An arboreal fantasy

We often speak in whispers, in thoughts, in first breaths; these soliloquies have a quality of an ongoing conversation. Sometimes I trace it’s embossed roots, and the humble weeds tie moist anklets round my feet. And if you look closely, it’s tiny leaves seem to be broadcasting codes- memories- they say trees do have them. Maybe it has memories of me- transmitted over light years- over galaxies. It’s first blush bleeds my solitude in the misty sky, and in it’s penumbra- a respite, an escape- from a world, unnerved by tranquillity, I am, I always want to be.

Day’s nothings..II

The kid was shown a flashy bauble today, as he stood on a balcony of a high rise-a posh office building overlooking the ever-so-mesmerising Vashi creek. He has listened to or met many who’d say “That’s how they lure you in”. And from this mess of luxury and cynicism, the eternal unanswered unswerving existential tension a dogmatic question rose its irritable bald shiny head… the overrated do-I-belong-here? And his philosophies on happiness were questioned somehow, so weak can convictions be sometimes. And the irony in that sentiment, probes him, tugs at him either trying to push him more deep in his rose-colored bubble or pulling him out of it, wearing a face of a reality, the one which everyone but him see pitying his innocence.

Day’s nothings…

We’re a rag-tag group of three, contemplating life, women, discovering movies, music, aphorisms, little trivia about ourselves/each other, crazy, boring, hypocritical at times (though we’d hate to agree to it), but close, close enough to laugh at a joke not even cracked, to know one’s mind, get offended for each other, but yet not claim to know the other one inside out. We’re or at least I’m amused when I look back at the time before I met these idiots, and thinking of the time when we’ll be out of college, on our own, of the time when we’ll actually start missing ‘us’, we sink back in these moments,too stubborn to let go of them, suddenly a bit scared of the world. Creating, forging, stealing, plagiarizing each other in our memories, sincerely, adamantly hoping someone somewhere sometime in the nearest future to invent that god-damn time machine.


Past the realm of a superficial clarity- the mundane tangible consciousness, past the effortful rise in an absorbing skylight of a turreted facade or simply a dissolving in- mesmerized- in the warmth and beatitude of an awe-inspiring contemplation or an imagery, lies a promenade, a gallery of sorts- housed lawn, twilight, virgin silence- with huge English windows, out of which these daunting visions, their spasmodic beauty, appear, as effervescent projections. There is a religious urge, a need to register it- sculpting thoughts in a translation, reaching out, garbling words in an attempt to echo these thoughts.

Such, the mind- a delightful vial of an elixir- inexplicably personal, a renegade, a visceral pretention. and in it’s gravity, a deluge of archived obscure memories- erratic and promiscuous. Enthralling déjà vu s, premonitions, assumptions, convictions are what, if not, tricks of this sinister intangible omnificent organ- privileging, fashioning you an identity.


That scent of me,
of us,
my insides churn
to the surge,the heat,
the itch,
the taste of blood,
of mourning, of thought,
the sting sinking in my flesh
like the night, imbued,
the addict of my taste,
slave to my touch,
the heavy sense of him
lying there, breathless,
numb, my darling hashish,
crackling, moaning,
sobbing in ecstasy,
of a revelation,
of our gender.