Monday, January 7, 2013


Tissue thin tilling of tidings
bought for a few rupees
stories travel against the speed of light
reaching to us
with the morning tea
burning our tongues,
anger stirred with a steel spoon
dissects the people who have been named
after tales, most sewn with a tailor's precision.

We become messengers
when we point our fingers
for the culprits sparing
the victim's vowels
most being women
who have burnt like candles
to keep the flame alive.

After a few days
it palls the carcass
of a baby diaper or sanitary pad
disposing it into the corner dustbin
one that reposes
in the backyard of the house
or is carried away
as a dead body
awaiting cremation.

First published in the Copperfield Review here.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

It Could Have Been Me Or You

Yes it could have been me when I think of that fateful day on a dithery December morning in my second year of graduation.

Back then the blue line buses plied on Delhi's roads and they were known to be notoriously accidental. Even then many of us had no viable options at our disposal and we took such buses to go to college. In the cold winter days, dad was my messiah for the lifts he gave me to the bus stop saved my day and energy.