And so says a scribbler…

Called my heart for poetry
And soul for some rhyme
My tympanum craved to palpate
With a lyric as nonchalant as a wind chime.
Peered I into the kirkyard of emotions
To water the pips of words
To see the boughs of rhythm growing
And rejoice under the canopy of my orchards.
Caressing an unsullied sheet of paper
I blotted a point of ink
Marking the cradle of the lilting ocean
I was set about to sink.
But my wrist refused to move an inch
My mind thronged with fear
My heart throbbed like none other day
’twas a feeling so queer !
‘What am I writing for?
Who is going to read ?
Are my words that worthy
For somebody to pay heed?
Can they win me laurels
Or fill me with pride
That my words suffuse in people’s hearts
And act as their guide?
Can my blithe locutions make them smile
Or my woeful ones make them bleed?’
This dubiety about my rhetoric
Spread its malicious roots like a weed.
Loosened the grip on the pen
Forfeited I to fright
Slamming the door on that itch’s face
I began dodging to write.
Crumpling the immaculate sheets
I hurled them into the bin
I shut off from the world of vocables
To my utter chagrin.
Daily chores didn’t tarry much
Desolation had begun to choke
Draped in the uncanny robe of monotony
Mirth I couldn’t invoke.
A hollowness gnawed at me
I was a body sans soul
A mind plodding towards
Quite a murky goal.
Till one dingy day
When I could try no more
My skin sensed being etherized
And appeasement my soul did deplore .
Smoothening a creased paper
I sat down to pen
To heal my diseased being
And not to make others ken.
I wrote to transcend my limitations
Not to win a heart
Just to nullify my sorrows
And bludgeon them to depart.
I wrote and wrote for hours
Puking a hundred words
They bickered like the bubbly brook
And chuckled like the chirpy birds.
I found the coveted therapy
And believed I must write
To wing my emotions and set them free
To let them rejoice the respite.
I just scratched the edges of my heart
With a supple scraper
I didn’t intend to adorn or distort them
So just filmed it on the paper.
Neither did I rack my mind
For better phrases or such worries
Nor did I drop minutes
In search of literary jewelries.
I flowed with the tides
Of spontaneity and brevity
I wrote until my heart declared
An official state of tranquility.
I stopped writing for people
I started scribbling for me
To stoke my pusillanimous heart
And make it feel glee.
But people happened to read them out
And their hearts did tally
Tears did well up on my agonizing words
A grin did show up on the report of a doting ally.
And the ones which I wrote
To keep me going
They said it fueled their passion too
And forever kept them flowing.
Each time they cried
Or smiled on my poem
Medals jingled around my neck
Adding one more drop of aplomb.
I devoted my lines to people
As a panacea to set them free
But I no more aspired to write for them
I chose to write only for me
I only chose to write for me !!

Battling Gloomy Days

On certain low and gloomy days,
Pain is all you see,
Dismay seems to weigh you down,
In none you find glee.
The souls with whom you’ve mingled well,
Brutally make you bleed,
The ones for whose joy you endeavoured,
Grudge the moment you succeed.
You toil relentlessly for days,
But diligence doesn’t pay off,
To cope with impending failures,
You find it really tough.
Stories of love and conquests,
Hit your sore heart hard,
Weapons of agony clad in insouciance,
Callously leave you scarred.
Then your credence putrefies,
Ludicrous theories meddle with your mind,
Scuffling in the abyss of helplessness,
You blame God to be behind .
That ‘it’s God’s way of penalizing me’,
You lament the same and wail,
Giving in your gifted prowess,
You accept, you are born to fail.
But you aren’t born to win either,
You are born to live,
Putting all your bids in a strainer,
Only triumph you can’t sieve.
And God isn’t so cruel,
He is not so shrewd,
He can’t see his children suffer,
Or be the reason they brood .
It’s in time of these trials,
God scrutinizes your store,
For he knows you need some power,
So he gauges how much more.
This life isn’t to mourn ,
And by heart you must know,
Those who you envy aren’t destiny’s kins,
And you are not it’s foe.
Your tunnel might be darker,
Rugged might be the path you stride,
But light does eagerly halt there,
Where you ought to end your ride.
If things don’t come out as you wish,
With angst don’t go mad,
Gulping the entire barrel of pessimism,
Don’t feel happy to be sad.
This chapter doesn’t interest you,
The next might be engrossing,
If you don’t have the zest to turn,
How will you see what life’s disclosing .
For once you put your hand on heart,
Find pleasure in your pain,
Woes will always keep you scourging,
No matter what you gain.
In this enigmatic journey of yours,
Marked by uncertain ends,
With vigour, faith and endurance you march,
And see how time makes all amends.

The Ambrosial Incense


The effusion of balsamic cologne
Followed by coalescence in her frame
Sets up an enthralling biotic constitution
With no qualms, entirely mine I can claim.
As a sanguine sky marks the onset of day
Her luxuriant hair meanders with grace
Revivified by the morning shower , the scent permeates
Caressing my hypnotic senses, the alluring ribbon of sleep it does unlace.
The residual whiff after her departure,
Gyrates and my languor it mars,
A million neurons get plucked,
My soul prances to the tune of a thousand organic sitars.
The mystically tempting extramundane fragrance,
Quite astutely sensitizes me,
Nullifying the venomous roots of dejection,
It strews in me the pips of glee.
The looming of the mollifying aroma,
Appeases my restive heart,
Garbing me in robes of hope,
Bludgeons sorrows to soon depart.
My wallet that often inhabits her wardrobe,
Clasps the scent in its miniscule arms,
A maudlin comradeship in peregrinations,
Deluding her presence it simply charms.
The concoction of balsamic odour and sudor,
Gives off a ritualistic smell,
A harbinger of time to recline,
It reinvigorates my every cell.
Since the day my nose acquired prowess,
It has been dexterous in cognizing the scent,
Epitomizing supreme maternal concord,
It’s healing impact none can supplement.
Twas a humble promulgation of my mother’s redolence,
Which never fails to enrapture me,
Suffusing endearment, warmth and affinity,
A sniff is as rhapsodic as nothing can ever be.

A Cloak and Dagger Junction

According a report by WHO:

  • Mental health conditions account for 16% of the global burden of disease and injury in people aged 10–19 years.
  • Half of all mental health conditions start by 14 years of age but most cases are undetected and untreated (1).
  • Globally, depression is one of the leading causes of illness and disability among adolescents.
  • Suicide is the third leading cause of death in 15-19-year-olds.

Teen age (13-19) is an extremely crucial period of human life. This is the time of surprising transformation of the mind and body. Teenagers usually baffle their well wishers by a sudden change in behavioral patterns and decision making. While adults get agitated and anxious , trying to whip teenagers back to track, it is equally important to address their mental state, to counsel them and help them out. It is because, despite unusual and often the incorrect steps, they have subtle realisations but the hormonal surge and the irresistible impulse overpowers them. Owing to this they continuously scuffle with themselves.


Standing at an enigmatic confluence today,
I’m a chaperone to a bloody tussle,
A tussle between me and myself,
A tussle set to wrest me apart,
A tussle that throbs the core of my heart,
A tussle whose sequel shall festoon my tomorrow.
An uncanny cacophony clogs my mind,
My flesh reeks of rebellion,
My diaphragm feels a ceaseless thrust,
And tranquility with vehemence is pushed behind.
What were sacred dogmas yesterday,
Seem annoyingly didactic today,
Even I am bemused,
For the warm embrace cladding me in robes of security,
Today feels like the cruel clench of treacherous claws.
Barbs of eerie perceptions,
Urticate my tender tissues.
There is an urgent call to be blasphemous,
Especially to my partisan’s counsels,
Counsels which once were mottos of my life,
Counsels which were the embers of rectitude in me.
From a sanctimonious world,
Where I bragged of probity,
Now there is an exigency to step out,
To step out and enter an erroneous world.
The ingress, though I know ,
Would ensue delinquency,
I am not enough brawny to liquidate the impulse,
The Herculean impulse mangles my righteousness,
And tactfully inoculates me with provocation,
I can endure emphysema,
But not the urge to smoke,
I cannot give up the itch to sip in booze,
Rather be ready to endeavor a choke.
A bacchanalian grin pacifies,
A precipitous heart ,
Despite its ugly radiance,
The inceptive descent of sensuality,
Feels like the first touch of spring,
A voluptuous body illegitimately defines,
Love in my theseraus,
The heightened libido has a semblance to the restless waves,
The restless waves of a full moon night.
My heart and mind have got into a brawl,
To decide whether I am a callow or precocious,
But I feel , I feel as if I am prodigal,
Yes, prodigal dejectedly transformed from a prodigy,
I have voluntarily shoved aside,
The colossal barrel of nectar,
And I am struggling to gulp down the bitter poison,
I know its bitter but can’t resist the incitement,
The stench of a pernicious tomorrow,
Stimulates my olfactory lobes,
Though my previous sanctimonious world,
Extends its hands, ready to take me back,
I am woefully panglossian about the world I thrive in,
But I know, the synapse I stand today,
Can’t bear me for long,
It’ll soon chuck me out,
For there are other trippers too.
I have to fabricate an abode,
An abode entitled to shelter me,
Shelter me when the junction will do away,
Lest I shall prepare to putrefy in a chasm,
A menacing, perilous chasm.

The Abyss


Too deep to see, yet too shallow to reach,
Dark a place it is, for it is the conglomeration of a thousand colours,
It is the provenance of emotions and serves to be the graveyard too,
It is a mighty abyss,
Getting out of it is a knack of a few,
It’s none but another you within you.
It grows inside you,
As you grow each day,
Braving all odds and the dismay you face.
Everytime you get maimed by the contusions,
It gets immunized by those,
Every time you drink the potion of wounds,
It gets adorned by the scars,
And ironically it gets so narcissistic about its lousiness,
That it becomes unvanquishable,
For it loses the fear to lose,
And it overpowers you,
It is a mighty abyss,
It’s none but another you within you.
It creates tornadoes within you,
Pulling your credence on your own into a vortex,
It churns it into a million pieces,
It cuts you into a thousand slices,
You stand as a mere taxidermal being,
Still bleeding profusely from within.
It is a mighty abyss,
Getting out of it is a knack of a few,
It is none but another you within you.
The wrath of its storm doesn’t put your soul to rest,
Your blood boils with ferocious gurgling,
Everything seems unfair,
From a panglossian you become a doubting Thomas,
And then emerges a rebellious you,
Even in conflict with yourself,
It is a mighty abyss,
None, but another you within you.
It will cryptically turn self love to arrogance,
Very tactfully dilute life’s fragrance,
It’ll Mar the trust that will born inside you,
It will make the love succumb that fights to grow in you,
It is a mighty abyss , you know,
Getting out of it is a knack of a few,
It’s none but another you within you .
But one of the few can be you,
For you are its chaperone,
You can rise above it , if you follow a cue.
Love for it is poison,
Passion for it is delusion.
Faith for it is infidelity,
And optimism mangles it’s identity.
Make sure you gulp a drop of each,
Without fail for days as I teach,
You will fill the abyss with the stories of your conquest,
anhiliating the other you
And putting its soul eternally to rest.

The Pauper’s Patronage

From a childhood scourged by the atrocities of
Paucity,
I could carry none but grumpiness with me into,
Adulthood,
My soul, failing to comply with the impending servitude,
Nudged to cross the threshold of my miniscule abode,
Just when I was about to consummate marriage.
So there was I, a destitute,
But obstinate enough, not to be a
Vagrant,
Since forfeiture dared not touch me,
‘twas hard to pacify my gurgling stomach
And entwining intestine.
Within weeks my tenacious mind was cajoled,
Cajoled so tactfully that I was permissible to
Rent my womb.
Reminiscences are fresh,
How I as a scrawny, famished girl
Lay on the hospital bed,
My heart emanating fortitude and preparedness,
To feed life into a body
How the ecstatic anticipation of ,
Seeing a life come out of me,
Erased the inconsolable tales from ,
The previous pages of my book.
How I braved labor,
Like a mighty soldier,
And how before opening my worn out eyes to console,
The crying baby,
It was handed over to its legal parents,
IT, because I never got an opportunity,
To know,
To know if it was he or she,
To cuddle it in my arms,
To feel its tiny fingers clasping mine,
To sing my lullabies to it.
The severing of ties with a being,
I was never attached to,
Tightened my muscles, my veins throbbed,
My heart galloped.
At the centre of an emotional vortex,
I grappled,
Grappled until my impetuous mind,
Gave in to another such struggle,
Partly to cope with the agony and,
Partly to experience the transient pleasure again.
Suddenly my supercilious soul became,
A slave of my scruples.
I got enticed into a labyrinth,
Where I still scuffle with myself.
Scuffle each time I see,
My uterus stop weeping,
Prophesying the emergence of new life,
Scuffle each time I fail to relish,
The nuances of the life that comes out of me,
Scuffle each time I handle the bundle of joy to others,
I am in dire need of,
Scuffle each time I feel like a sculptor,
Never acknowledged.
The clattering of weapons of my ,
Ethical conflict,
Distorts my peace,
As if my existence gets questioned in an audacious tone,
As if a wild beast runs inside me,
As if I am the keeper of an orchard,
Whose fruits I’m not destined to taste.
Nevertheless, I don’t let the clay pan of hope,
Left in me to dry,
Envisaging a fruit of my orchard,
To quench my abiding thirst with the residual drops,
Of its juice.

Gauging Virtues

In the famous Indian epic Ramayana, Ram , Lakshman and Sita are the most sought after characters . But Sita’s sister , Urmila , inspite of her selfless decision and projection of immense maturity is not often discussed. Urmila obeyed her husband , Lakshmana , and stayed back in Ayodhya to look after her in laws while Ram, Sita and Lakshmana set out on their venture . (Vanavasa) (living life in the forest). To help Lakshmana maintain a flawless stint of service towards Ram and Sita, Urmila accepted without a second thought ,Nidra Devi’s proposal of shouldering Lakshmana’s share of sleep for 14 years. Later on this proved to be a weapon in the killing of Meghnad (the son of Ravan) ,who had got a boon that only a man devoid of sleep for 14 years could kill him . Thus Lakshmana did the job. Though not much celebrated, Urmila’s contribution cannot be forgotten.

Her pious robe tainted the green forest,
In sacred shades of saffron,
Blobs of blood from her tender feet,
Toned the sods sanguine as she moved on.
Her chaste tears cleansed her face,
Sheathing it from the dust descending to kiss her,
Encased by flames of rectitude,
She tactfully distanced malevolence from her.
So bewitched was Ayodhya’s kingdom ,
In sati Sita’s probity,
Failed it to hoard some glory,
For a divine effigy of nobility.
But endeavour I today,
To explicate the deeds of Urmila,
Yes, Sita’s younger sibling,
The princess of Mithila.
The wood that charred into cinder,
To stoke Sita’s blaze heaving in air,
The noble hands that unclogged the thorny path,
Enabling Sita to disgorge a valiant flair.
Her body rested in a sumptuous palace,
Adorned like a charismatic queen,
Her contused soul dangled in the woods,
The lesions hardly could be seen.
The tedious span seemed never ending,
The unendurable wait soaked her votive tears,
A day resembled an era,
She put up with it for fourteen years.
She adhered to Lakshmana’s words,
Slugged her sorrows, took in-laws under care,
Albeit Sita had her share of struggles,
She had Ram to share.
What if Urmila had turned down ,
Nidra Devi’s proposal?
Could Lakshmana have vanquished Meghnad,
Had she taken the proffer for perusal?
A paradigm of self immolation,
Not of body but of soul,
Urmila was the covert carpet,
Ram Sita trudged on towards their goal.
An unsung heroine in India’s epic,
India’s sleeping beauty,
Beauty with a heart of diamond,
An undeterred upholder of duty.
That renunciation is not the emblem of sacrifice,
She is an allegory of that,
Pages of history owe her a lot,
She awaits the golden feather to be tucked in her hat.

Beyond the flawless skin !

As I  gaze at the glaring glass of mirror,
The fascimile of a  maiden I see,
Wrapped in an immaculate skin she is,
From all blemishes and speckles it’s free.
Her visage conceives all reasons of vanity,
But reflects sheer drabness,
As if her mind is wreaking havoc,
With all the brewing happiness.
Her beautiful eyes look tormented,
Perturbed by the pandemonium in her mind,
She struggles to figure out what it is,
That always pulls her behind.
She pores and pores over the mirror,
And finally looks through the image,
Inside it’s all bruised,
She tries to recall the cause of such an apalling damage.
Not all bruises are gaping now,
Most of them are scars,
But each of it is formidable enough,
Her nonchalance it mars.
For she can reminisce that every day,
When she was mercilessly contused,
She fails to free herself from the claws of fear,
In the trepidation of being abused.
She restricts herself strictly,
To the carapace enveloping her,
She chooses to live with the symphony of the defeaning silence,
Than encountering the inevitable cacophony awaiting her.
For each jarring word had been sharp enough,
To mangle and make her bleed,
She endeavoured to brave them all,
But they crippled her indeed.
The scars appear to conjure up,
And swarm ’round her like bees,
They ram the ifs and buts into her mind,
And bemuse her with ease. ………………………………………….. She is overwrought now,
She brims with exasperation,
Her eyes are a claypan of oozing blood,
And her tears are arsenals  of resolution.
Deranged, she rubs her skin and rubs it hard,
To scrap the scars off them,
Alas! She ends up with read bloats on her skin,
For the scars are deep beyond them.
She becomes motionless  in a moment,
And gazes at the mirror with vulnerable eyes,
She feels overtrodden and conquered,
As if she is her own nemesis in disguise.
She will get one more scar soon,
Can she ever learn to overlook,
Engrossed in the exuberance that the further pages have in store,
Can she forget about the past pages of her book?

Dream or Nightmare ? (Today’s prompt – joke)

At the threshold of adulthood,

my heart saw a flush of pink,

perhaps love was about to commence,

in the ocean of passion I was ready to sink.

There stood a maiden ,

right infront of me,

my eyes rekindled at her sight,

my soul began frollicking in glee.

An immaculate stretch of sun tanned skin,

adorned her feminine flesh,

some curly locks hung loose on face,

she was beauty behind a mesh.

Her golden hair, long staright and smooth,

wagged merrily near her waist,

two eyes blue, disgorged composure,

as if nothing to make haste.

She gave of quite an enthralling scent,

it came in waves, tingled my nose,

within I could feel my fetish bulge,

but couldn’t gather words to disclose.

Stood she like a divine effigy,

as if carved by the master sculptor,

an epitome of resplendence she was,

possibly the master piece of the creator.

Plodded I like a passionate callow,

brimmed with zest towards the damsel,

near I reached, gathered her in my arms,

but my heart skipped foreseeing a hassle.

As I strenuously opened my hypnotic eyes,

I found in my arms but a lifeless fascimile,

” my sister’s barbie scented in her favourite cologne”,

staring at me with a sardonic smile.

The Tale of Tarrying Time

With the burden of a million curses,

she scuffs in an unflagging way,

fondling zillions as she passes,

the aroma of hope she does spray.

What if time complies with us?

What if she ceases to budge ?

What if she gives in to our pleadings?

What if she doesn’t move even if we nudge?

With time sufferings would linger,

tears ceaselessly would wet your face,

that ” time almost heals everything”

would not descend to embrace.

Your wounds wouldn’t metamorphose to scars,

contusions would continue to reek,

pain would mangle you in its grip,

recovery, from none you can seek.

Despair would clad you eternally,

you will find no light at the tunnel’s end,

darkness would compel you to succumb,

no ray of hope would glisten to amend.

The woes of ailing men wouldn’t stop,

they would dangle on their death beds,

time wouldn’t pass rewarding salvation,

making you realise how tarrying time dreads.

Sorrow would prevail for good,

worries would always conjure up,

a wait would end no more,

an ocean would never come of a drop.

Joy wouldn’t replace despondency,

neither well being, malaise,

spring wouldn’t follow winter,

neither clarity , haze.

The crux of life is transience,

perpetuity we can’t endure,

let time slither as she does,

for each agony she’ll leave a cure.