Individual Specks of Dust (Sonnet)

What are we, but similar, distinct
Patterns in a platter of the same elements?
Why don’t we see a common conscious hint,
Despite the same fundamental blueprint?

The answers lie in the combinations –
All the attentive atoms which, unsure,
Arranged themselves in fashions
That fate has prepared the plans for.

So, is it fate that distinguishes you from me?
But isn’t fate just chaos and its entities,
And isn’t chaos just a set of unidentifiable, ordered patterns –
Patterns that decide to form you and me from inanimate matter?

As much as we love to ponder over life’s purpose, in tones hushed,
All we are, are egoistic, irrelevant, individual specks of dust.

My Rhyme Crime

This is an article I had written for a friend, philosopher and guide, Amit Misra (sir), on his request, by which I must admit, I was quite humbled.

Check out his blog – a treasure-chest of well-written posts – Pradyot, here.

The article is a confession of a crime! That’s all.


Guest article by Geet George


To start this confession, I spent hours trying to come up with a good statement which would be able to help me describe poetry in its complete essence. Unfortunately, words were not of much help to me here. Only the experience of reading a well written poetry and the emotions it stirs up in you can convey what I wish to say.

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Sky, Goodbye…

The way we are selfishly depleting resources in the name of development, with complete indifference to mankind’s future – this poem on an apocalyptic situation, requires very little help of the imagination. 

Every rain cloud is another belief
To be downtrodden by nightfall,
Not a morsel goes in without reminding
The misery that this may be the last of all

Every grim face at my dinner table
Takes the same question to bed,
“The way that it is being forecast,
What if, come ‘morrow, I’m not fed?”

The fields look modest and moan
For what seems like elixir now,
But was truly life’s safest cradle,
That suddenly we decided to do without.

The skies seldom seem to say sorry;
They enjoy this backfired vendetta’s glow
Amidst the darkness that’s now mankind,
Their ex bosom-traveller and now prime foe.

Yours Is What Was Mine

Most of us write poems to vent our feelings in some manner, but they sometimes don’t give us the needed refuge from despair. These pieces of ourselves, however, often take the role of a shoulder on which others weep out their burden. 

The artist wields her pen, no doubt,
In a bid to make herself better –
But literary sculptures seek out
Similar suffering souls to shelter.

These clouds that seem to drift away
In truth, only leave her high and dry.
Embodied feelings thus go astray;
They rain down elsewhere, where others cry.


Lost, is Love on Them

Crying out to my “loved ones”,
To hear out my desperate plea once –
A prayer to let us live with love,
But all I see is that, from here above,
They can’t hear what love is.

How much longer should I expect
To wait for days you won’t reject
My idea of spending life’s moments
Amidst gifted family and friends fervent?
Can’t you see what love is?

A slight mention of the possibility
Of committing my cultivated fidelity,
To a soul they haven’t themselves sculpted,
Tells me that despite all the education fed,
They don’t care what love is.

Standing at the gates of acceptance,
Dreaming of a united existence.
It’s been ages waiting for change.
Let’s start walking back, love,
They just don’t love what love is.


My Side of the Promise (Sonnet)

Twinkles Above, Raw Within (Sonnet)

Six days of industrious service
To justify the six figure returns
Have vacuumed out enough energy
To disallow any worldly concerns.

Tonight, the heavy, hustling highway
Seems to retreat to its plushy cushions –
But, as the fading dusk paints a soothing hue,
Let me share, love, what I wish to experience.

Our mother star has ceded the reins
To the partly veiled disc of white.
Distant relatives of the mother keep
Company to this mirror in the sky.

Come, my hope, let us lie beneath these empyrean beings,
Souls bare, bodies raw and our mortal minds dreaming.


A Call Answered (Micro-Fiction)

That evening, she had resorted to an old friend for company. Her friend wore the colour of sparkling gold – alacritous bubbles effervescing within her – and lay in a glass with a long stem and a slim bowl. Somehow, unlike always, her friend couldn’t comfort her. Instead, her mind seemed to go into unrest with the painful reminder that even though her feelings were being understood by millions through her book, she was still lonely. The see through French windows in her house allowed her the sight of her garden, which invited her outside to drown these destructive feelings of hers. She relented to the invitation. A long walk and six steps in the warmth of the farewell bidding sun helped clear her mind. Given time, sand settles in water and the solution becomes clear to the eyes. Thoughts worked the same way with her sobriety vanquisher, and she felt able enough to make a decision. Her recent intakes also gifted her courage. She released her constant company from the confines of her pocket and dialed a number so etched into her memory, she hadn’t bothered to save it. Her Bluetooth earpiece crackled to life with a couple of beeps and then poured into her ears an unfamiliar song, which sounded like a melancholic melody with vocals that wanted to bury a resurfacing pain. Just as the song touched a higher note to vent out greater despair, the call was answered. Her hands went numb as the magnitude of the situation sunk in. The earpiece stayed silent… For a while!


The maps of his project and their rendering had been the latest occupants of his weary mind. He wished to think of things more relaxing, but being a project-in-charge meant giving up on certain luxuries like sustained peace of mind. He was glad to get home and wanted to feel happy to be back with his wife, but some long gone feeling was being a roadblock to it. He craved for a hug of understanding, and right now it wouldn’t suffice to just be with a faithful, dutiful, beautiful partner. He looked into her eyes and searched for a sense of compassion, but in vain. He did receive a smile though, that meant to say that the eyes complementing the smile were delighted to see him back and that tea was waiting for him. Before he could say yes to the tea, a five-inch-diagonal rectangle lit up within his pocket and Carl Orff’s complaint to lady luck began ringing with an increasing volume. He brought out the source of the sound into his hands and looked at the screen. The number displayed on the screen was way more than just familiar. It had the face of compassion. It promised what he hungered for – understanding. He looked at his wife with eyes that mixed confusion with surprise, and then walked determinedly to the verandah, with the lit rectangle in his hand. He swiped his finger over the screen and the ringing stopped. When he brought the speaker end to his ear, the rectangle was no more lit. He waited for the speaker to gift that unforgotten voice to his thirsty ears, but it stayed silent… For a while!


(I had written this long back and I admit to this being a mediocre, lacklustre piece. I really could have done better. This was just an attempt to push through my old nemesis – the writer’s block!)