Wednesday 15 November 2017

Odio inicial, Amor duradero

Hasta la décima clase, era muy tímido y no era bueno en los estudios.
Mis matemáticas fueron muy malas. Solía ​​estudiar mucho pero no obtenía buenas notas, y este era el caso solo con las matemáticas.
Pero había un maestro de la clase privada famoso en mi pueblo (Itarsi) conocido con el nombre de Ghan Sir (su nombre también era matemático, en hindi "ghan" significa "cuadrado").
Quería ser su alumno, pero había tanta demanda para sus clases y, por lo tanto, menos espacio para acomodar todo.
Era un hombre muy humilde que trabajaba en una escuela del gobierno en un pueblo cerca de itarsi. En primer lugar, se negó a llevarme a su clase, pero le supliqué. Por fin, él estuvo de acuerdo.

Allí, en solo un año, me volví bueno en matemáticas. Además, como mis fundamentos eran claros, se convirtió en mi materia favorita. Me destaqué en algunos de sus temas en clase undécimo y duodécimo. Me ayudó en el examen de ingreso y abrió un mundo completamente nuevo para mí. Todavía recuerdo a Ghan señor como un ángel que cambió mi vida. Aún así, me encanta hacer matemáticas, para mí es una especie de meditación en la que encuentro la felicidad personal.

Sunday 18 September 2011

Silent readers

Wars give us
Some extraordinary literature

Slashed with butcher’s knife
Smells of bodies charred
In concentration camps

Underneath the debris,
Two hands, four legs
And Burqa.

We read,
We mourned

But how are we neglecting
the wars
still going on
in Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine!

We are waiting for accounts to come
In the form of a story,
We are filled with tears
Ready to cry…
But No, we will condemn the oppressors
When war gets over
Or the protagonist will die

Silent readers
We are silent readers..


Weeds in the flower pots,
Greeting rain and sun

Weeds in the flower pot
Not of any concerns

Weeds in the flower pot
Waiting for someone

Weeds in the flower pot
Dying unlistened.

Monday 15 August 2011


Its your absence and
Desire . .
I emptied the pot of

Group of scientists
Counting the stars..
Wrinkled forehead
Breathes fastened.

When rain hits the pane
I see violence and riots.
There is no beauty
No charm, Sir.
Thread snapped,
Now collect the beads.
Precious and lost!

Thursday 28 July 2011

Teeth of Love - Sylvia Plath

Blackness and Silence . .

Curly hair and 
tired eyes,
I burnt like sun 
day and night.

Indigo spilled 
over the papers.
Crushed, burned
and razed!
I cherish still
our Coriander love.
Fresh and Edible.

Leaves begin to turn brown and blow away . .


touching my hollowness,
I think "I am not Solid"
Look into my famished eyes
and say -
Am I the same fish!
Smell and say!!

I tried to drown myself once. I swam out in the sea as far as I could, but it just spat me out like a cork. I guess it didn't want me . . .

Truth came to me,
truth loves me 
You were responsible 
for my life,
You are responsible 
for my death.
Oh, yes Ted!

Caressing the 'Ariel', you called me back . .

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.  From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.  One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.  I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.  I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."
~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, Chapter 7.


Sunday 5 June 2011

Yellow letters

Licking the fragile
Old yellow papers
and letters . .

They taste like trust!

Fall Song

By Franz Wright.
He writes beautifully. To read him with sweat and shrieking night . . . he cooled my summers.

Friday 3 June 2011

Childhood Letters

Lost childhood letters
Which I kept in the boxes
Folded and silent . .
I loved and hated a person
In it
Just one day business !

Monday 23 May 2011

Beak and Heart

Read a poem of Poe submitting himself to the Nevermore Raven.

Take the beak out of my heart,
And sing a song . .
A song that is wet as tears
Rude as unanswered goodbye
Black as cloud living in eternal solitude . .

Take the beak out of my flesh !

Sickle moon

Cutting the dark
threads of sky

the sickle moon . .

Wednesday 15 December 2010

Churchgate ♥

Moistureless leaves of sacred fig ,
burning gracefully in amber lamps.

Bustling traffic,
their blinding, swift
window lights !

Impenetrable brown
antiquated buildings . .

Vendors persuading you
to try their scattered wood,
fabrics, headfones, umbrellas,scarfs,
ribboned delicate belly shoes.

One thing I cherish
always and most  -
Moss lining the grey
statues of freedom fighters .
so carefully bred !
Yes , I am talking of
Churchgate ♥

Thursday 2 December 2010


Anticipations, candied ideas
they all were wrong !
all were improper . .

I touched their wrinkles,
for a day,
I carried their affliction
for a night

and now I know,
reality is shrouded ,
is so in dark . . .
what you get is
just infinitesimal ,
Don't draw the whole
picture .

I know ,
you can't !