5 November 2018

Delusions of Light

No dreams, this Diwali
For my starving stomach
Has long given up
On your false promises
Of ache din and light.

Am I the poverty
You strive to eradicate?
Beat the bloody drum!
Demons are but dancing
In the delusions of light!

Flashing lanterns loom,
Eclipsing our daily gloom.
Your mad rush to progress
Had put us all to distress!

Am I the darkness,
You intend to eliminate?
Beat the bloody drum!
Demons are but dancing
In the delusions of light!

When there is no ears
Listening to our plight,
Sounds of your sparklers
Deafens our senile spirits!

Am I the anti-national,
You're hunting for?
Beat the bloody drum!
Demons are but dancing
In the delusions of light!

Woke up before the dawn,
My dad, a daily laborer.
You paid him with a pittance!
Disappointed, he returned drunk.

Are we the urban naxals,
You were snooping for?
Beat the bloody drum!
Demons are but dancing
In the delusions of light!

Doomed for generations,
We ask for our due, you offer
sweets to sickened hearts?
Land is but our body and soul - not
a Diwali gift for your corporate pals!

No dreams, this Diwali! 
No! they're not for sale.
Beat the bloody drum!
Demons are but dancing
In the delusions of light!

In Agony,
S, an urban naxal.