The Sketch

It's old fashioned to use paper and pencil, they say!
But, the early quiver of charcoal-grey line,
the smudge of an alley,
the murmuring whispering rustle of the ferrule and the tip,
the slow line that bursts into sudden laughter,
and a white page creating memories of happiness

make the Timesroman12font appear infertile.

Generation Gap

The fresh scar on my mom’s newly replaced knee
is a shadow of a forgotten pain.
But the utter fear in her eyes
of losing her man, someday soon,
is growing roots and branching,
making me wish,
just once, I was as frightened;
 I could love as intensely,
beyond ego,
beyond pride,
at least once!

For the coffee that never happened!

So many things are not visible.

 

There’s a tunnel below the river.

A gesture lost inside the saree.

That regret below those eyelashes.

The breeze that tiptoes through the creek of a window.

 

Beyond the present, another day, yet another one.

 

And my half-baked dreams,

And the story that lie beneath our coffee cup that never got brewed!

 

That untold confession.

 

So many things are invisible, yet remain.

 

Not a poem ...

Living Alone
is knowing things as they are.


Living alone
is believing
the one who brought me here
will someday call me back.


Living alone is
realising that
things need not have an ulterior motive.


Living alone
is gliding through rooms after rooms
looking at the black shadow on the wall
where once the painting had been.


Living Alone
is breathing free
recovering
after years of subletting.