Art, Pen

Conventions in Love

Conventions in love,
don’t exist.

Two can discover
ways untrodden,
and make them their own
if their feet
are happy together.

Like dancing
for the first time
to radio.
Those untidy, sloppy steps,
but as long as
they’ve each other
they’re happy
just to spend
time together
in each other’s arms.

Conventions in love,
they don’t exist.


Art, Pen

Yellow, Blue and White


blogI am not good
with words,
but they are good with me.
This is the last of this kind,
for I’m a bit tired of telling my mind
that realities knock down
the sand-castles that fiction builds.

You gave me a bit of Yellow,
when you walked by me.
But you were traveling,
and with moon guiding the tides,
you left to discover yourself.
Leaving me the open Blue, to reflect on.

Time likes to break your bones,
and fix them every time.
It makes colors fade away,
and intensifies the taste.
It makes us appreciate little things.
So now when it’s all turning White,
I touch, smell and taste
bits of Blues and Yellows still left.
I’ll never be sad that we didn’t happen,
I prefer the colors,
in this specific order.

Art, Pen



What happens when
a roaring wave
meets the silent rock
at the bay?

When a drop of ink
falls into water
dissolving slowly
and loosing existence.

When rain kisses
drought struck land,
and stones are cracked open
by tiny shoots,
reaching for the Sun.

When you meet me,
what happens?


Déjà Vu


The old painting in the glass frame reflected her curious face. I tried not to turn around as she came closer to look at the painting, just behind me.

It was an oil painting of Himalayan evening. The snowy blue peaks were gleaming with swaying pale yellow sunset. Thick strokes showed the painter didn’t care for little details but its very essence.

She waited for me to move to the next painting. I could see her reflection, anxious and restless. She didn’t want to skip to the next painting. She likes routine. She works out daily, I guess. Maybe wakes up early, everyday. How long can she wait for me to finish?

The signature were initials of the painter. He moved from Russia to India around 80 years ago. He settled in a small Himalayan village. Why would he do that? To give up the comforts? Why did Thoreau do it? Why can’t I do it?

She gave a big sigh and moved to the next painting. As she stood to my left, gazing at the other painting – a monk with a yak – she kept giving sneak peaks at the painting I occupied. So obsessed with the habit of discipline, she is too far from her comfort zone.

I stepped back and looked at the girl. She was looking at the painting. I looked at her eyes in the reflection and they were looking at me. I passed by her and looked at other paintings in the room. She quickly moved to that painting. She didn’t smile or cried out of happiness, but she was content. Her house of cards was intact.

The painter died a long time back. And here I am, borrowing his eyes or at least, his vision.

The girl is examining the painting with her right hand rubbing her chin and left hand cracking its fingers. It’s drizzling outside. I must go or I will lose my bus. Before I leave should I tell her that she is beautiful, just like the painting she is looking at?


Bookmarks of Love

Dear flower,
Pluck or not?
You will surely die, if I do.
For my selfishness knows no bound
And possessiveness for beauty
Throws ethics out of the scene.

And I can frame you,
Inside gold plated, carved wood.
Or keep you among the pages
Of my diary.
Where blood has stained
Everything red and black,
Rotten wounds all over.

Can use some yellow.
Can use some smile.

But, will I really be happy?
But, will you truly be mine?

Art, Pen

Why don’t you fall?

One day
Seeds you’ve kept
In the air-tight jar
Will find the moisture,
From your eyes.
And things you
Never wanted to touch
Or smell or feel
Will flash
Again and again

You have an infinite sky
But no ground to land on
You’ve seen them landing
And loosing their wings, with time.

Lukewarm red dot,
Will help the seeds break the jar
And one day cold winds
And sore wings will
Make you crash-land.