Piya basanti re, Kahe sataye aaja

Piya basanti re, Kahe sataye aaja
It started on the backseat
of a scooter
My father was superman flying me through Cloud nine
Singing piya basanti re like he had just fallen in love again
It started on a rainy Sunday morning,
When I woke up to the sound of a
tiny grandfather transistor playing Jab deep jale aana
I was five and a half
And I knew this was my father’s favourite tune
So I sat beside him and his chai
And learnt all the words to the song,
Music was more than an endowment in the family
It was the sword bequeathed from father to daughter, saving her from pain when her heart broke like the lime toys she guarded all her life,
It was the kind of fairytale where Belle never wanted the Beast to make her happy,

It was me and my father against the world , one song at a time
And just like that, we developed a language of our own,
We spoke Leonard Cohen on days we found a yellow butterfly on a lemon tree
And Kishore Kumar on hillside picnic trips, kahin duur jab din dhal jaaye, saanjh ki dulhan badan churaye, chupke se aaye as the sun set while we raced down the hill to hug mummy
Kenny Rogers buying me a rose with ice cream when it was past my bedtime, and I couldn’t sleep
I remember him taking out his guitar from it’s leather cover the day my street dog ran away and I had cried the whole evening,
His guitar was the perfect shade of ocean blue giving hope to a deceased heart
and he sang to me Frank Sinatra
That was the day my father saved me from the afflicting after-storm of separation, for all the times thereafter

My father learnt this trick from his father
Talking was never a verdict in love’s favour at his home,
So he imagined music as a refuge cave,
When feelings rained cats and dogs outside
He made a fire with humdrums of abandonment buried deep inside his heart, to keep him warm
He said to me , darling, You can’t escape feelings without acknowledging them
So here is some tujhse naaraaz nahin zindagi, hairan hu mai for days you want to cry till the first light of dawn appears
And here is some pal pal dil ke paas , tum rehti ho, to tell you it’s time to love again.

Papa, I have stopped listening to the songs we sang together
As you may have noticed, we have stopped talking too,
I have gone from Elvis Presley Can’t help falling in love with me on a starry night to Bitch Don’t kill my vibe in a closed room at 1 am
And Believe me, I know a trainwreck when i see one
I have mastered tragedy over the scale of papercuts to five beer bottles and a whiskey shot,
But losing the language with someone you love
Still feels like drought struck your tongue and dried your heart away.

I learnt this trick from my father as an aberration,
Like it was a repeated aberration
away from feelings,
And now I substitute emo songs into empty chat conversations,
newfound languages to convey love, pain, desire, heartache to people I barely know
Some of them understand the kind of music I listen to,
Others think of me as Mad Hatter
With oh so many earworms stuck inside my head
None of them know that I seek to resurrect
Our long lost language
With each one of them.
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere,
I often recognize a familiar tune,
And with blood racing inside all the veins, I hum along
Piya basanti re Kahe sataye aaja


Into the wild

Into the wild, a clover field calls for help
it hasn’t seen daylight for six months straight

dew drops are on metronome duty again
and stalagmites play xylophone to spirits
of solitude

I walk right through souls with sangria breath
The hunt for four clovers is as natural to me
As lying facedown in damp thistles
How does fate work when fate designates
who picks up the four clover of good fate.

My breath forms mist that lies low:
And through white shadows, a father an a daughter
Crouch low over a Nymphalidae-
one on the ground and a hundred and eight million
in the wind inspiring tornadoes to incarnate.
The daughter learned to write songs in those trips
to the wild.

From the temple of the cedar trees,
Dryads sing and dryads dance,
And in a flutter of the butterfly wings, the mist is gone.

Through the shadows, an apparition is all that remains
It looks just like the Father,
after a prophet’s trip to Medina.

I know overcorrection is an art conquered by
victims of defection,
the daughter writes songs with cigarette ashes too
And yet every once a full moon,
she seeks the apparition of the dying Nymphalidae
under which lies the four clover
of a rotten fate,
Every once a while, it’s easier to sing songs to the dead.


I played hide and seek in a
shopping mall once,
Plight of brightness drawing curtains
Upon eyes that loved shadows more than light,
i hid behind a burgundy sheer skirt,
And everything was purple
like the sky right before dawn,
I stole glances at the anti-light mirroring off of
White manequin heads
And wondered if they heard
white sounds of mothers
scolding their daughters for choosing
noodle straps or crop tops
that were too revealing,
or husbands telling their wives to cut the cut sleeves crap
There had been too many fights today,
But interfering for it’s sake
Would be hearsay, so the manequins
don’t utter a word.
I liked to imagine they kept still
to count
upto ten, or twenty
or hundred emotions that run
wild inside my heart,
a hundred racks of fake redressal,
of costumes needing to play characters
in my own life’s play
Like a broadway show,
people pay all kinds of prices to see
And critique these characters
that change with differing agilities each night:
Pink is for my promiscuousness,
Red for my lack of integrity,
Black for arousal,of anyone’s but mine
And the white dress,
it has blood stains. White cries,
it screams in bed each night,
it is the prisoner of despoil
reeking of a cologne that poison her veins,
Once again, white is for mourning.
The manequins whisper stories to the ones who pass,
The manequins know everything
that happened in the Tinseltown
Outside their glass house
Last night.

I will never be mad enough to wear a little of myself today,
Or tomorrow.
I sighed inside the rack of the burgundy skirt,
eyes shut with the pressure intensity of a piston,
they sting from the tears
that grieve the death of my desires.
But the manequins disagree:
I was mad enough to play hide and seek in a shopping mall, they say
I am mad, they say
Like Gretel, stuck inside a glass house
When all i need fearing
is me not fearing.
I open my eyes,
and the pupils dilate in the purple hue,
And still with tears
And still with madness
I draw the burgundy curtain,
for once and for all.
It’s not night anymore,
It never will be
Ever again.

The Curious Case of the Reader and the Writer

Most days, 

I am a pingpong ball 

Between two mortal parts of me.

Holden Caulfield calls out my name,

From the book that I just kept aside,

To write

About a thought that was just born

Right around the sharp corner

Inside the labyrinth of my mind.

He was never a catcher​, I suppose

For I hop onto my train of thought

To travel miles away to mystic lands

Before he can lure me in, again.

Unlike today,

Most days,

The writer in me remains dormant,



Partly because Mr. Darcy seems more intriguing​

Than ranting about a writer’s block.

It’s far too much effort to negate a weakness

By romanticizing it, you see.


Most days,

The immortal reader in me

Wins the tug of war against the mortal writer,

Who is tuned in

To the frequency of Denial 101:

A channel of self criticism.


Most days,

These two act more like Zeus and Posiedon,

Than enemies at war.

So, when I curl up in the warm folds of reading,

It tells me to go live my life,

And write my heart out.

And when I make myself comfortable

On a coffee date with writing,

It tells me to follow my heart,

And write again.


Unlike most days,


Scout finally let Atticus Finch go to the courthouse,

And with that,

The reader rested in peace for a while,

As the writer

Surrendered to the poet

Who stealthily

Completed this poem.


It’s National Poetry Writing month this April and I couldn’t be more excited/nervous.

I know i have been inactive for far too long, and I want to apologise deeply for that.

But now, to make ammends, I am taking on the 30/30 challenge . Each day. One poem. 

I hope you guys like it. 🙂

Happy writing!


I am here again.

Silence and absence,
Inhabit this place, as always,
Playing hide and seek with me. Waiting.
Waiting for me to give in.
There’s something else too,
Something passive.
Invisible, almost inexistent.
Yet, like ozone, it corrodes me from the inside,
The pain seething through my veins, 
Growing more intense with each step that I take.
Something passive,
Yet active , due to the very reason of my existence-
Dreams, broken unbroken.
Things, spoken unspoken.
Memories, lost and forgotten,
Which lie here in the path, crushed, like broken glass,
Waiting for me to walk through it.

 This path I walk through, is a world between several worlds

Like a network hub,
Only , this time it connects several rooms instead of Ethernet cables.
And these rooms, each of them carry some of my integral parts.
As if I was a flower, and someone tore my petals and put them separately in these rooms.
The first few of these are merry, filled with all the good memories.
People, places, laughters sprinkled all over the little exhibitions of my life, 
In these rooms.
Solitude, solace, satisfaction come next,
Which slowly give way to something more intense-
Passions, anxieties, anger.
I stumble over particles of sand turning into pieces of glass,
Choking over the air I breathe.
I peek into the next room,
And I see my most aching heartbreaks, my worst fears, everything I couldn’t achieve.
I want to shout, but speech deceives me,
I want to comprehend, but thoughts fail me.
There’s nothing I can do but move ahead, its almost like this place forces me to.
And finally,
Towards the end, its something I dread the most-
My regrets,
leading to,
Inevitable death.

I compel myself to open my eyes.
I know this dream, this corridor, 
I have visited it often, at nights, in swevens.
Only this time it is not a dream,
And this is the first and the last time I am visiting this corridor.