my rants

All my rants


Hope is but an amputated limb Fissures oozing putrefied dreams Ravens scythe through my moonlit field In the shadows of the bamboo grove, I write songs of love That you spit on,

How I write

In the confines of my room I sit Glow of the lamp permeating the darkness Pen in hand, blank page in front. From outside come the screams A frenzied crescendo High pitched voices

bad poem

Standing around I watch the woods burn Dew drops of temptation, whimper and melt with the sundown. Choked embers of passion hang in the night. In the forest, Sapped memories


Written in the context of the separatist movements in Northeast India and the coverage of the same given in national and International media and by 'intellectuals'.

For You

For a fleeting moment I thought I saw you in the bamboo grove Among the tingling leaves But it was only the shadows of the branches And the mocking brush of your mekhela

Pimp and whore

Pimp of the night, I trade my happiness. Her bosom for your bed Here I go again, to meet my lovely, A whore at the crossroads Wondering which road to go on.

The lost

Carnal pleasures pummel the mind, On the streets, under the lamp post Sits the orphaned milestone

True love or is it true lust?

Stripped dreams, Naked and shivering Await. From the mist will emerge my seductress, on a black horse, In her bosom and throbbing thighs, I rekindle the fires of my lake.


I sit in my room, the only sound is that of the clock ticking away… tick tock tick tock...Seconds become minutes and minutes will run into hours. The stillness of the night is mysterious.


The shy flame of the candle, virgin demeanour, Struggles in the forest of the night, The passing wind steals solitary glances at her, Outside the trees and the rain Whisper and wait,


I lie still, Very still, While you fasten the screws. In the coffin of my impotence, There is no space for a handful of moonlight. Outside, in the rain my hearse awaits.

Menu, Contacts,Names, Options and Delete

Menu, Contacts,Names, Options and Delete


I sit in my room, the only sound is that of the clock ticking away… tick tock tick tock...Seconds become minutes and minutes will run into hours. The stillness of the night is mysterious.


Expectation! You sweet alluring whore You have turned me into that lamppost by the road Green with moss and freckled with rust. Now only the passing dog pees on me.

Maa (Mother)

I am sitting in class. Around me there are lots of people. Sir is delivering his lecture. I am not able to comprehend everything he is saying or maybe I don’t actually want to.

My shop

You have come to a shop My shop. Here I sell love. Love in return for a few smiles, Love in return for a few kind words. Timings of the shop: From the time the earthen lamp is lit


Dear Lady Sadly, I am neither a poet nor a writer Nor do I know anything about ‘true love’ All I know is lust. Since there is no way to communicate...

Fakebook love

I woke up with a heartache today, which might translate into a poem sometime during the day. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread they say, So I...


And sometimes you realize that old age is just the unravelling of yarn, From a beautiful old sweater, that made you look chic when you were young...


The curls of the’s’ and the 'e' tell me that you had a steady but hasty hand A list of summer holiday destinations, A to-do of unfinished commitments...

Happy Independence Day

(Written on the occassion of Indian Independence day on 15th August ) Hello all. Good morning to all of you. 7 a.m. - As usual, my day begins with...


I burn slow and steady in your hands Embers aglow with the nostalgia of winters that could have been. The smell sticks to your clothes But don't...


20 feet from the top, From where you stand, The rows of neat, weather coated apartments and the glazed windows reflect progress. 5 feet from where I...


The moon doesn’t have a hare slapped against its face Nor does it smile down upon us And orange seeds, swallowed whole, don't grow into a tree in my...

Once upon a poem

I once wrote a poem and kept in on the windowsill. I intended it to be a short poem but somehow I couldn’t complete it. Nothing came to my mind. I...


The antennae twitch in the air Reaching out for invisible meaning in the emptiness The waves of air apprising about friend, foe lover Distance height...


Memory is old, scarred and twisted plastic You can’t drown it, You can’t burn it You can bury it. Only for it to resurface when you dig Leaving your...

On Trying to Write

The muse of writing sits gently on my hand For a split second And before I can soak in its colors Takes flight A fluttering, shivering butterfly Lost...

People in the train

They stand side by side Motionless Buried in their mobile phones Earphones shoved in to block out an unsuspecting “hi” or a “hello”. Exchanging...


You are like lightning Seen & heard everywhere But striking when least expected. The heart has now undying embers Sizzling & smoking for ever.