Afterwards

Afterwards, I shall be a mote swirling at your window, Without a breath, or a heartbeat, ringing at your window. Noon has stumbled through the half-wicked buildings, Like a blemish upon the wooers singing at your window. Stinging are the curses that are uttered in the bazaar, For weaving the gossamer, now swinging at your […]

Read more

1500. Reaching the pinnacle

Originally posted on Weave a Web:
? Bruce hadn’t achieved much in his life. There was one thing, however, he could do: he could be the first in the history of the world to climb one particular peak of the local mountain range. Reaching the top of this peak had been an insurmountable problem for…

Wet Charcoal

Each night I bleed a part of my soul to her beauty, Silken words awaken to fill up the hole to her beauty. A lone moon is treading forth the liminal dust of evening, The dying sun has hitched a veil of kohl to her beauty. Is that a beeline of suitors to the bounty […]

Read more

The Icicled Bosom

Old lesions fester and seep in the cavern of tonight, Dark thoughts gather and weep in the cavern of tonight. A high wind is swaying the maimed tree of deodar, The parched lips of tippler look for tavern of tonight. Upturned chairs wait not for visitors in the café, The feast moved to your boudoir […]

Read more

The Man Thing (Conclusion)

(Click here for Part II) The way Kanika was averting her eyes from me had a fishiness about it, hinting at some link between her and the ruffian she had met on the platform. Not willing to mire an entire day with the bitterness of a possibly freak incident, I brushed away my doubts and […]

Read more

The Man Thing (II)

(Click here for Part I) It is a bit unusual for rains to strike Mumbai in the beginning of November but what surprised me more was the rumbling of clouds. I wasn’t sure when I had dozed off yesterday in a mostly sleepless night only to be woken up by what I had thought was […]

Read more

The Man Thing

As I lie here on the dewan pushed against the window, gazing absently into the impossibly yellow canopy of the Amaltas tree, my thoughts race back once more to the field of mustard I visited on a mellow winter afternoon, many years ago. At the time, the cocoon of boyhood had withered and fallen off […]

Read more