“A Mad Man Who Wasn’t Lost”

A mad man, a worthless shabby man.
This is how people recognize him,
Jeering, throwing stones at him.
Hating on him
As he himself wished that sickness upon him.

Seemingly oblivious to profanities, mockery and brutality,
He personifies damnation…He’s a walking abomination.
[Wearing warm clothes when sun is scorching ball of fire.
Strolling without shoes,tatters-clad,looking like his own ghost.
Talking to himself or his demons or angels he has lost,
He looks like a story book whose words are no more legible.]

For the world he’s a waste, a burden or nothingness;
That should’ve been claimed by the vortex of death.
Then, I saw
There’s more to that nothingness.
The heart drumming inside that lost form isn’t lost.

One day I find him holding a bunch of flowers,
A solemn expression etched on his face.
Walking determinedly to a cemetery, a cemetery?
He marches quickly, steps in & halts before a neatly established grave.
Touches the stone adoringly, mumbles something & puts down the flowers.
Then he sits there & starts talking to that grave.

Feeling my presence, My eyes on him,
He slowly turns his neck & stares at me.
After a moment or eternity he croaks sullenly…
in utterly disarming doomed voice.
“My mother, my mothers lives here…”
A tear kisses his cheek & drowns me in its depth.

“A Child Laborer”

▶An angel with no crime, 

Scarred by circumstances                

Looks like a convicted criminal. 

Prisoner of soul-branding torment, 

The kid shouldering today’s worries,

Throws away hopes of tomorrow;

To lessen the burden of sorrow,

To kill the desires before they kill.  


▶A perpetual cold night of a life,   

That befalls early, gloweringly,  

Weaves a maze of smoke, 

Extacts a blinding… 

benumbing revenge. 

Extracts the life out of body & recedes.  

Leaves a waning silhouette, 

To brave breathing. 


▶What sin has he committed, 

While being cradled by his mother’s womb?    

Why her pauper destiny                   

Gobbled up his approaching life? 

Declared him child of destitution,

Child of labor,child of wages…

Dreamer of few coins & a square meal,

Victim of our spiritual poverty & brutal apathy!!!


Why is this pitless restlessness    

Resonates deep within my being, betraying there resides a wistful fret,  

Reminding viciously that a vital part a blessed link missing,           

Even when It seems I’m still intact? 

Why night is like a python

Coiling itself around me,

Choking my existence slowly, too slowly,

Yet ever so truly so resolutely?     

Why dawn doesn’t look at me with her all too known bright gaze,

Why always a mournful look, a

colourless aching haze awaits? 

What’s with the evening_ not lit with fancy lights, 

Laughter of friends & citylife delights?

Why stories & poetry don’t quite occupy me?

Perhaps Characters & words aren’t enough

To win over the ghosts & whispers lurking & howling somewhere inside me.  

Who’s waging a war within me, with me?

Do all got demons like the ones burdening my soul, 

Turning her into a fugitive in her own abode?

Or is it like I’m a fallen angel 

Who’s forgotten the prayer,

And in rage refused atonement,

renounced his angelic mould.?  

Why sorrow never breaks me or leaves

The dagger remain buried in my heart?

Does it know that I’m already broken

Writhing with lacerating wounds, a rot.?


Who am I to you?

What you doing to me?        

Am I your weakness

That has given you the strength to love?

Or have I made you the prisoner 

Of your own fascination? 

Am I the slow ambush    

rendering all your defences 

Into a mirage?

Or am I being introduced

To an importunate need,  

That’s making my world your throne?

Am I the one pulling you out,

Revealing you for you?

Or am I the one

You want to expose

To an unknown exaltation?  

Am I the one binding you

Within the wraps of madness?

Or am I being enlightened

That how deep is this affinity

Running wild between us?  

Who am I to you?          

What you doing to me?


Not all rainbows are beautiful.

They can flaunt their colours

Yet can’t fathom.

That the rain they showing gratitude to

Was callous to an already crumbling cottage.

Or it’s drained eyes of a farmer_

Whose lush fields were 

Close to reciprocate his love_    

Of all dreams.  

Or it might has rekindled

The flames,

A heart had quelled

After trading the liveliness

Beating its presence there.   

Not all rainbows are beautiful. 

Seven colours of the rainbow

Can’t discern the colour,

Life paints our destiny with.


A moment of solace 

from loneliness,

A moment to steady

My brace,

I write my utopia

It’s got no trace_


Solitude & my muse 

No untended wound,

Simmering voids fastened

Every burn soothed,

Love not unrequited

Promises not breached,

Fidelity held sacred            

All agonies ceased, 

Prickly doubts erased

Foregone trust retrieved_


A moment of solace 

from loneliness,

A moment to steady

My brace,

I wrote my utopia

It’s got no trace…!!