Only on Sundays

Hidden beneath a pile of laundry like a soiled secret

sunk under a sink full of dirty dishes, a sodden regret

pinned between the grocery lists, some guilt

swept away by the mop and the broom, a bucketful of unfulfilled wishes

sucked in by a vacuum cleaner, all enthusiasm

held down by a pile of files, weighty questions

drowned by different voices, creating cacophony

skulking behind the laptop like a scolded child

sulking underneath the smartphone, a lone desire

lost in the amazon forest of eking a living

life is bruised, battered and bypassed on weekdays;

days that are chockablock with the art of surviving

and then…

a night of languid rediscovery

unrestrained giggles, tousled heads,

teenage tangle of lanky limbs on my bed

brighten my late, lazy morning

as I follow a flitting butterfly,

trace the delicate veins of fallen leaves

inhale deeply the fresh smell of grass

and listen to an old forgotten melody

I feel life unhurriedly seeping back into me

I finally come alive on Sundays

to tackle the days that follow.



I watch the fat raindrops fall

gently they sit there bubble like

on a pool of water

their ephemeral irridescence mesmerising

and then they are gone

as I sit ensconced inside

the warmth of my abode

the transience of raindrops

a case of learning for me;

to shine in the limited time I have.

Forest in Monsoon

The swollen, serpentine stream was in spate

babbling and burbling it moved at a rapid pace

the vibrant, verdant valley with vantage views

was resplendent in efflorescence of myriad hues

a carnival of fragrance blew in the air

the plump, pregnant raindrops plopped without a care

the canopy of leaves feebly pierced by chords of light

the cicadas played a symphony, and all was right.

A rain drenched evening

The skies have opened up suddenly

raindrops are chasing each other unrestrainedly

a cool zephyr redolent with petrichor blows pleasantly

cinereous clouds play catch and trace patterns lazily

a young lanky lad drenched to the skin

lets loose a lambada jig unmindful of his scolding kin

two girls place paper boats delicately in the puddle

a  couple of pups take shelter in a doorway and huddle

it’s a beautiful, picturesque evening

but without you, it has no meaning.


The pitter-patter of rain is music to my ears

The dancing raindrops sing their own melody

The sky is swathed in myriad shades of grey

the scattered clouds chase each other merrily

the trees sway in happiness

the leaves shiver with delight

Oh the heavenly manna

blessing the parched earth!

turning it from dusty brown

to a lively green hue

let it rain, let it pour,

let it drench to the core

let it reign over the heat

let it rain to a staccato beat.

On the edge

Sitting on the edge of twilight zone of consciousness

dangling by gossamer thread of sanity on the verge of slumber

casting random pebbles of words

into the pond of turbid reflections

causing ripples to stir abandoned memories

that had banded together and resisted being written about

and had become tight fisted about confession

I wait an eternity for some response

empty handed and exhausted I stray back to sleep

hypnotized by the darkness of nightmares.