4 am


He wasn’t among those who drunk called me at 4 am asking me to keep waiting for their horses to arrive at my doorstep someday when it rains. He madly asked to me to ride his at night and walked out of my world every 4 am. And believe me every night before 4 am, it rained.

Lust is a faggot draped in shimmery empty wine bottles, still longing for you at my doorstep. Asking the doors to tease you a little and drag you to the window where we used to be, at 4 am.

Love stays, and not lust they say. But my desire has lifted up to the levels, where if love couldn’t make you stay, I’ll make sure lust does.

4 am isn’t a story, it’s a raw script of the play both of us are playing with. A story has to end, but we can playfully play with our play.

You shall not be allowed at my front door, but you can peep in and enter from the back. I’ll welcome each flavor of you all the 69 times. But 4 am has to stop taking you away from all wet desires that are met.

On our last ride, your phone beeped divorce at 4 am.
Lust couldn’t watch you leave. I pity her love.
But it surely could greet you in a decent colored lipstick and ask you to stop your watch at a minute less than 4 am.



A table for two.


A table for two.
Two chairs, me and you.
You’re dressed in black,
I am too.
Yours is a little darker
than I can tell you.
Life takes turns
you can take one too.
But as soon as you do,
The rose instead of red, turned blue.
And time turns cold
covers itself in a blanket, new.
The next time I turn back to you,
there is no table for two.



22708699_986353951514427_3621094877242064896_nWe’re all stuck. Stuck into a large web of our thoughts, desires, dreams, duties and the affection that is showered upon us. Most of our actions in a day, depend upon the factors that hold the web for us.

When I look around, I find my hands clutched up with the hands that held me ever since I was born. My lover kept holding the hair he loved to run his fingers through. Ambitions, inviting me to sip some determination and start walking through. My waist asking me to tighten up my waistband and look a bit thinner than I usually do. All the neighbours and those who have always liked to be a part of the puppet show I be presented in, were far holding the web tight for me. And as soon as I lean forward to reach out to some hope that could mattress my heart’s everlasting sleep, the web gives up. It gives up on me and my abilities. The fingers that held the web were all facing at me, pointing at the poor performance of the puppet. Giggles, nods and disapprovals are thrown up at me like rotten tomatoes and eggs. Oh! one of them hit me harder in the eye, and my heart growled at the throng.

But, Do you know what kept me holding on?

It was the fact that now, I was free. I set myself free from the web that everybody else was stuck in. I rushed towards the dreams that called out my name to the loudest of their throats.

And ever since then, I was free.



I think you should stop. Stop chasing me with your fingertips over the keyboard. Stop tracing your pen over pages white and yellow, over leaves, pebbles, desks and what not. You drive everybody around you crazy by spilling your heart over long texts, emails and secret messages on blogs. Why do you love me so much? What have I even lent to you? I myself haven’t felt this importance of my existence with anybody else in the world. I have always been around people, folded in pages kept in unkempt bookshelves that speak of love and loved ones. But why do you help me reside in whatever you please?

You run behind the beauty of my combinations and dress me up with your innocence.

Be it a lamp post or the vast field that takes your breath away, you scream me out to your journals to describe them. Trust me, I’ve witnessed you cry more than your mother has and watched you love, more than your lovers. I am the blood running right through your heart, right through your brain and into your dreamy retinas. I am the dream you’ve seen a hundred times a minute in the day and a thousand times in a single dream.

And one fine day I will be the one to recite your dream to the world. I promise, I’ll stay.

Yours faithfully,

26 Alphabets.

Call without a goodbye.

You cut the call without a goodbye. She grabs your collar and pushes her lips against yours. You lose the grip and the phone fell. You touch her in places you’ve touched me too. Your beard tickles her neck. Your eyes merely lying to her about love, or were they lying to me I know not. She forgets about her mom calling and you forget that you were in a parking lot.

Boundaries are made over the land, but an ocean is always free. Free to invade into the lands of a stranger. The phone finds its fate crushed beneath the stilettos of your stranger, but grabs least attention from you. You unbutton her pants and steal her privacies, she lets you. She’s losing herself into the backseat of your car, not knowing the front seat she would never get.

I woke up from the nap I took right after I hung up the call without a goodbye.

Walked myself to the laundry, and helped the clothes into the machine. Your shirt, it came to my notice was the one I saw her unbuttoning on you and smiled foolishly about having a horrible dream, about my husband. The shirt, as I dumped into the machine crumpled itself and showed up a lipstick mark on its collar which passed out a grin to my brows and my hands fell cold.



On Happiness.

Happiness is a street full of people watching you sip your perfect lemonade in a balcony you fit yourself perfectly in. A mansion has always made a mind vulnerable. I am the lemonade the fits into the hands of a wanderer who envisions himself of opening the door of perception to people dreaming with their eyes closed. Lemonade, because I prefer not extending my hands to things beyond reach. Coffee is expensive.



I have known not a word which is said more than it is unsaid. What made me say this, remains unsaid too. Introduce yourself to some of the words I say in a next few lines and think of a place, when your heart ran cold before saying these and your throat too must have stopped.

‘I miss you.’

‘I love you’

‘It is paining’

‘Don’t leave’

‘I cannot see you cry.’

And some more-

‘I lied.’

‘I was waiting for you.’

‘I am angry/upset/worried.’

‘I saw you cry.’

‘I know you’re hurt.’

What you say instead gets more interesting. Interesting, because the words you utter to replace the words that actually stood at the tip of your tongue, convey the entirely opposite meaning of what you really wanted to say.

‘I don’t care.’

‘Don’t bother’

‘It is okay.’

‘Never mind’

‘I am fine.’

You try comforting your tears with napkins that grow pale as you blow your grief into them. Your tongue turns a villain to the people you love. Everything in front of you rusts. You wait for the knives to grow old and blunt. Blunt enough that you forget about them at all.

The ones who never knew about you, will never know. Because I have known not a word which is said more than it is unsaid.




‘No, I haven’t known you since ages. You’re not the uncle who is next of kin, or a man I’ve forgotten the face of. Then why did you wipe the packet of chips clean, the one that was dipped in dust?  No retailer does that. Who would bother a layer of dust over a packet lent to a child who does not remember the last time he touched soap and water?’

The packet shone brighter, it glared me in my eye. I myself did not know if I was happy, watching it clean itself in front of me. It raised the insecurities in me, I’d rather had it covered with dust. I’d rather love it the way it has always been.

I smiled at the young man, and walked away. My footsteps, leaving some dust over his floor. To which he surely must have smiled back.


A night at nine.

I’ll stop by your doorstep, every night at nine;

And tell you about my love, and that you were mine.

Let me drag you to walls, push your lips against mine;

And let me stop by your doorstep, every night at nine.

Tracing your body, walking to the bedroom;

returning back to dine.

I’ll let your comforts,

turn back on, every night at nine.

Let us forget the words, and let our bodies rhyme

to the rhythm of our hearts, at a night at nine.

We’ll stack our pictures;

in a row and in a line

falling for each other, every night at nine.

Be the grape that topples over me,

I promise I’ll be your wine,

Allow me at your doorstep, another night at nine?