The revered God of odds

This is a call to create me because I don’t exist

and seeing my life I think I may be the one

who walks past the dreams and desires 

skillfully in a bliss remembering the odds on how these existed without the pain

but then I am proved right soon 

leading me to think I created them

but if history of people would talk they would have the same walk

still I am blamed not to live through it with patience

and patience they say some don’t realise they already have it as a character 

while those who don’t are often seen demanding it

I am familiar with this cycle

but I am in the odd

with about everything 

and the slipping society

who will soon think of me 

as a non conformist 

and while they don’t know what they are conforming to

I have to mix in a haste

of being left behind I have to join soon

I see among me other few who are confused the same

and they talk themselves into it each day

this predicament becomes society

and I a social person

and those who live on to carry my burden

and don’t conform

they become my God

of all my odds.

Until the batteries die

Fake respect of fear 

evades into the 

time which runs on clock 


battery dies

of the charge person 

has in life 

after that 

character of memory


and love 

no matter how strong 

loses its will 

in losses

and in fear of loosing

a lost love

and everything familiar

life continues

in that time

that runs on that clock

until the battery dies. 

Moon and its sunlight

In depths of ocean everything reflects

on the sun recieved

while it was summer 

and the haste of sunlight 

when didn’t  fill the floor 

of winter’s ocean 

the moon still stayed in dark 

not knowing that the reflection is giving it away

through what the vacuum brought

of the space 

while water didn’t grasp the velocity

of vacuum to fill spaces

the fish stayed flowing at the bottom

waiting for winter to end

on the other hand 

moon in black vacuum 

couldn’t grasp the kind of warmth it sends.

Fickle life of grandma & noor

I would have written better at the time

when you used to churn ghee out of the malai collected by me

but that thought was lost before I could write.

It was constant process but

then, mother changed the method and she instead made curd out of it

she would churn the curd for butter and chaas

with that your hands too changed from firm to soft

in the process whole house evolved

malai was now a distant thought.


But reference of it almost never died

turned into a skilled fight

although with malai a lot of stereotypes dissolved

but somehow ones with curd evolved

for house was her commodity now

where her life would revolve.


Noor, you should know how to claim what’s yours

but why, if it’s truly mine

it’s not about the curd or malai, she would say

it’s more

it’s always more

good books have rubbed your innate core


why didn’t you tell her – said Noor

sometimes Noor you will have to ignore

ghee can be made out of butter too all the more

because to know is not good for her

but for you it will help you take your path

everything fickle is not always lost

what’s important is to let go

as life’s only hope is change

and our will to live up to its game.






Malai – Fat layer on milk after its boiled

Ghee – clarified butter

Chaas – buttermilk



Eternally long

I know you don’t look at me that way

like I came out of stars and glided my way right next to you

or the way in which the crowd dispersed to send you my way 

on that empty road 

where no one would have been concerned by another 

we found solace away in the corners

in the pitch dark where we got old 

only to find that age didn’t exist in the time spent 

awaiting the young feelings of love 

and while we mustered hard to keep that will alive of the past 

but it flew with years spent trying hard

In the hundreds of previews of life 

we found the one which we never sought

this thought of being without each other now 

and all that we have lost

admist finding ourselves again via the ways of complex emotions

I reach out to be with you but not in the same way

that I looked at you before 

it is different and flawed 

just how life would like it

and love would abhorr

 I look at you through our damage score

and while beauty lies in eyes of beholder

I find mine tired of not looking beautiful in your eyes

in this striving the pulse changes the way hearts beat

racing veins at your sight, now cease 

to be simple

because complex is long gone 

in the severity of other thoughts 

giddiness didn’t belong

while we both look at each other the same way

it’s not that way 

when the whole cosmos belonged

to be with us 

and when it was supposed to be eternal long.

Too much

I know he will not come

because he didn’t leave me in winter

he left me in summer

under the sun

without haste

he buried me

in the flowers

through the wrapped gifts

knowing that when

decay comes

he will have ample

to his credit

in that build up of merits

I missed only one detail

too much of anything

always does fail.