Lone, Lonely, Lonelier

She adorns dolls, filling empty spaces;
Spaces devoid of humans,
A country ageing,
Octo and nonagerians abound.
The outliers of the lifespan graph,
Lonesome and craving company.
Will the life-size dolls assuage the wounds
of many a withered hearts ?
Mindfulness apps and meditation retreats,
Pull the young,
Millennials flock spiritual sermons,
Fleeing a life cramped with information,
Soul – searching ;
Detox is the new mantra,
That navigates their lives.
The chasm has widened,
The young have left abodes,
In search of themselves,
The old still guard the hearth alone,
Waiting for the return
Of the prodigal offspring !
Will their lives
Brim again with the cacophony of familial banter ?
Or ,
The walls crumble burdened by the
Grief of loneliness ?

Poetry Day …

It’s World Poetry Day…
And it made me think,
Am I a poet,
A question sneaked and a blurb emerged !
Should I confess that I am a bad one ?
My words don’t follow the rules;
They pulsate with a rythm
That I call my own.
They don’t rhyme,
Nor the syllables sync,
However, I manage
To sequence them and create ,
Tales that resonate with fellow beings.
Probably they bring solace,
To many a troubled hearts and unruly minds ?
That’s the hope which inspires,
To adorn lives
With moments that sparkle
With rainbow hues
Of colourful words…


Sometimes I feel the house
Is yet to be a home.
The walls stand stoic engulfing my sorrows,
Not burdened with the  joys
buried behind them.
Have never been alone in it,
Not a single day have I made efforts,
To listen to it’s heartbeat.
Is it a lub-dub as my heart’s rhythm ?
Or does it rhyme with a different tune ?
I know not.
I hope that it speaks to me one day,
As I wait at the threshold to
fathom the language of it’s whispers,
That day the house
Would transform into my home,
And resonate to a heavenly symphony.

Another Year !!

The year is coming to an end,
Yet I haven’t wrapped up my wares,
Unfinished chapters to be read and reread.
Unwritten words and incomplete tales,
Waiting for their share of attention.
Reunions abound whilst I retreat to my solitude,
To nestle awhile in my sacred grove.
To plan again, to try once more,
To stargaze and dream yet again,
To rebuild sand castles swept away,
To hold the paintbrush ,
And savour the joy of infusing colour,
To stroke a sleeping child in my arms,
And watch her dreamy smile ,
To startle a blue jay in the bushes,
And chase butterflies on sun kissed meadows,
Fireflies in a moonless night.
To begin another continuum
Little joys and infinitesimal memories.
To savour life, each day and night….

Future tales

I ask her about her future,
About what she plans to do ,
Though I know she shall not confide,
Still I persist in my efforts,
To hear what I want to hear.
It’s a puzzle,
Why I ask , the questions ,
Which would never be answered.
She refrains from answering,
And in her inimitable style ,
Weaves a new story.
A tale of libraries.
About how she would build a bookshelf,
Adjacent to her bathtub,
And house books,
 to be discovered,
Books tucked away in a cosy cove,
Books at arm’s length,
Books embalmed with hydrophobic veener
Book treasures alike for,
 the daydreamers and the nightcatchers,
Books bridging the realms of real and the imaginary,
Books to be read in the bathtub,
To inspire Eureka moments,
Alike ,
Among the young and the aged.
Books which would slow ageing,
 Stimulating  the grey matter.
Books to traverse the lifecycle
Between Birth and Death..
Perhaps my questions are answered,
I think,
Probably Not,
But momentarily, her story captivates,
And i realise she has succeeded,
Yet again
In avoiding the Answer …


Homogeneity is what I thought
we dread,
A culture at the cusp ,
We talk of inclusiveness,
Attempting to embrace diversity
Of preferences,
Yet we design similar structures,
Still look for familiar faces in a crowd,
Rummage through the wardrobe to
Find matching pairs,
Quite ironical I must say.
Is it in our genes to be homogeneous ?
Whilst nature is all about symmetry
In shapes and silhouettes,
Did evolution not spring out from
The intermingling of variations ?
Does homogeneity breed heterogeneity ?
Which follows what ,
my redundant mental faculties,
Fail to analyse and interpret.
I resign and stop thinking,
Leaving the seed of a question,
To sprout,
And to branch out.
Probably it requires quiet contemplation
Or quite a contemplation,

Conversations : Mom and Millennial Daughter

I lament,
Wishing I was married to Dr.Strange,
Not the character from the Marvel Universe,
But the man who essays the role,
Benedict Cumberbatch ( “BC” )
I love him ,
His exotic name and maverick looks,
Is what I adore
I tell my daughter.
She says, that’s easy,
Why don’t you ask Papa to transform into “BC”.
She questions, do you like him,
Because he brought “Iron Man ” and “Captain America ” to life,
I say “No Dear, I love that he combines,
” Exemplary Oratory skills and a sharp intellect “.
She responds , “It’s easy then”,
Just ask “Papa”, to write more and spruce up
His diction,
He is already an intellectual you know,
I wonder ” her thinking is so simple “.
She rescued me from falling prey,
To my wishful imagination,
I was almost thinking of replacing
My husband,
So saved by a simple solution,
I can now live peacefully,
Imagining my Husband
To be “BC “.

Weekend Blues..

I struggle to focus,
Put on my ear phones,
Plug into one of the music apps.
My finger moves onto the meditation  music tab,
I tap into “Sound of Birds”,
The electronic music floods my ears,
But hardly overpowering  the cacophony of
Fan blades whirring above.
I look out of the window,
Thinking the blue sky would,
Give me some solace,
But alas , that too seems sombre,
The bright sunny morning has give away,
To an overcast afternoon.
The search for inspiration has hit,
A road block today.
Should I read something humorous,
Or listen to some old romantic melodies,
rather take a ” cat-nap”,
Or put on my favourite sandals,and take a walk across the street,
Flip-flopping and tip-toeing ,
Avoiding the dog-poops and bird droppings..
How I desire to lie on the ice cold stone bench,
Under the slender tree springing in a purple hue,
Just like the wizened old man,
Who I oft see take his mid – day siesta,
Oblivious of brooding pigeons
And gangs of dogs lumbering around.
His peaceful visage,
probably dreaming in Black’ n White,
Is what I take back,
As I trod back home….
Probably I have found my
“Inspiration” for the day…

A Case for all Book Nerds

I didn’t know that
The device had a mind of its own,
That it could think ‘ n get muddle – headed,
That’s what she said,
When I kept flipping the pages,
No, no
Skimming the pages,
Albeit no,
When I kept tapping the Kindle.
Now I know , I have an argument,
Against e-books,
And also realise why I’m,
quintessential old school.
Pages cannot be flipped,
There is no rustling of pages ,
They don’t get dog eared too,
You can’t use a hairpin for a bookmark,
You can’t sniff the pages,
Nor you can cuddle with it..
For me the Biblichor ,
Is intoxicating ;
The book cover
Attracts ,
And adorns my arms
While my Kindle
Rests on the bookshelf.


When a small town
endears and enchants,
And jostles memories
of an impish childhood,
Of sweaty afternoons and humid nights.
Life whispered,
It’s time to slow down dear.
The intermittent siren from the jetty,
Beckoning the forelorn passenger,
Interspersed only with the occasional call of the enthusiastic cricket,
The moon and the silence only for company,
I called out to Life,
Let’s sit and stare.
The rippling water glistened with a
Silvery hue,
The full moon night reverberated with
Cacophonous solitude.
The sculptures lining the cobbled pathways cast ominous shadows,
I walked on the arterial road,
Waiting to get lost in a maze,
The landmarks were way too familiar,
I didn’t lose my way,
I discovered new paths.
The church gongs and the temple bells,
The azaan from the Mosque,
clocked in unison,
Reminding me to head back,
To get back to my moorings,
To rekindle new hopes
In dreary hearts,
To lighten the dark hours,
Of weary souls..
I trod back on now familiar paths,
To a broad new horizon….