Monday, October 24, 2011


Small man
Small job in a small town,
Small dreams, small hopes
Big disappointments hidden
Behind a smug exterior.
High point of existence, discussing
The nuances of “God of small things”!
Wallowing like a buffalo
In the mud-pool of complacence
And when the mud dries,
Flakes off under the harsh sun
Of reality, sniff at yourself and
Smile ruefully and
Say, “ I am doing OK, am I not?”
Mediocrity is an opiate,
A tranquilizer that limits dreams,
Throttles needs, stifles aspiration,
Narrows the horizon of thought.
Small man, small job in a small town,
With small hopes, small dreams

Goodbye, nicotiana tabacum

Friend of frenzied moments
Finale to food, complement to a drink or two
Solace for the blues
From the first puff and paroxysm of cough
From young, untainted lungs screaming in protest
To, million cigarettes later
Paroxysms of cough
From tar sodden lungs of middle age
Each smoke was a response
To neurons clamouring for a connect
And a brief sense of well-being.
Good bye, old friend nicotiana tabacum
I guess this friendship has outlived its life


Duty says uphold the rules, regulations.
Apply them, punish those who break them.
Reward those who help maintain them.
Circumstances are no ameliorating factor.
Building an organization and path to excellence
Needs discipline and its compliance.
Maitreya says, show compassion
and practice forgiveness.
Question that keeps scrolling back
Punish the person or the act?
How do you separate the two?
How does one ensure adherence,
By compassion alone?
So, what is my dharma?

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

One summer night

To the call of a humid breeze

One pore opened and slowly

One drop of sweat formed,

Like some bitter dew

On the still paleness of your skin

Then another and another

And by some force, coalesced

Into a tiny rivulet

That flowed downhill

From the delectable valley

Towards your navel,

Moonbeams chased the drops on

Even as each follicle held it back

and I watched the night

suffer and age

In the heat

Thursday, May 19, 2011



Darkness descends

by soft, deft brush strokes.

Night touches the sky

like the gentle lines of kohl;

night is make-up time

for cities too.

A glittering tiara of street lamps

light up the wide avenues

and tuck away the dingy by-lanes.

Emerald, ruby and sapphire

the neons shimmer,

hiding the blotches

that mar the facade.

Feminine as they are -

to hide the acne of slums,

cities need a few layers

of judiciously applied


Last Night

Last Night

Last night

When clouds grey, bowed

And silent I mourning

Had clustered around the widow moon

And the wind was tired sigh

A firefly had wandered in to my room

Tired yet restless

Straying, lonely and defiant.

Its eerie green light

was a silent scream

A call

Of defiance yearning for tenderness

To envelop it.