The platypus of our heart dies blind.
waiting for it, the rrrright find
Gazing across the meadows
where love ballads are popularly spoken
and spring is ever ready to be born
Two
Platypus?
Are you there?

And then f

an uninspirational poem

The thing i seek
that eludes me in
poet's muse
Ranging from a flaming roof
to a lonely shoe

The thing i seek,
a rickety clock
that shudders
till it explodes
and beholds time forever


The thing i seek,
devoured by venus-fly-trap
in the gamet of wisdom
meanings,
so elegantly lost

The thing i seek
resemble rivulets
that once bathed in
nature's youth
but are now cursed of Alzheimer's

The thing i seek
in the whispers
of my words
strays away
like leper's pride

Hospitals are gateway to derangement. They cure less and infest more. Infest-a psychologically disturbing disposition through their the creamy bedsheets that resonate the eerie which one otherwise ignores while entering the big white corridors and spooky white stretchers.



A week in the hospital birthed the following observations:

1. Hospital staff is in dire need of a therapy. A heavy dosage of anti-depressants to begin with. An attitude correction is

shriek, shout, tremor
In a halogen of a world
i bummer

bed time stories

The day glances at me through cracks in the window-implying another start, only of higher purpose this time. The ten-months have potential of a life-long hangover in the tribulations that are to succeed. Bags fall short of experiences and heart falls short of emotions. Transit has always been like this, hasn't it? Through the haze of uncertainty, one yearns for sunshine. Compulsively looking at the wrist watch while waiting for the bus to arrive.

Demolishing our little home, we proceed to another home. Some look back, some choose to walk straight. I look at my bed-the inscrutable testimony to the things i indulged in. A mob of DVDs jostling against the hard-bounds, offering lessons on anarchy; letters spread like squatter on the filthiest corner of the bed, together influencing my character certificate felicitated at the time of departure.

Out of many other things, I chose to write about my bed for it will be missed more than anything else- the length and breadth of my freedom, the literal metaphor of my space. The poetic dreams that it canvassed along with a few complimentary tears. My bed was truly my home and my pillow a guardian, backing me on cloudy days that represented the Chennai sky

I remember my initial initial nights when I felt like an infant forcefully pushed into an 7 ft adult swimming pool.I was exasperating for air in the tense, competent environment of classrooms and sooner I swam through all of it, with a few modest A's in my kitty. But today, i see the waters swirling and sinking fastidiously in the drain. Hitting the abyss, hurts mildly. A comfortable pain that would evade by the time it's reflected upon.

Goodbye,

beachtibbsiitrunsprofsgrouchyroomiesroomgolulibrarycuckoorains

Stream of noon

The nude face of the sky
is thirsty of joy
soaked in yellow
discerning a disease
-of mind or body!?
cringing like an infant
in torpid lap of afternoon
the infant who fondles
her mother's breast
in loose aspirations
for it to milk

tehelka expose, volume I

The placement ghost has followed me to the end of the sea, where there is no escape. No faith, no friend, no father. Each time it stormed I sought shelter in my own arms; like the violinists that stuck to their tunes even when Titanic was neck deep in misery. But things don't seem as bright hereafter.

The repeated bouts of failure have a deeper meaning and purpose than mere foreplay of fate. How else can i explain my blanking out in the interview that was held most righteously. The lady admired my writing but didn't find me convincing enough. unlike others I read that magazine several times a month and subscribe to their ideas but why couldn't I express it? Because I wasn't sure if I am bold enough at this age to write for a magazine known for its razor-sharpness on matters of arts and politics.

The verdict is out. I need to come out of the nebula that breeds in my head. The daunting rounds of self-questioning on my writing style and area of interest. Most importantly lack of schooling. Perhaps one year was too short to justify my derailment from the career-building path. Ogilvy sacrifice is meant for bigger things of academic nature.

Tehelka exposed my follies this time. Long live tehelka