penning down the mind

I reek of you

At the edge of the rock,
as I sat with my legs suspended in air,
I harked back to sitting by the pool,
when late at night,
legs submerged in water then;
I spoke with someone,
of distance and hope

Can I help but wonder,
how we did not align,
just like the things we talked of

Reek of us the towns of time
as they watch me go by
just as silently as artists of mime

Witness us in separation,
does the sand sneaking under our feet,
while stealing some of us,
to hand out, at every sea’s greet

So, under the cover of stars,
philosophizes the man,
who has now known
the greatest longing that there is,
of him who has remained invested
in all the rights, at all the wrongs

Thus by the river, the wind blows
a fierce rhythm as it speaks to me,
and speaks of what, I know not,
as I travel to the one who knew her odds

Who hushing words into my ear,
like the old winds did,
made me feel alive once,
the way a tickle inside did

And suddenly, I see,
the pages of my diary

that have been blank so long
are all filled out at once
in remembrance of the forgone.

Grandma!

Hurried, rushed past
and before I could catch hold of a few,
they had watered down me,
washed me over

Brimmed in an empty cabin,
the old rusty gates had flung open again,
and the crystal paperweights
reeked of nostalgia,
nostalgia long forgotten they say

As I speak of reeking,
I speak of the pickle,
and of the sweet dish
only she could make,
my grandmother long gone,
would make my funny bone tickle

An agony aunt,
an ally in disguise,
we crossed roads,
on and off it alike

My smuggler was she,
her smuggler, I,
we made a team to last forever,
yes, I fell for this lie

Because a day she sang,
the next she coughed,
and amidst gentlemen dressed in white,
was my last sight of her

Adorned with tubes,
her eyelids didn’t flutter,
and as her heart rate fell,
voices inside me began to stutter

Within hours, her possessions were left behind,
in a jar of pickles
and a bottle of stories,
clothes that smelled of her,
were our years full of her memories

Since then,
I have draped her in my heart,
as my eyes share the brim,
and while a little always pops over,
there’s a raging sea inside to swim

Love is not lukewarm

In the brokenness of your being,

when the wind holds you a second longer,
and the night speaks to you,
telling tales of the dark,
you know you have known love

Like a silent conversation,
like comfort in the crowd;
Love that is teenage,

and love that is senile

Love that is not only counting stars by the beach,
but also counting pebbles by the shore

Love that is not the perfect letter;
instead the hundred discarded drafts in the bin,
Love that is not the perfect photograph,
instead the shared coyness when fingers graze

Let love not be known by the anxiety during falling out,
let love be the distance you didn’t care for,
or the mountains that your emotions echoed with

Let love be the last lap of your race,
let love be the philosophy you barter your sleep for,
let love be the metaphor you resonate with,
let love be the song you made your symphonies for

And yet if love cannot find a testimony today,
regret the hesitance you took to,
repent the uncertain wobble you couldn’t look over,
blame yourself for how love couldn’t seek you

Because love is to dive into the waves,

and to fly into the valleys,
it is not a step back,
it is a kiss later
because love, my friend, is not lukewarm;
Love is intense,
love is a poem in conflict,
a poem by the sea in fury.

Return

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 58; the fifty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Saravana Kumar Murugan, the editor of Shades Of Life book series.

The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own

With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places

Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears

For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return

For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return

To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home

When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon58 & #Aativas50. Participation Count: 13.

And I'd wonder again

Sometimes, one of these days when it rains,

I want to sit by the window sill,

And read her my favourite book,

And watch her wonder at the rain drops

But before there were rains,

There had been a summer,

Never the same, but this,

Not quite like any other

Sure not like her first

When she’d crawl more and walk less,

Garble more and talk less,

Yet each time her lips parted,

She brought me a feeling uncharted.

A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed

She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed

In summers to follow,

She’d put on her school dress,

Wave out to me

Like a sun in her prowess,

Then there was a period when she sketched,

That was also the time she started caring for her tress

Season changed, and cold was common again,

To give her company, I too would feign a pain,

She had started dancing now,

Sometimes I’d shake a leg too,

Solving her math problems,

I’d learn some math too

But there were lessons,

A little few on hope too

Because that’s how I kept up,

I could’ve given up too

And then came the last summer,

The one that was unlike none,

We drove around a lot,

And stopovers for lemonades were fun

Last summer, our car broke down a lot too,

Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to

Soon, she took to a habit,

That of me fixing it for her,

So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit,

She said, my daddy would fix me sir

Who was to say what Daddy could do?

He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to

The hope that he had taught her,

Today was Daddy’s test,

One he couldn’t falter

So that’s what I have been telling you,

Now you tell me something too,

Sometimes one of these days when it rains,

Should I not want to sit by the window sill?

And read her my favourite book?

Should I or should I not?

Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.

His Girl

We will be 9 again,
she will play the bride again,
Again, he will don the groom,
I, again, will pronounce them man and wife,
and there would be an omen this time,
one to announce a doom

Like the one not around,
when she ran through the gates,
Ran into his arms,
told tales of her days,
or whine about her grades,
or of setting her hair straight,
he'll make things alright,
slip her a candy,
sometimes take her to the trades

And soon I'll see,
how things are meant to be
Because while she spoke of stars,
he only spoke of her,
and as she fell asleep,
he only fell for her

So next there had to be season of the rains,
just like that, summers and winters too came,
but what didn't spring was an omen to tell
how mad and fierce
in love he fell

She'd still run to him,
and tell tales of her days,
only days were dates now,
of course he had to be at bay

I would question his ways,
curious, what made him stay?
He'd just smile and say,
there have been reasons each day

Then one night she sought him out,
Amidst black clouds asked questions all grey,
whether to marry or not was one of many,
though not for him to answer, but for her date to elate

Still, his eyes didn't budge,
his heart stayed the place
To watch over her dreams,
his own could wait

Yet, all I could tell him was,
how some things are meant to be
And you know what he said?
What is not meant to be, will never be,
So what if we can have our way
Can we not pretend just another day?

Through waters too troubled,
my heart weeps at the shore,
but he was a man,
a man more than the most

As he let go what wasn't his to keep,
I wondered how much more his heart could dare to hold
He, who played her groom once,
today stood broken at his very core,
while walking her down the aisle,
his girl wasn't his anymore.

The Forgotten Storyteller!

Beneath hovering dust and unfinished structures,

stood a three-legged stool,

the refuge of an 8-year-old,

who holds a worn pencil,

and a torn notebook,

like sacred books of yore.

His hands move, but mind faster,

and with his wandering heart, wanders mine too,

to a decade back,

when I stood outside the same room,
the wall of which I'd been leaning against.

My study, which holds worlds,

camouflaged as books,

finished, unfinished,

and the ones that left me broken,
pulls me in, despite,

but at its doorstep, I must keep caution,

I must not enter again,

for in times of calling,
a promise had been made.

So as it goes,

I have kept my word,
but seems they have failed,

tip-toeing in my dreams,

queried and complained,

why did I leave, just like that?
one fine morning, and an abandoned hat?

And I wonder, do they not know?

That lay beside them,

a tiny little shelf too?

Next to myriad universes, waiting for my universe too?

The shelf stays still, like an empty lifeless canvas,
just as it was in the rains of '04,

just as it was in the winters of '05.

And yet all this while,

the one promise I have kept,

the promise is of betrayal,

that I will delude,
and be disloyal.

I shift with discomfort,

and so does my sight,
the storyteller's out there,
his world alike.

These 6 short stories will make your Teachers' Day

From what started in a classroom was no longer limited to one. Across time and over periods, life moved on and so did we, falling, rising, crawling, running and at times flying too.

Here's to all who help us along, in their own solemn ways, to make a leaf in our book in the making.

Happy Teachers' Day.

Source: Penning down the mind

Between the hops!

One tall tower to the next,

one country touch, a hop to the next,

region to region,

landscapes alike,

he gazed like an eagle,

at what still remained at bay,

much like me,

a guarding shore, I say,

which soaked in a bit of what lay in between his hops

For I vowed,

he'd climb the stairs,

and I'd count them,

he'd sing to his tune,

and I'd record them

In the milieu,

that is today,

and was then,

with the falling leaves and flowing winds,

some compressed feelings,
a burgeoning heart,

mine, not his,

for he only saw a silhouette,

and one tall tower

I took to the silhouette too,

for that won't change,

much, I wish,

but my heart still wrinkles,

still crinkles,

at the very thought,

of,
what if,

my world is that of an adverse scenario

But he'd move on,

and so would I,

to see what lies beyond the tallest tower,

may be me?,
the stretched heart's calling,
not floating to the surface,

but just beneath,

waiting,

awaiting

So when he'll be atop the tallest tower,

I'll take him back,

I'll have him back,

through a journey,

to a journey,

to a land,

where,

he was,

I was,

and wasn't there,

hop step trance.

That monsoon, those rains!

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 55; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Rashmi Kumar, the author of Hooked, Lined and Single and Jyoti Arora, the author of Lemon Girl.

Because one day, this dancing would stop,
or maybe the instinct will die, you had said,
and you couldn't be more right than that night,
when the terrace became a witness,
to the world of many firsts we were to enter.

Of witnesses,
there was that tree too,
under the shade of which,
I gave you letters,
hand written and kiss sealed.

What about that shop with downed shutter,
two streets away,
where we met as lovers, reunited and love, rejuvenated,
and sipped tea in the enraging monsoons under the cover of howling clouds,
Oh, who'd forget the drops falling in our tea cups,
and I, falling in a bit of you, wishing you'd fall in a bit of me too.

And running for cover in that downpour,
was the maverick painter,
his canvas falling apart as he runs,
and I run too,
I chase,
for the fear of him not returning ever.

He has 'us' painted,
though only in half,
before the rain came down,
and that half is you,
and I'll realize,
only years later,
how the unfinished painting was indicative of a future so true.

And that day has come, I reminisce,
when the rain would happen but dance won't,
when you would happen and us won't,
and I wish you had said something else,
if that night had to be the one God heard your wish bells.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 12.

Chocolate Ice Cream

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 53; the fifty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

I passed by the old streets,
swallowing nostalgia through my throat,
as I walked down the school building,
and our lovable ice-cream uncle again,

He stood by his cycle,
even today, like those days,
quenching the thirsts of many, like us the other day,
when rain wasn't too heavy,
the lightning not too frightening.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 50; the fiftieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

She rushed to the mirror to check if the eye liner was put up properly. Meticulous. She ran back to the door grabbing her stole on the way. Running downstairs, she slowed herself down to regain composure as she strolled into the living area. Overlooking her was a life size poster of a God her family fervently worshipped. Escaping her mother's vigil, she threw a flying kiss to the poster. No wonder, she was euphoric.

The Inverted Universe

It was an interesting conversation I always used to have with this one particular professor, about an inverted universe. He said that in each moment, an alter ego living in another universe was behaving in an exactly opposite manner. So, a feeling of rage was complemented by utmost serenity, a longing for love found its own in a burning hatred and so on.

It always amazed me how he imparted an innovative dimension to thinking. I used to go to his lab and we sat through hours

Aye Aye Professor!

I stood on the podium in front of vacant benches forming steps and aligned in a semicircular fashion. In full capacity, the room housed around 200 students. And that was the sight I procured maximum utility from. On other days, I'll talk to the students, scribble on the huge green-board, think of multiple worlds together and push our thoughts to attain 0% cohesion. I always thought they had much more to teach me than I could teach them, after all there were 200 minds against one of mine. But whatever statistics lead to, the pin drop silence when I spoke always testified that my students thought otherwise.

Two tales of love!

We grow up thinking that when we find our special ones, the moment would be the one made in heaven. These two tales goes out to all who have had weird proposals but appear extremely adorable in hindsight.

#1
Every time I told her I hated something, she'd gift me that the very next day. It flustered me. My room is stuffed with things I detested at one point in time. Today when I look back, I understand what she was doing all this while. Not gifts, but lessons.

I don't dislike those things as much. Give time and everything, inadvertently, starts to make sense. All a part of a big puzzle. Sometimes people ask me how did I reciprocate?

Out in the field!

He exuded over-confidence like a brimming swimming pool. Much to everyone's annoyance though, but he had the licence. The world had him labelled as drop-dead genius. He awe-inspired me. But when I let him have ounces of my thoughts, it rang constantly in my head that he didn't even know me. Who was I? A girl in the crowd. Perhaps, someone who wanted to know him, someone who wanted to uncover the million layers he pretended to own.

Father and Daughter!

I sat there holding my drink. My legs hung between the railings from the 12th of a 16 storey apartment. In the backdrop of a city with all the glitterati, lay a few common men who embraced night as it came. I pulled the glass close to my mouth and inverted it all at once. It was time for the next drink. I made my way inside the 3BHK flat which was as lavish and spacious as you'd get in this city. Before I made myself the drink, I swiftly checked upon my 6 year old daughter if she was well asleep and comfortable. She had finally slept. I took her small little hands in mine and kissed them.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 46; the forty-sixth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

TODAY

I had 10 tabs open on the browser and 15 windows opened on the screen. Beneath this chaotic congregation, lay a picture of us. I shuffled between windows to see the desktop background once in a while as I continued to ace the parallel worlds which shared my attention. The table too, was cluttered with papers, pen, paperweights, water bottle and coffee mug which regularly injected me with caffeinated blood. The small fluorescent table lamp highlighted a man fighting it out with all the might he had.

I gestured towards her to lower the pitch as she entered the library. She bit her tongue as realization dawned upon her. She mocked a thank you. I smiled and returned to reading my favourite author, Mitch Albom. From the corner of my eye, I saw her disappearing to the other corner. One could see the lapses in concentration of a voracious reader. Her voice loomed large on me as I learned she is again in vicinity. I looked up to steal a glance. She was at the counter, issuing a book which was hard bound in maroon. It looked like a course book. The cooler nearby blew her air for the little time she undid her bun. That sight nearly killed me.

------

I know not the rules but I'll play the game being pushed against the walls and the cuboid converging with each passing second. But you know what is the most fantastic thing about this game?

Everyone has to play it.

It tries, tests, suffocates, blows you off but doesn't kill you. And that is something scary.