Wednesday, 22 May 2013



My limbs and roots are stunted. The world views me as a miniature, a wonder, a piece of stunted architecture of human creation. A corner piece of adoration in people’s homes and workplace, I am away from my natural habitat. My siblings are out, picnicking in the warmth of the golden rays, dancing with the breeze and getting drenched in the shower of the clouds. My heart cries out when I am trimmed.  My soul is hurt when human beings imprison me indoors for their recreation.

Small I am, but my feelings are not truncated. My heart cries out when I am trimmed.  I prefer to lead a normal childhood and grow up to be a huge adult tree.

 Nations fought for generations against slavery and foreign invasions only to curtail the freedom of another species. Isn't this injustice? Has God bestowed cerebral superiority on human race to dominate on mute beings?

 Free me from my trimmed existence. I want to live.

Hey Man, live and let live.

Monday, 20 May 2013



I donned my best sporting gear and readied for the climb. Totally focused, I refused to look here nor there. I did not pause to smile or exchange a greeting with fellow-mates. I made my way up the mountain hurriedly and hastily leaving others way behind. Reaching the pinnacle, I rested and gazed around to enjoy the panoramic beauty and serenity. But there was no one to share my happiness and joy. There was room only for one at the top. I felt lonely. I had reached my destination without making the journey.

                                                       FOR : THEME THURSDAY : JOURNEY



He had his finger steady on the trigger. The suave businessman in white kurta pajamas, dining  at his plush apartment on the 14th floor ,in the upscale  Malabar Hills was to be the target.  He had set his pad on the opposite building terrace .The bullet left its safe haven to travel to its final destination but the ill-fated piece of iron and steel  found its mark into the heart of the businessman’s daughter who accidentally ran across chasing a red and pink balloon . There was silence for a split second and subsequently  commotion replaced the shock and silence. His nerves of steel were unaffected and he aimed once again at the target, this time not going wrong and hit the bull’s eye.
Having  wrapped up his work, he moved out, hailed a cab and boarded a train at CST ,that took him out of  Mumbai .  He would be out of Mumbai jurisdiction till the news from the first page of the newspapers took to a small paragraph on the fourth or fifth page.
Kalia was notorious in the Underworld for his accuracy with the gun. He was a master of disguises wearing masks upon masks and peeling them after each ‘shot’ never to be ensnared into  the dragnet of the law. The coloured wigs, false eyelashes, the multi-coloured eye lens   were just props to the changes in outward physical appearance. The art of imitating someone else’s   voice and mannerisms were like a child’s play to him. The various languages and dialects that he had learnt on the streets helped him to blend effortlessly and anonymously   in to the teeming world of the common man. He had never seen the inside of a school but life has been the greatest teacher and this student lapped up whatever was offered to him. Vices like guzzling liquor, gambling and girls were miles away from him which his brethren from underworld loved to indulge in.
He spoke to none about his roots in a small nondescript village in northern India. He had run away to escape from the tyranny of a step-mother and an alcoholic father into the cruel arms of the dark underbelly of the Maximum City. But the City that doesn't disappoint anyone who sought  refuge, embraced this runaway with open arms. He was under the tutelage of Scorpion, the uncrowned King of nefarious activities and slowly graduated into the upper echelons   of the gang. He was the most trusted lieutenant of his Supremo.
He had now checked into a small hotel under a false name and a different disguise under the cloak of darkness.
Kalia woke up with a dizzy   head. The alcohol which he had forced down his throat could not drown his growing guilt. He had a gnawing feeling in his stomach. He had broken the unwritten rule of the under-world :  Women and children were to be spared.
The little girl should have been a target of a kiss and not a bullet. He could never forgive himself. He had enough of this profession. But retreating his steps was just next to impossible. The tentacles of the Scorpion would fish him out from the deepest  crevice of the earth to inject the venom in him. He had to find some way out to emancipate himself from this grave and suffocating situation.
After nipping a budding tender life, his existence  became a  heavy burden and ceased to have a meaning or a goal. If he had settled to matrimonial bliss, his daughter could have been of that girl’s age. He had committed an unpardonable sin, though not intentionally.
Four fortnights later he was in the Scorpion’s den with him, alone. He sat down on the chair opposite his boss.  They were peering over the details of the new assignment when Kalia picked up the Scorpion’s weapon. Next moment he fished out a note from his pocket and placed it near the lifeless body of the Scorpion. He made several calls from the Scorpion’s cell-phone ,  imitating the Scorpion’s voice perfectly.
He then wiped clean for any traces of fingerprints that could be left behind as evidence.  He had de-activated the CCTV camera before coming in.
He boarded a State Transport bus that would take him on one leg of his journey to his final destination, his village. He would start his new life as a vegetable vendor.
Next day the police swooped down upon the den and found the Scorpion’s gun and a suicide note. They checked the cell-phone records which had orders for dismantling the organization and subsequent dispersal of the gang members. The police put this down to suicide. Another theory floated that it must be inter-gang rivalry.
Whatever was the outcome of the investigation, Kalia was off, to turn a new leaf in his life.



Wednesday, 15 May 2013


I hurriedly left your threshold,
To embrace the adulthood mould,
Dolls and pristine innocence left behind a mile,
Did not glance back for a while.

Sleeping to the lullaby tune
Sailing paper boats in rainy June
Of sleep-overs  and pillow-fights
The chocolates cakes and glittering lights
Imprisoned  in frozen moments.
Can anyone bring back even for a moment?

In awe of the grass greener
Remained an eternal dreamer.
When the glass of fantasy shattered,
Awoke, I battered.

Filled with mirth to say a final good-bye.
Now repent with a deep sigh.
The grains of sand slid away
Leaving only memories my way.

Wish I had not hurried
But relished the golden era and tarried.
R.I.P. (Rest in peace) my childhood.
R.I.P (Return if possible) my childhood.

Note :  The weight of the school books keeps the back hunched. The do’s and do not’s by the parents irritate the children. They are in a hurry to leave behind the childhood to chase the mirage of adulthood. Taking one’s own decision of life fascinates them only to realize late that the golden days were those of childhood. Every generation repeats this mistake and I implore my child not to commit this mistake. 

Saturday, 11 May 2013


Plant a sapling,
for you have no inkling.
A gift to Mother Earth,
Green canopy, a dearth.
Water, soil and sunshine,
all it needs to be fine.
A sapling, plant and then a tree,
branching its arms in glee.

A parasol from scorching sun
,a rope swing in spring ; fun.
Rooting the eroding values and soil.
Enriches a peasant's toil.

Sow as you reap,
Share the fruits in heap.

FOR : poetryjaam




Vulnerable truth,
lying trampled.
In its last moments,
holding on to its breath,
fighting death.

A valiant try,
to disrobe a lie.
Peels off the colourful facade,
after a tiring , long decade.

The gathered crowd,
thump their chest ; proud.
A wise owl put forth,
"White lies and the naked truth"

Thursday, 9 May 2013


                                                  The Resurrection.

Caught up in the reveries,
I dug up the past  memories
Deep buried from the grave.
I was , but, so naive.

Groping in the dungeon,                                                    
hopes chained, bludgeon.
The skeletons of the bygone,
haunted me, to be left alone.

Prisoner of the good old days.
Basking in the warmth of sun rays.
In the sky, dark clouds frowned.
Sucked into the bottomless pit, felt drowned.

Snippets of snaps pasted on collage,
Why did I re-visit this mirage?
Broken pieces of reflection,
I gathered from distant horizon,
to march towards resurrection.
To march towards resurrection.

                                                                     FOR : POETS UNITED

Friday, 3 May 2013



The bright orange colour of Kalpana’s hennaed hands had not yet paled
completely , when she had scars on her cheeks and body. Rajiv did not need a rhyme or a reason for inflicting pain on her. He found fault with her cooking and housekeeping. At the breakfast table, he complained that the rava dosa was not crisp enough and at dinner the sambhar was less spicy. His shirt was not ironed properly or his socks were missing. Her mother had imparted lessons in domestic work and trained her well in culinary art but Rajiv’s fault findings made her a nervous wreck. She would always be tensed in his presence as when the next blow would bruise her  mind, body and spirit.

  Her neighbor, Hazel, had noticed her black eye but Kalpana managed to wrap a stole around her face.

 Kalpana bore the brunt of violence without a murmur. She was conditioned  by the females of her maiden house that the true place of a married woman was besides her husband. She had accepted her fate. When her husband was away she would paint in her leisure time. This hobby of hers, learnt in school days, stood in good stead. She could vent out her frustrations and ire on the white blank canvas. The colours used by her were predominantly black and red. The lifeless canvas was a mute testimony of her turmoil inside her, bringing alive the paintings that were a reflection of her bleak today and an uncertain future. 

Rajiv had a 10 day training programme at his Head Office in another city. She was happy about this new development. She could spend the next 10 days without being beaten and bruised.
As usual she was busy with the brush in the afternoon when the door bell rang. Putting aside the painting paraphernalia, she went to answer the door. There was no one at the door. Confused, she thought that it was a figment of her imagination when she looked down, her eyes fell on a piece of paper lying at the side. She picked it up.
“No-body is going to serve you respect on a platter. Learn to earn it.” was boldly printed on it. Two telephone numbers were printed alongside.
It was signed off by an anonymous well wisher.

She decided to take matters into her own hands.

Rajiv came back from his training programme. She served him dinner.  “There is no salt in the curry”, he yelled at her.
“You can add salt to the curry” she answered politely.
Taken aback by this retort, he got up and raised his hand on her.
She sprung up in anticipation and caught hold of his wrist in mid-air and yanked it down. His arm hurt.
This was not his meek wife, Kalpana, he thought. How dare she defy  him.  He was surprised at her calmness.
Before he could gather himself, she said, “Your unmanly behaviour will make you land at the Women‘s Cell of the police-station.”

The earth below his ground had moved. Never in his wildest imaginations had he thought that his wife could have the courage to stand against him. Every nerve in his body was taut and he stood motionless and speechless.

“In your absence, I took lessons in self-defense at the ‘Naari Savrakshan Kendra’. (Women’s Protection Group). They have a legal-aid cell too”.

“What do you want Kalpana? Will you leave me?” asked Rajiv with tears in his eyes and his vocal chords quivering. Now it was her turn to be taken aback.  She had never been exposed to this vulnerable side of his bearing. The Jekyll and Hyde personality was ripped open wide, threadbare in front of her.
“Tomorrow we will visit a marriage counselor“. And he just agreed to her suggestion.

Her mother had rightly said that a married woman’s place was her martial home. She would serve her husband and live with dignity as a human being and rightly as his equal partner.

Kalpana sold her paintings from ‘Ajanta Art Gallery’. Now her palette is full of vibrant colours and now she doesn’t have to wrap the stole around her face.

Thank you, anonymous well-wisher.

Note : It’s a shame that domestic violence on women is still prevalent in our society. This post does not intend to be partial or hurt anybody. There is a small but growing section of the fair sex who is taking undue advantage of the very laws that are meant to protect the harassed women. In my next post we will see the other side of the coin.