The night is your friend

(Starry Night on the Rhone by Vincent Van Gogh)

There is nothing to be afraid.
The night is your friend
My friend
Our friend

When the curtains of death close upon you
Think of the beige moon
Of heaven's high bowers that await
Your misty breath
Upon the icy petals
Of roses and dandelions

For there lies a brighter morrow
When the sun rises 
In your final home
Where they all await

When silence stealthily creeps over all whispers
Just sing yourself this song
Fill the night with music
And travel on.



a folly yet disfavored
even as skewed perceptions
drive her on unwavered

to claim what is rightfully hers
albeit a little tipsy
a tiger that gingerly purs

when gently stroked
plumb, he just lay there
and she, provoked

worked her magic
and turned what once was
a tale of love: tragic

the miasma then engulfed
veiled her consummation
while his shrieks
played a melody with her laughter
and the howling winds
drowned it all.


Bad Punnery

It's raining cats and dogs.
Well, as long as it doesn't reindeer.
When it comes to big arm chairs
I have a deep-seated fear.

Chairs are meant to be chairished
Royal chairs are rarely throne out
Those two duchesses arguing about their husbands?
They decided to duke it out.

Now, politicians have a talent
They double-cross each bridge
The plumber explained that the problem in my
kitchen was just water under the fridge.

But since we’ve reached the kitchen
I must dish out some advice
Do not believe what you hear
About fleas and ticks -- it's all lice

Never ask a boxer for a drink
Because they're tight fisted.
Poor sweep who tried was thrown down
A chimney, and was black-listed.

You’d be surprised to hear what
Really got this all started
‘Twas two peanuts who walked into a bar
And one of them was a-salted


I Write of Those Who Give Me Gold

“The destiny and history of nations -
Corroding, compromising
Raided, deranged, derailed;
The machines have churned out
Great two dimensional heroes.
The poet stands alone.”

Through blood he wades
Towards the crown
Dead and gone
Vanity of human wishes
Of silken cloth
Of laced up boots
Leading on doom
Unloved, unmissed, unremembered
No graves, no wood to burn
No vultures either

“Privileged, you want to live?
Project, what?
God – he dead;”
Epitaph –
‘Here lies a poet’

Accepting commitment,
Reasonable pride is motivation enough
That impetus is now gone
Clinging to dedications
Growing, revolving
Shrieking in the wilderness
No voice, no words

“Progress, then?
What about the land?
Did it sprout gold?
Elucidate -
Duly justified in terms of human content.”

Analysts, economists
They don’t know
The poet stands still
Talking about all you know and more
No break, no disjunction

“I do not write of the poet
Disillusioned, embittered, lost
I write of those who give me gold.”


Three Blind Mice

To S, M and A
Not necessarily in that order


One of them
Resolved to live with it
Because the roads in ‘Lore
Are unlike the Capital’s.
And now he’d rather shut up,
Unless interrogated.
He knows not what he looks for
Knows not what to do
He does know this –
That he is not to be known.

The other, meanwhile,
Puffed in cancer
Breathing out fear
Of failing to meet up
His preset paradigm
With the kid dead
And mother unaware
What yarn could he spin,
So Consciousness would let him live
Both his and William’s

The third, in the meantime,
Is living in his own sweet bubble
Speaking a language
He doesn’t understand.
The ghost of days gone by
Haunts him still;
So he just travels
From mountains to deserts
Lighting candles
Wherever he goes.


Birthday and Launch (Seven Deadly Sins)

Happy 4th birthday to Kreation!

I'm not going to launch into the long and complicated history this blog and I have shared, nor will I sit down and make a list of why I love it so. All that is self-explanatory. For the last year or so, the blog has been more or less dormant but I have been posting fairly regularly again and I intend on continuing this practice (yes, even if it means replying on excessively nonsensical tags to keep it going).

Four years ago, launching this blog was my first attempt at finding readers who were not my poor classmates bullied into reading and appreciating my (then, and possibly still, crappy) poetry. Now, four years later - and indeed it is so appropriate that this happens on the exact same day as ol' Kreation's birthday -  my first ever published work is out.

Agreed, it is not entirely mine; the anthology Seven Deadly Sins includes short stories by a bunch of talented writers. This endeavour began as a contest by Serene Woods Publication judged by Mithun Mukherjee of De-Scribe - author of Cold Feet and Revenge. The winning entries were compiled into a book and Seven Deadly Sins was born. the book will officially be launched by Guracharan Das of India Unbound fame.

You're all welcome to the launch!

Note: A slight change in schedule... the event starts at 4:30 pm.

Buy your copy of the book here!


A Wednesday

      -  Ode to September 7

So, it shook -
Heavens in the morning
Earth at night.

Bloody possessions, torn limbs
Spattered intestines and mangled bones
Of the morn’s proletariats
Metamorphosed brusquely
To flustered, frightened flocks of
In this happening city.

Black-robed made way for the dead
The dead for the grieving
The grieving for 
The nightgown-and-shorts-clad.
Victims one minute,
Revellers another.

‘Mild’ and ‘slight’
Were the adjectives used 
By those
With their mugshot—likenesses
Plastered over the screens.
Nothing to worry about, you see
11 dead, 74 injured
It was the exceptional one per cent.
Then again,
4.2 on the Richter is nothing.
Go home.
Sleep well.

Mere twelve hours 
And the city shook
Mere twelve hours.

Both times
Death whisked past us
It chose, instead –
Others, with more to lose perhaps

Both times we turned
To Twitter and Facebook 
To maintain our sanity.


Day 8 of GYABOYB

Day 8: A song to match your mood

What a perfect little treat this!
If only the rest of the tag was as good. 

As it happens, today's a day for irritation. Mum had some altercation with Pop yesterday (usual crap, nothing serious) and she has been irritated since. Then, her tailor ruined a very expensive salwar-kameez and she was even more irritated. Now all this is perfectly normal and I can easily put up with it - her - without losing my cool even though she takes out her frustration on me. I have a Rhino's hide, ha!

But no, things didn't stop at that.  Cherry on top, she was bitten by a centipede this morning and her frustration reached a new high even as her hand swelled to double its size and turned a nasty purple color. When at home, I cannot, umm, let's say, I cannot express myself in a certain way I prefer, and I've been at home for two days straight now. Tempers are building up, frustration is the word of the day, escapist tendencies are setting in. People have, mercifully, called it a day and retired to their respective rooms. Here I am, locked up in mine, listening to


Day 7 of GYABOYB

Day 7: Your dream wedding

I don't dream of weddings.

'Nuff said.


MV, you are not allowed to comment on this.


Day 6 oh GYABOYB or "I will kill the person who came up with this tag"

No, seriously. Why the fish are there so many goddamn photographs!
It is the most lame-ass tag I ever in the history of mankind.

Wait. I opted for it, didn't I?

*awkward silence*


Anyway, here goes - 

Day 6: A photo of an animal you'd love to keep as a pet.

Duly cropped and not-photoshopped, we present to you - Kiki!

That's a guinea pig. Yes, those are my hands. I am aware of my fat fingers, thank you. 
But usual crap aside, this is the cutest little thing I've ever seen and I WANT ONE! This one belongs to my sexy girl-friend. They do eat and shit like crazy, but that's tolerable. I suppose? 


Day 4 (skipped) and Day 5 of GYABOYB

Day 4 required me to put up my favorite photograph of my best friend. I'm pseudo-suicidal, not dumb. The photograph can be found here. If you can't view it, you're not entitled to... That's kinda the point of private blogs.

Now to Day 5!

Day 5 - A photo of yourself two years ago.

This was easy. all I had to do was go through my facebook profile picture until I found one from two years ago. And here it is -

This was officially the best hairstyle I've ever had, in my entire life!
Ah! Fond memories.

That's it. I'm done for today. See you tomorrow, peeps. (Ha! Who am I kidding. Nobody visits the blog anymore.)


Day 3 of GYABOYB

Day 3: Your idea of the perfect first date.

Honestly? This is perhaps the most difficult thing on the list. Not so much because I went through a weird and bitter break-up earlier this year, but more so because I don't think I've been on a date. Ever. To tell you the truth, the very concept is beyond the scope of my understanding. Every time someone asks me about my idea of a perfect first date or about my favorite one, I have to request them to define 'date' for me... and as you may as well have guessed, the results have been rather disappointing. No, I still don't know what a 'date' would essentially constitute and I definitely don't have a 'favorite' or 'ideal' date.

But, if I had to, absolutely had to (in the 'my life depends on this' sort of a way) answer that question, I'd say my favorite 'date' would constitute pulling an all-nighter (you know, coffee, smokes, hot muffins, et al) right before an important paper presentation. Note: I say paper presentation, i.e. a seminar, because let's face it, exams involve cramming. Yes, even when you're doing a post-grad in English Literature. This is India, let's not kid ourselves... but I digress. Exams involve cramming and with the person sitting next to you, focusing on cramming an entire year's worth of crap is fighting an uphill battle.


Just FYI, Day 3! Three continuous posts in three days! *whistles*


Day 2 of GYABOYB: Guilty as charged

Day 2: A photo of something you ate today.

Erm, well, umm....

This morning I woke up with all intentions of clicking a photo of my scrumptious breakfast. Hot pakoras and tea. But by the time I actually sat down to eat, I was ravenous and all thoughts of the blog and photograph had conveniently made space for this one: "FOOOOOOODDDDDDDDD"

When I was done I remembered the photograph and promised myself to click one at lunch. Long story short, there was no lunch. Why? Didn't I say the breakfast was pakoras?  :D

After some heavy reading (no kidding, that book must weigh atleast a good kg... perhaps more), a heavenly siesta and a trip to the tailor's, I was all excited for the dinner and committed to the task of getting a photograph for sure this time.

I forgot. :-|

When it is kadhi-chawal (especially when it is chawal... it being a rare luxury in your life (some allergy, don't ask)), you are entitled this slight dereliction of duty, no? Again, by the time I was done, it was the breakfast story all over again. There was a nagging blogpost but no food. But since I HAD to put a picture of something I had today, here's one:
Drinking even as I type. Cheers!


Day 1: *Trumpets* (GYABOYB)

And thus, we begin this ordeal brilliant tag which shall hence forth be referred to GYABOYB - Get Your Ass Back On Your Blog.

For Day One- A photo of yourself and a description of how your day was

Photograph? Alright. Makes sense. Here is one that I took a few days ago.
If you're wondering why those glasses are so-friggin-huge (and you should!), it's because they are 3D glasses. I nicked them off when I went to watch, umm, some movie... my memory fails me.

As for how was my day... It was as uneventful a day as possible. Went to college, attended classes (the ones I like to attend, i.e.), spent a couple of hours hanging around the *sutta lane* (fag lane), ****** (can't tell, apologies), had a very lively discussion on Plato's Republic, returned home, slept and woke up after a weird dream.

As I write, I have been asked to refer to MV, who is currently telling me about his weird dreams involving certain professors, overnight stays in toilets, and deer and jackal

That's it for tonight, folks!

P.S.: This is not half as fun as I thought it would be. *grunts*


Because 'I am back' posts are redundant and so are 'tags'

No use skirting around the issue, let's admit it, this blog has seen as little action as Anna Hazare's digestive tracts of late (note to self: all attempts at cracking jokes are hereby prohibited). I had been stumbling around in the dark when darling Iggy took up this interesting challenging and the light at the end of the tunnel practically blinded me (please excuse any typos). The idea is to be able to finish the challenge, regardless of whatever happens (badam bam bam)...hopefully, I'd be ashamed to stop posting after being deathly regular for a month. *fingers crossed*. Procrastination, shoo!

The rules go like this:

Day 1 – A photo of yourself and a description of how your day was.
Day 2 – A photo of something you ate today.
Day 3 – Your idea of the perfect first date.
Day 4 – Your favorite photograph of your best friend.
Day 5 – A photo of yourself two years ago.
Day 6 – A photo of an animal you’d love to keep as a pet.
Day 7 – Your dream wedding.
Day 8 – A song to match your mood.
Day 9 – A photo of the item you last purchased.
Day 10 – A photo of your favourite place to eat.
Day 11 – What’s in your makeup bag.
Day 12 – A photograph of the town you live in.
Day 13 – Your favorite musician and why?
Day 14 – A TV show you’re currently addicted to.
Day 15 – Something you don’t leave the house without.
Day 16 – Your celebrity crush.
Day 17 – A photo of you and your family.
Day 18 – Something you crave a lot.
Day 19 – Another picture of yourself.
Day 20 – The meaning behind your blog name.
Day 21 – A photo of something that makes you happy.
Day 22 – A letter to someone who has hurt you recently.
Day 23 – 15 facts about you.
Day 24 – A photo of something that means a lot to you.
Day 25 – What’s in your purse?
Day 26 – A photo of somewhere you’ve been to.
Day 27 – A picture of you last year and now and how you changed since then?
Day 28 – Your favorite movie.
Day 29 – Something you could never get tired of doing.
Day 30 – A photograph of yourself today + three good things that have happened in the past 30 days

Oh, and I'll begin tomorrow, or day after. Certain photos that the tag expects me to put up might instead find their way over at Chaos. Since Chaos is a private blog, this part should be self-explanatory. 


No Peachy, no.

Life is not peachy. Life is never peachy.

And when there's no hope, there really is no point living.

But when there's no hope, there's nothing left to die for either.



Perhaps  it was better not to have friends. To not have a few numbers you know you can call no matter the time of the day... Those were the times this blog saw any action.




Quite strange it is
For that which makes us
top of the food chain
one of its kind
king of the world
is also what takes
from us the very ability
to be what we can be
should be
could be.

To think
that thoughts are what make us
and those thoughts then break us
into tiny pieces of fragmented glass
shedding blood of those we once loved

even as they walk away
leaving crimson footprints
on our hearts.



The man who will never admit I was one.


Heard your laughter
After a long time today
I had
Forgotten the sound of it.
The sound
That once used to
Drive me crazy
Still does, like it did today
But alas,
She brings out the best in you now
And I’m reduced
To shadows
Forced to watch
Mute, helpless
Even as you slip away
I see you go
And never turn back.
Perhaps the pain
Would be less
Had it been just you
But she’s in the picture too
And the pain I feel is a different kind of pain.

(Written on October 31st, 2009, everything in this poem proved a prophecy of sorts and came true on January 29th, 2011.)


Ode to sleep

Saucy mistress, she!
Enticing and tempting me so
With gentle, merry, mellifluous dreams
And Keats’ things of beauty-
The young tree, mid-forest brake and streams

Saucy mistress, she
Liar! The embodiment of deceit!
The slightest commotion and away she fled
The dreams, the peace, all woebegone
Left – the death grip of unrest and dread

I waited, with baited
Breath, I waited. Familiar with the gloom
Her virgin embrace I seeked, and wept.
Called out to the Gods, my beloved, the mistress
It must have worked! Because finally, I slept!




The poem has been duly removed at the behest of one Mr. Scholesy who has - most kind of him, most kind -decided to publish it in his literary journals, Scibbler's Gazzette.

It will be back up in a few months.


Author's note: Written in response to Aniket's post, this poem will (naturally) make more sense if you read his as well.


The Rime of the Ancient Doper

Author's note: This, ladies and gentlemen, is my presentation for Paper 6 (Romanticism). The topic, quite simply, was our subjective interpretation of the last few lines of Coleridge's infamous Kubla Khan. Why or how it turned out this way, wonder not! I was bored and that's the be all and end all of the story.


Acknowledgement: Before I begin, I must thank my dear friend Raunaq Schoelsy, without whose crazy ideas this presentation would have been dull, drab and boring (like everyone else in this class), but completed a week ago, and I would have submitted the other two assignments that were due today.

The Rime of The Ancient Doper

It is an ancient poet
And he stoppeth one of three
"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stoppest thou me?"

The classroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next up to speak
For the presentation I am about to give
I have been preparing a week.

He holds her with his skinny hand,
"There was a poem," quoth he
"Hold off, unhand me, greybeard loon,"
Eftsoons his hand dropped she.

He holds her with his glittering eye
Kriti Sharma stood still
And listens like a three-years' child
The poet hath his will

'In my youth I led what was
Termed a dissolute lifestyle
On an opium high I always lived
And dreamt of making a pile'

'Then one day my lyrical ballads
With Wordsworth published were
And I was fully aware of how they would have
Created a verray stir.'

'I had a reputation to uphold
My dignity was at stake
Lack-lustre poems had I produced,
From all corners I would have got flak.'

'And so I turned to sex and scandal
Abstraction personified
I became a true blue poet, kid
And like all poets I tried.'

'Like all poets I tried, my child,
Like all poets I lied
Then Kubla came to my rescue one day
What followed is a matter of great pride.'

'For a doper like myself then
It was no big deal
To cook up imaginary stories
And pretend that they were real'

'So thus began what you now know
As the Saga of Kubla Khan
But guilty as charged I plead my child
For it was an elaborate plan.'

'I read about the Khan, I did,
And dreamt a dreamy drill
I dreamt that Kubla wanted a palace
A pleasure-dome, if you will.'

'Naturally then, even in the dream
Compose poetry I must
A claim of some three hundred lines
Seemed but only just.'

'Then wake I did and wrote furiously
Wrote a heck of a lot about Xanadu.
But then, existentialist crisis stuck
The pen stopped. O what to do!'

'Words, words everywhere
Not one word but to write
Words, words everywhere
This poor poet's plight!'

'I'd exhausted the description I'd read
And the poem I knew wouldn't work
So I made up that story and blamed it all
On the imaginary man from Porlock.'

'It worked quite well, I must admit,
For a bunch of such blatant lies,
For I on honey dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of paradise.'

'Yet conscience racks my soul
And the agony oft returns
Until my ghastly tale is told
This heart within me burns'

The poet, whose eye now opaque,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone, and now the teacher must
Throw me out the door.

She went like one that has been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser woman
She rose the morrow morn.

(P.S.: The bit about working on this for a week and not doing the assignments was a lie. I submitted both my assignments the same day. As for the presentation, well, this was written on my way to college (i.e. in the phatphat (and if you do not know what that is, don't ask)) and then parts of it were added as people did their presentations.)

P.P.S: If you read it and understood zilch, I'd suggest you read this here and this and this too and then come back to read this post. Quite tedious, yes, but should be worth it. 


This is the Thing.

And the things that keep us apart
Keep me alive
And the things that keep me alive
Keep me alone
This is the thing


Because she reads...

Since I like to project to the world what big loser I am and just how pathetic, let me first tell you all that I went through a very, very bad break-up recently * your cue to sympathise*. Naturally then self-confidence is at its lowest, junk intake at its highest and my blessed eyes are so sick of all the crying that they rebelled and now I require glasses. Then, to come across something that makes you smile is quite an achievement in itself.

Read this over at Snobster's here and repost is a must! Read on.

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Rosemarie Urquico


Filthy Fucking Bastard Number Two

Blotches of red on the white marble,
A pool of red at my feet,
My hand boasts of 23 cuts,
(some of them need stitches mind you),
No easy feat!
But hatred that wells within me,
A loathing so deep embedded,
It will echo in your heart and soul,
Long after I am dead.
You won't feel guilty,
You filthy f**kin' bastard
May you rot in hell,
And if alive, be cursed!
You know not what you did to me,
Why the hell would you care?
After all, you got it... didn't you?
You've had your 'share'!
Mark my words,
For they will bloom,
Justice shall be done,
And your entire kind is doomed!

P.S.: Because a repost is exactly what was required.


The Empty Room

Trees. Birds. Flooding showers.
Lakes. Rivers. Blooming flowers.
What makes?

Life. Death. Tangled vines
Love. Hate. Aging lines.
What makes?

Space. Time. Silent rhymes.
You. Me. The world sublime.
What makes?

What makes a room empty?
What makes a room?
What makes?

Note: Written a few months back for one of the Serene Woods' Writers' Meets, this piece was lost in the deluge of unfinished, unpublished drafts in my computer and I only discovered it today. Although I'd leave the interpretation of this to my readers (as I do with all my works), I have but one thing to say. Read it not once, but twice. For there is more to it than meets the eye.


Rants against Stream of Consciousness*

Consciousness, consciousness, where do you stay?
'I stay in your mind, 'pon your thoughts I pray'
Consciousness, consciousness, why don't you die?
'Because if I die, then your thoughts shall fly'
Consciousness, consciousness, let them be free.
'Oh, no no no, that's impossible, you see'
Consciousness, consciousness, leave me alone
'Why of course, for a minute, here- get stoned'
Consciousness, consciousness, you're nothing but a sham.
'Muahaha! Write that in your Paper 7 exam.'**

*My exams begin from tomorrow, so something of this sort was anticipated.
** Paper 7 includes Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. Nuff said.