Fast Forward

One, two, three.

Why are these months behind me?

Spent my time

filling the calender

I never lived.

I got a bit.

Not the juicy mangoes I wanted.

But at least the pit.

Some sweet was stuck to it.

I was hungry and it tasted good.

Now it’s dry.

And I have,

One, two, three

months behind me.

In Praise of You

Oh what pleasure!

Hot cocoa and creme brulee,

Bonfires in a freezing Shimla night,

happy faces of strangers in packed buses.


When you speak with me,

time smiles back.


Voices drop suddenly,

autumn leaves turn to listen.

That heady, rippling, cascading sound.


When you laugh with me,

the world stands still.


Your tales speak of a magic,

that see through hearts,

that kick start my pulse.


When I weave my matrix of words,

your stories take a special place.


Things get simple.

Corners everywhere.

The honey in your wisdom,

sweetens my thoughts.


The world seems fickle,

fragile love, tough to keep.

Like ships adrift, fearful of anchors.

Yet you are sturdy,

an oak that holds me.


I believe I am gifted,

heaven’s true child.

Happy in my company.

When did you ease your way in?


Don’t know if I am right,

but can’t say this is a mistake.

When you seem so different.

Maybe we will make a life,

touch our souls and never leave.

Imagine how wild that would be!


The Old Lady

A while ago,

I realized,

I was not missed anymore.


That day,

I skipped work,

worried sick the boss would call.

The phone never buzzed,

though I held it tight alright.


My friends,

they loved a great party.

The latest grapevine was,

I don’t host them anymore.

I did get a letter.



He said he loved me.

Got gifts from each country’s duty free.

I admired them in that big mansion,

showed them to the walls,

as they looked the other side.


So I sat

in a pavement,

of a nameless street.


when all this began.

When did I stop getting missed.


Then came an old lady,

if one could call her that.

Took a spot next to me,

coz I took hers unknowingly.

After a spell,

she said,

“I have nothing to me,

and for that fancy ring of yours,

I will hear your story”.


I did just that,

and she told me one thing,

“Would you miss the life you made,

for others to miss you so”.


I carry that line,

wherever I go.

And I never realized,

I wasn’t missed no more.




Love Is

Too many exes,

just one love.

It’s real,

a tad surreal.

I suspect a plot.

Eyes tuned in,

searching for cues.

They seem amiss.

Should I give up?

Give in?

Perhaps it’s true.

Perhaps all that’s said of love is true.

I am no pretty flower.

My petals are bruised.


This feeling,

it’s in full bloom.

Nature’s startling hand.




In disbelief,

I think,

“believer I”.