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For the love of!

For the love,

loosened guitar strings

weaved and knotted together,

collecting broken thread.

a healed heart taking decades,

taught how to love again

scars wearing on a soul,

unspooled romance like a broken tape,

stroking chin, lip and skin,

love the inner,

every aspect of the soul,

don’t be shy in seeking help,

for vulnerability is inner strength,

for the love of,

me, you and the world,

break all barriers,

dip straight into the storms,

embracing the whirlwind,

love is beauty magnified,

revel in its madness and intense passion,

whacking you,

flung towards reality,

pain and pleasure,

angst and madness,

for the love of it,

walk straight into the flames with blindfold.




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Fiction: The Kitty Party

The women in Mumbai’s costly apartment inhabited by the cream gossiped about politics, expertly flipping the cards and flinging credit cards on the table, promising to make bank transfer. Cash will strictly not infect the party. Some guffawed about the affair Chandni’s husband is having with Mrs hot shot Maggi in the society and the one playing damsel in distressing is not left behind. Nobody spills the grain on who Mrs Hot Shot Maggi is sleeping with and the code words about the unidentified lover sneaking inside the house for a round of rumpy-pumpy.

Some prodding and faking it with a loud moan! No! The lovers’ names cannot be revealed and too dangerous to spill the beans in today’s times. How are they having sex and smooching with masks on?, Bimla the naughty aunty and wearing nau lakh ka haar asks. She is ignored. Everyone is wearing a mask and sneaking on the balcony one by one for a smoke as trays of whiskey, Vodka, and wine glasses flow on the table.

The women who know no confinement and living to the adage neighbors are family. Women hating each other and gossiping about each other sex life outside the wedlock, toyboys sneaking in whose private room, snigger at the too middle-class saree, jewellery and car of the nouveau riche and new tenant in the brand new Rs100 crore apartment. Peace is made. Boredom kills. Today, Mehta Memsaab is the host and entertaining frenemies.

Inside a spacious room and a glass sliding door jutting on a sprawling balcony, condoms sprawled on the floor and mattresses. Boys and girls in half-naked postures were making inside and the loud TV anchor shouting to scare the shit out of folks turned prisoners choking the ooh and aah, intense moaning and rumpy-pumpy sex. The noise pollution every sane Indian has learned to abhor on India television came as the savior. A distance celebrating two apartments, one occupied by the kitty party wallah, fidgeting with playing cards, credit cards, naughty jokes and tales and the other occupied by kids translating their naughty gossip into action.

The kitty women eyeing the body language of their opponents turned friends, in Baba Ramdev avatar before flicking cards on the table. Eyes hovered and roving into the cards held by each other was often met by cursory glances, swear words, “Whatta fuck?” where squabbles were avoided in time by the peacemaker before a volley of accusations could hit home on the unsavory private lives hidden beneath the white sheet.

Pesky lady put the finger right in front of her lip and stares menacingly, “Listen! I can hear something!” Everybody stopped in their track and sat still, all ears towards the wall. No signal! Poor thing was berated. “We don’t want suspense. Chuck out your wild mind. Arre! Have a drink and play, na. It’s just that Arnab shouting and some naughty shaughty condom ad on TV.” Play and gossip resumed, smoke billowing and tinkling of glasses.

The Mumbai road was empty. Everyone sat safe in their homes and to be far from the virus scare zooming like an invisible snake biting. Lathi charging the unruly crowd plodding on the road to brave the deadly and the sorry state of migrant laborers losing lives, struggling with breathing and running away to their homes broke the heart. The rich busily put credit cards and wealth at stake over pack of cards. The hungry will die and the virus will kill. 

A rummy game flouting rules and paper cards fidgeted expertly on the table, amidst riotous laughter. The opposite apartment turned into an orgy with teenage couples splaying naked and immature voices whispering, “Curfew times for us means getting locked inside.” The moaning, smoke billowing and alcohol drops halted.

Guffawing hit a dead end. A knock on the wooden door. A moment of silence brushed aside with concatenating laughter. Fistful bangs on the door and it finally slides open. Mrs Mehta’s mouth was wide open at the sight of dozen cops, men and women sidling inside. The women protested, “We are not doing anything illegal and confined inside. Who gave you permission to barge inside?” The dusky lady cop calmly told the protesting ladies, “Easy women! Ah! I see it’s a kitty party with smoking and alcohol. We may inquire on the illegal alcohol when the city is closed. So, shut the fuck and each one of you stand in a line with names and society’s address.”

The women were startled and sheepishly told their names. The cops told them, “We got news for you. Young boys and girls carrying the same surnames like you women have been caught red-handed for indulging in sexual orgy and in naked positions. Coincidence?”



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Escapism of dating an app

Whining time on Tinder,

everyone lies and swipe right, left,

escapism is no longer the turf of films,

a real date,

tech date is an illusion,

hiding behind the phone screen,

change that dp,

a voice screams in the head,

if you thought sex is mechanic,

come again,

for everything is,

pay in foreign exchange,

a date is pricey nowadays,

just leave those phone apps,

delete them,

it’s a sham,

you ain’t unlucky not to have a scene,

get real,

run and breathe,

the temptress!

get more imaginative.



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Short story: The little boy’s typewriter

Vaibhav stared at the tap writer! He moved swiftly like wind towards the laptop on the table and on the other end moved an inch to run his fingers smoothly on the old typewriter. Clang!!!! He repeated the movement oscillating from one to the other, one, two, three, four, ten, twenty and twenty-five times.

A shy boy trembled at the sight of the tall and fair man wearing a smile and unfolding his palm to gently tender coins in his tiny hands. The first token of friendship in the Mussoorie winter. Nanu! He never knew his real name. The little boy feared the man till the time the stranger man holding his trademark suspender on his white shirt smiled at him and they became friends. A popular writer and loved by everyone in the hill station, the old man tapped voraciously on his machine rattling with words, smoking his pipe in the garden and flapping the crumpled notes.

Nanu unfolds his palm every time the doting grandson visits with parents and treated him with toffee and dimes. The little boy raves about Nanu in his Bombay School and back home, he checks the coins filled in a white sock hanged on the wooden door. Daydreaming about holiday is his personal hobby and longing to be in the company of his favorite friend Nanu. Building stars in the air, the arms crossed and cupped to his head, he time traveled and dreamed of having his typewriter to pen stories like Nanu, crumpling papers and books sold like hot pancakes at the railway station in the countryside.

He always carried his sock ballooned with coins to Nanu’s sprawling cottage when one day Nanu folded his hand, “Will you give me this sock filled coins?” He was hesitant. A little voice cracked, “I will buy a typewriter with the coins.” Nanu broke in loud and uninterrupted laughter. “What if I sell you this typewriter?” He pranced, jumped sofas and zigzagged towards the room to grab the sock clutched to his chest and sprinted back towards Nanu, careful not to let the coins fall on the floor.

Nanu took back his coins. The typewriter’s burden was shouldered by the little boy. He crossed the seas, moved countries, traveled in the trains with his loyal friend. Fancy gadgets took over the typewriter with time and the old friend was moved in a dusted corner.

He tapped furiously on the keyboard and stared at the blank page. A bang fist on the wooden table. Less than one hour to submit the manuscript to the publisher, he was stuck at the climax and the idea to hook readers miraculously disappeared. He paced in the room and lit a cigarette. A bizarre force took him in the store and he lifted the typewriter when accidentally his hand touched something.

Tinkling sound and rusted coins fell on the floor. An old and fading sock lay on the ground. The idea struck. Nanu and the typewriter will move the story ahead towards the end.



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Wall speaking thousand words

Ah! this silence,

breeding seamless expression,

only if wall could speak thousand words,

secrets kept locked,

imagining a conversation with the universe,

an invsible pat on the back,

this too shall past,

how we take solace in comfort,

grandma’s old tales soothing wounds,

the future never lie in our hands,

destiny is a strokeplay,

the flowing river can never stop,

carrying love,

wiping away sorrow,

cherish the standstill,

multitude emotions,

never interrupt or disturb,

close eyes and breathe slowly,

the tide shall be over,

distraction pays at final count.



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Nature is the sole master

Nature has a unique way getting back at us and teaching lessons. We never pay heed to the distressing calls when corporates and greedy humans destroyed and pilfered the eco-fauna, preserved hills to construct apartments and buildings. Traffic grew crazier by the day and the thick mound of pollution taking over our lives, cutting trees to uproot the birds nest. Diwali was just an excuse bursting crackers to make the planet non-livable, scaring animals to death and choking fellow humans. The poor creatures flocked away from humans in search of a home nest to live peacefully and compelled to travel far, braving furious rains and fire.

We scorned at everything when well-meaning souls told not to take over the lives of tribes who play an important role in creating this balance existing for ages. Ruthlessness had no limit till this heinous foe in the form of Corona disease struck and bringing life to a standstill. Nobody ever listened to the great calamity and something which no religion, existing for ages, has been able to predict. Time and again, the threat and warning signals came in the form of natural calamities such as Tsunami, flooding, cloudburst and landslides telling us slowing down. Getting back to the roots was the most sensible decision to make.

Nobody ever listened. The worst has yet to come but surfaced in the form of an invisible virus. Today, we are paying a huge price for the haphazard development and selling real estate at exorbitant prices where people were driven away from their homes. Another social activist, they scorned when told not to encroach or violate human spaces.

Finally, it demanded strict laws from governments across the globe to lockdown cities and countries. It still seems surreal. We finally saw momentary peace where busy roads suddenly stopped breathing and polluted vehicles emanating emissions disappeared. People are now confined to their homes, afraid to venture without masks. Fear scythed its way in our existence. Each and everyone has a responsibility for knowingly or unknowingly creating havoc. This chaos was needed for a new order. Remember, how we have disturbed the eco-system, animals, mountains, and rivers.

Today, no big money power can compensate for the suffering and fury unleashing itself. It has dawned upon me to take a pause and listen. All of us must do that. Value our relationships. Make the most of every single moment. Believe in the force of nature, shall we! Not everything can be scientifically explained. The chakras are something we must pay heed to and not laugh at our old age traditional practices, meditation and spiritual practices healing the mind, body and soul.

It is very easy to chuff or laugh at spiritual values. Disagreeing with our ancestors’ age-old practice is very fine but never ridicule them for it is almost impossible to reach the ultimate truth. Nobody has a claim to the facts and everything is purely subjective. The elements of earth, fire, water, wind represent existence and take a minute to think about how we have disregarded everything because of our competitive nature, abusing the planet.

Time will heal us from the self-made disturbances created with demonic forces. Karma has never been so forthright and we shall pay for the oppression on earth, exploiting the poor where some people don’t survive below one USD as daily minimum wage when capitalists scoop a billion bonus every year. Are we ready to listen? We shall thrive and triumph above the fearful, overcoming the force of evil but only by becoming one with the elements and constitutions of the earth.

With Love


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Miasma of unknown and chaos

The shrill and canoodling of lusty music,

soothing trinklet of sound,

birds cooing,

where lovers are nestled,

not in fancy hotel rooms,

serenading nature,

naked bodies and souls meet,

listening to gentle rhythm,

gentle water percolating in rivelet,

literature, prose and poetry,

narrated in the company of single microcosm,

trees and animals,

every single word piercing our soul,

reclaim the sensitive soul,

agile mind,

eyes travelling past the storm,

oceans and trees fluttering far beyond,

blue azure sky,

nightfall and morning mist,

translating a reality beyond the miasma of the unknown and chaos,

breath slowly,

unravel the meditative eyes,

gently flip the page,

caress the green leaf,

blow love in the red or white rose,

feel the scent for flowers flutter unplucked.