Even silence, was once a noise
Forced to seal its mouth
With a duct tape
For screams should be stifled
Stuffed down…
Down your throat
Deep in, and walled.
Your arms are like waves
That leave me inundated –
I often forget how seaweeds have no place
To breathe
On the surface, where everything looks perfect
Like manicured nails on Sunday brunch
With twenty odd faces and fatuous smiles –
I’ve never been more lonely
In a crowd.

I dream of quiet afternoons and a dozen tales
Where I am shuffling in the background
As a mirage to unseeing eyes
And mine, looked on, and on
When this sky above our head changes shades
I wonder if you look away
I wonder if you still make
A home out of your unspoken questions
Or you pile them in a dark room
To evade.

Love, I look for you
In every broken frame,
Every unfulfilled wish
Every Autumn sky
I look for you
In every fragment of

2 March 2018




How do I love myself? –
A draggled mess of rotting flesh
Gift-wrapped in a pretty package
Of plastered smiles and frayed dreams
And absurdities –
I have measured my highs
In varied stages of ecstasy
And one of them even made me believe
That my indifference is leading a double life
Torn between

My 2 A.M. self and 6 P.M. beliefs
When my skin changes colour,
Like dull Autumn leaves
No Spring or Summer could be
An Antidote
Or Elixir.

What would you know?
Of violence painted as battle scars
Of monosyllables cloaking my S.O.S
Like a magic trick…
And tomorrow
I won’t look at my hands and wonder
Why my fists weren’t firm enough
To hold back the vestiges
Of our meaningless sighs.

18 February 2018



For every utterance
Would raise a smoke
And I, emaciated from the lack of
Would slowly creep into the furnace
To find my home.

I have cold feet from nightmares
Where I’m falling into an abyss
Of your seduction, your words moisten
My inner thighs –
I’ve stopped looking for distorted mirrors
In the eyes of strangers
Who force my nonchalance
Into tight-fitting clothes
And put me up for show.

I rise in smoke –
An oxymoron.
For in this deafening silence,
We are alone together, tracing outlines
Of our nameless failures
Packed in little boxes with felt pen labels –

We have climbed into the box,
To feel its teeth, sink into our flesh
Tearing us apart,
One memory at a time –

We have toyed with the idea
Of combusting
Our petty narratives
To smoke.

4 February 2018



There was a girl who wanted
A ticket to the stars.
With a galaxy in her lungs, and peppermint eyes
She rummaged through dumpsters
Of ashen faces that spoke a bunch of decayed lies.
And on certain nights, she let out
A strangled cry.

She played with marbles,
And wholesome words
For which she apologized –
There was a girl with creepers of clichés,
And an obsessive need to spell her name
In case you missed the ‘Y’.
Her kisses tasted like echoes
And question marks from quoted lines.

Along the edge of a spider’s web
In an aquarium full of fireflies,
She smoked her lover’s cryptic words
Soaked, in a vat of contradictions.

We’re receding…receding…
To lilac Springs
In Technicolor,
And paper cranes
With broken wings.

28 December 2017


image courtesy: Sourav Chakraborty (

A Farewell Note

A Farewell Note

No, I don’t think of you anymore.
My memories have turned into pulp,
In a clogged sink of broken smiles and practical solutions
That I clean out everyday so that
My whimsical fancies can still flow

My kitchen counter is a diary
Of songs I stopped singing midway
And tears I couldn’t hold back –
I still cry on some days, in this city that feels like
The arms of a new paramour
With some vestiges of the cologne you wore on the last day
We made love.

Each time I rewind my memories,
They become a little rusted
A little faded
A little tattered on the edges;
I remember how you scorned at sentimentality.
I still listen to your songs on some days
And try to sing my own
But I can hardly identify my voice anymore.

I left a part of me with you on the last day we met
And maybe, it still haunts my favourite bookstores and cafés.
I’m not returning to you, not now
Not ever…
And even if I do
I’ll be your déja vu
You wouldn’t know where to place…

24 December 2017

Three P.M.

Three P.M.


Smoke –
Against your throat –
Creases, and an obscure
Curvature, juxtaposed –
A punch of
Citrus and cherries;
I buried my nose –
Your lips, promising no eternities
With your mouth, sucking my rationale
Right out of my throat;
My lust, dripping lazily
Between my thighs
Right up to my toes.

Your wall, a billboard
Of lives you want to lead
Of lies you want to believe;
A few more puffs and swings
A little more
Inebriated and crazed,
Leaving, a bitter taste in my mouth that
Made your tongue taste
A little less
Of cigarettes and regrets.


If my half-stringed sentences made sense,
You, my love, would see right through
My blunt ends, impersonating a double-edged sword –
I have played Russian Roulette this one time and it has
Stuck on to me, like an addiction,
Like I have been addicted to my memories,
Fast-forwarding them to the point that they have
Corroded beyond recognition.

When we exchange words, is it more like
A monetary transaction? –
Your utterances, carefully rehearsed,
Convey stilted facts in the garb of honest musings
While I so naïvely, rambled, along this unequal barter –
I bartered away my –

I have lost count, really.


Our bodies heaved, and fell
Never, in sync
But, in rhythm
When I suppressed my moans, it was only to let my body
Dwell in its ecstasies –
(As if perfumes have stayed loyal to the glass bottles
That had them encased.)

With a cigarette dangling from the
Cistern of an unused mouth, I
Crave for your stories from when you were a boy
With a heartbreak you tried so hard to make sense of,
You sewed it on your sleeves –
The carcass of a failed experiment.

I have trust issues from the day I saw my mirror lie to me.



1 November 2017


Picture Courtesy – tina-modotti-black-white-photography



Autumn was crammed carelessly
On the shelf of Transition
Where she sat, uncomfortably,
Between hurts and healing.


There is barely enough leg space
On the days I want climb up the shelf
And look down at the world below;
Humans appear less condescending,
Less selfish,
Less ignorant.
They usually do not.

Between Summers and Winters,
I was Autumn –
A phase.
My transient words sound like lies,
Once mixed with spirits.
So I pour it back and fasten the cork –
I am inebriation,
Wrapped in innocent banter.

Autumn was a paramour
Dangling from wires of
Maybes and probablys…

…Hoping its crimson
Would mean something

8 October 2017