Year ending

What does death gives us, and what do we want from it? Some might say, emptiness and relief. But didn’t realise before yesterday like life, death is also different, and totally unique from each other.

It’s not that I didn’t have death in my family, but when comes to family and loved ones, we are selfish, we are blinded by us, and close every other doors of perspectives. Some may say, some may have to be the timber of family, still will be very one way feelings for death, in family.

But from outside.

Yesterday, I was watching Kingsman, secret service, amusing movie that is! I was laughing out loud with my headphones on, then my mum came and said, one of our neighbour is dead. And I was watching this very amazing movie, and I hated a bit to switch off my laptop. But socialism made me to do it, a bit unwillingly.

There were a gathering, other neighbours, some were sleeping, some were having this lovely dinner. But all came.

The newly widowed neighbour was crying a little less which we Indian traditionally supposed to cry. Which we, neighbours took it other way; “she didn’t love her husband” “not very much hurt about the death” etcetera.

Some were discussing however did he die, some were discussing when for the last time they saw him, what nice little chat they had with him.

The younger son of the dead said not to talk about all this, and thus, “he is rude” we suggested.

We returned home, fall asleep, wake up in the morning, and used our different kind of toothbrush, toothpaste, different kind of breakfast, and tea.

And then this beggar came. Religious stuffs, but not important. Or maybe. I don’t know. He came, waited next to every doorsteps, asked for money, food, For life, in the name of god. Waited next to that family’s doorstep as well, begging for money, food. The 2nd person after the dead, was unaware of death, standing at the doorstep for life.


Not mum, not dad

Get up, you are not supposed to sleep,
Til late.
Get up, you are girl, you must learn
Or your in laws will hate.

My mother, said to me,
“you are a lady now! It’s your day.
You must not wear those clothes anymore..”
Mum, happy parents day.

I saw my poor father, Woking hard.
Saving, for me, setting pace.
“Don’t you think she will look pretty,
Pretty in this necklace?”

My father said to me,
“you are getting married, it’s your day”
I am going away dad,
with unknown, happy parents day.

“you should go back my child,
That’s your home now.
Try to manage, like I did,
Do it somehow.”
“you are always adamant,
I know you”
It’s okay mum, dad.
Happy parent’s day to you.

There was this girl,
I met her, live next door.
Always wore black
And wanted more.
I thought I knew her,
Her smile, and everything,
I thought I saw her,
Mirror, or dream, or the beast inside, living.

She had my number,
“Slut” don’t talk to her,
My husband said.
I was thinking,
I too get laid.

Yes I had this vows, And this symbols.
For this unknown man.
She had wings, and black all over,
Colour she was herself, and no plan.

I called her,
Frightened, said thank you.
“why? I did nothing? Would you please say?”
Black is not dark to me, not anymore, it’s my day.
It’s a knight of the night,
I am a lady, “Le fay”
I see you, from my Window,
Mirage thought, or mirror must say.
I am a human now, thanks to you,
Happy parent’s day.


She wasn’t anyone’s strength, but people keep calling her. The brightest one, optimist one, That little girl. She liked it, of course, who would not like making someone smile! She liked it around people, people who needed her, needed her when they need strength, in pain.
Kept burying her pain, she had the strength to do it. She could keep living, and living, everyday, for a brighter morning, for a fresh after splash morning, and nights.

And the hole of her inside, was getting bigger. Ignorant. Unaware of it, she kept growing, but stayed younger.

Now you might think, one day,  someone will come to hold your hand, but it’s very unlikely, people are people, there are no special kind. Or maybe, but miles away, distance of space, distance of time, and mind.
Who would know that normal looking little girl, who would care, when she is the strength?
But it never matters, never matters until she finds out the hole, and she will never, probably. And if she does, we all, do one day, float like stardust, she will too.
Scatter her hole across the existence for nonexistence, some will get processed, through boxes, mangoes, bricks and dust.
Some, I believe will fly back to the original star.

We all are strength, like that little girl, we are scattered, and built by strength, some has strength to talk, to share, some to live life without care.

After all,  the hole, the pain inside never matters, until you meet someone, who gives you, and the little girl, and mangoes, dust and everything, the strength to scatter through clouds of Dream for a real reality. Reality of everything. And nothingness.


They called me girly,
I love butterflies over gun.
They called me scared,
Early beds and rising sun.

They called me weak,
I prefer talking than kicking arse
They called me adamant,
I kept Gun in my purse.

They called me pirate,
I was watching, they didn’t broadcast.
They called me pervert,
My boyfriends didn’t last.

They called me weird,
I Preferred smiles over pun.
They called me criminal,
Mind you, I’ve a gun.

They called me sexy,
Sometimes I like being nude
They called taxi,
And changed their attitude.

They called me Whore,
I took it as compliment.
But mind you,
I have a gun in my hand.

They called me wanna be,
I walked out of door
My gun, I wish you knew,
Resting somewhere abandoned shore.

Man and wife

He is my man.
Likes watching me,
Wearing his shirt, in his kitchen,

He is my man.
Never let me do any job,
Never liked me inside
An office building.

He is my man.
Doesn’t let me wear short dresses,
Wants to be around me,
When I am drinking.

He is my man.
You probably will hate him
His likes, his me,
And everything.

But he Is my man.
And his white shirts,
I can’t cook, I stain and burn,
Food, his every garment.
“every shirts are now carrying
Your memories darling”

But he is my man.
Likes me roaming in the street.
Because I want to.
Because despite of money,
My heart lies with mercenary,
“I was running for money,
My goal, you are too precious,
Live It, follow everything
But he is my man,
Never let me wear small clothes.
“you will catch cold,
I will take to a sunny land of spring,
Babu please hold”

But he is my man,
When I am drunk,
I want to talk rubbish,
Who in this whole earth will listen,
Like it’s the most important thing,
Like a queen’s speech,
Like a song of last singing bird
But my man?


My day is made,
Need nothing anymore
The sun can rest now,
Night shall open the door.

My day is made,
Need your touch no more.
You can go back now,
Return back to your shore.

My day is made,
The creature of light.
Clock is ticking, they said.
Farewell to night.

My day is made,
I Will live in your memories.
Sun will rise when,
When time will tell stories.


They said he will rise again.
They said he will fight again.
In our greatest needs,
Not when one Kingdom bleeds

Was he the light?
Or he the darkness now?
Our eternal need,
Saving us somehow?

Paperless books, before we permanently go blind,
Is it him, switched off the lights
Greatest king and kind.

Markets, not anymore exist now,
Nor the smell of meats and dirt
Darkness? What else that is,
Evolution or witchcraft?

Sometimes, all go down.
We step out for sunlight.
Sometimes, I sense him
Return of the greatest knight.

Self description

From beginning to end
Content everything.
The man, woman,
Kingdom and the king.

From life to death,
Some read, some sing.
The witches, the birds
Widow and wedding ring.

Vivid some words.
Like ecstasy, travel
Through souls
Some love, some fantasy,
Some crumble.
Fewer than few,
Words, after a long day,
Day of trouble.

From life to nothing,
The theory of everything
Towards another day,
Stood still, “summer’s Day”.

Frozen Farm house

They met, two friends.
One helped another.
To find the path.
They meant together.

They lost each other,
One said, farewell. With tears.
No one looked into the other.

Two friends, and the long land,
Lost now in time.
Lucky one, got flowers,
Other, never ending sounds of crime.

Both, scared, hold tight each other,
And their tiny hands.
Taken over, buried under
Dropping sands.

Two friends.
Both are little sad.
Hates each other? Or the time
Made them little mad.

Human, mostly they are,
Or a little bit not.
Who cared, who they are.
They are more than a lot.

Died for each other.
Til last of the day.

Buried with beats and death.
Pain and longing underneath.
Two friends, endless
The Healer and Mistress.