Work-Life Balance

Catching the dusty sun beyond my home; Across a line of borrowed water Dying, still, between two slabs of concrete; Grey half-circles under its eyes, In a hurry to leave, The day’s pending jobs hiding in twilight To reappear at daybreak When a dusty sun rises.


“O Dastaañgo, aik panna aur kholo, aur kaho…” And we all saw, more than 1500 of us, how a relationship so fragile, so precious, so battered by an unforgettable sense of wrong, as that between Draupadi and Yudhishtira, was revived by a simple act of friendship. An eponymous long poem by Pavan K Verma, adapted…

Before the New Sun Rises

Am I doing the cliché, looking at a poem, and thinking of you? Did I make you smile, bitterly, Looking at this poem, and thinking of me? There are two magical words in the language of poets: Qurbat, is one. You’d know, I’m near. I had to leave, The part of me behind, The one…

Imaginary Home

There are imaginary homes I made In a life Semi-charmed Love Was one of them; You, another.


Do you see them, in hundreds? Dancing to the river’s music The breeze carried. Do you see the forevers etched in their veins? To be dead tomorrow.


It was a four-poster; covered in gossamer netting. Delicate mulmul on the windows filtered the moonlight in. It was impossibly quiet, even the crickets had ceased their song and gone to sleep. But he lay awake. His dark skin defined softly by the white sheets. There must’ve been some pixie dust about, for she woke…

Nightmare I

The ocean takes away pieces of my soul, I cannot leave, I am the shore. I wake from nightmares of blinding lights to your clear voice, whispering, “Hush! Come here, Hush! Its okay, come”, and you hang up I pry my eyes open I want to see your face, you’re here before I fall into…


Have you been bold enough to write in red? In life, Red may have told you of its grandiose of love and passionit’s twin mistresses.Do you remember a life before that? When red only glared at mistakes? I chose to write our lives in red.I’ll let you decide if this will be one glaring error Or another, that…

To an Ocean

I picked a few empty shellsalong your shore.Empty homes of your childrennow long gone;Echoing you, the breeze, andtheir conversations with the sand.I wear them around my neck,at a home away from you;Little kisses, a sunset, and loverest on my bones.


It’s March and suddenly spring. Whatever be the tint of your glasses, there are flowers to be seen everywhere. Isn’t it ironic then, that he chose to send me a whole notebook’s worth of paper covered in poetry and what should fall off from between the leaves but dried pink bougainvillea. ‘How do I not…