Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry Pharmacy

(In tough times, one needs to seek solace in poetry. And that’s what I am doing. Almost 25 years ago, on an autumn evening, I found this poem on the wall of a friend’s home in New Delhi. My love for this poem was instant. Later on, I asked another common friend to write (rather copy) the poem on a piece of paper and give it to me. He was gracious enough to do it for me. Since then, I have changed cities, jobs and homes but this poem neatly written in my notebook has stayed with me. My attempts to search this beautiful poem on google have not been successful. Hope, you all will enjoy this) 


Everyone walks the way he can,

Some with their chest ajar,

Others with only one hand,

Some with identity card in pocket,

Others in their souls…

Some with the moon screwed in their blood,

And others with no blood, no moon nor reminiscence with them.

Everyone walks able or not,

Some with their love in grumbles,

Others hidden in altered skin.

Some with life and death beside,

Others with death and life astride

Some with a hand on some other shoulder,

And others on the shoulder of another.

Everyone is walking because he is walking,

Some hopeful with a person,

Others meeting none on the journey across,

Some through the door opening,

Or so it seems to the road,

Others with a door on the walls or dream on the air perhaps,

Some not having begun to live,

Others too not having begun to live,

But one and all walk with their feet to chains

Some on the road they themselves made,

Others on the ones they didn’t make and all those they shall never make.

——— Roberto Juarroz



Chai romance


Sit by my side,

Let the world run to the coffee shops,

For their share of  frothy cappuccino,

We will sit here,

In this dimly lit room,

On the Midnapore grass mat,

I bought from the Dastkar Nature Bazar,

We will slowly sip our chai,

Mine with sugar, yours without sugar,

We will talk politics, love jihad,

GST and the times we are living in.

You and I

With a cup of chai.

And there was no one left

“First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.”  Martin Niemoller


(Every morning I wake up and thank my parents for sending me to study in the bougainvillea laced beautiful campus of JNU. It was an act of great kindness on their part. They were not rich but they never compromised on spending money on providing quality education to their daughters. My parents could have asked me to study in Odisha and saved the money for themselves. But they let me explore a whole new intellectual, creative and absolutely fascinating world. JNU changed the way I listen to music, watch films, understand life, society, art, identity and most importantly India. It taught me the importance of dissent and protest.It taught me to celebrate diversity, pluralism and secularism.

My friend asks me not to be too vocal against Hindu fundamentalists on Twitter. She loves me. I think of this beautiful poem written in bold red color on a thick black paper and pasted on one of the walls of JNU.  I know the poem by heart.

We are living in tough times. The voices of dissent need to be loud in the times we are living in. If we don’t protest, who will then? What kind of narratives will we be leaving for our daughters, sons, nieces and nephews? )

At the time of parting

Mellowed sunshine lazily filtering through the drawn curtains of my room,
You making your way through fleeting clouds,
Your mobile phone in ‘switched off’ mode,
From STD calls, we will now graduate to ISD calls,
To hear each other’s voices,
To make an otherwise ordinary day extraordinary,
To make life seem less lonely,
But that will take a little while,
Right now there’s no way you and I could talk….
We only have memories to talk to,

We talked just before you boarded the flight/ We talked about the two different time zones we would now live by/ We exchanged skype ids/ We talked about writing to each other/ And then we talked about America/It’s difficult to not talk about America/When Syria is there/And you said, ‘America is not a country, it’s a Continent.’ / You know why I loved America at that moment/It made me burst into laughter/ Even when you were flying away to/ Another Land….

Why must you go away?

Far beyond the glass window,
there is a life under a beautiful sky,
A life beyond work and a payslip,
a life beyond our respective glowing computer screens,
a life beyond the neatly arranged shelves of a supermarket,
a life beyond an ironed white shirt and a sari pinned to perfection.

Why must you and I be so far away from each other,
when we know that it will rain,
Why must I ignore the sound of the rain,
by increasing the volume of the TV in the living room,
Why must I kill the hunger of passion,
By biting slices of yesterdays.

Why  must you go away,
leaving me all alone under a cloud,
Why must I turn and twist on a rainy night
that smells of wet earth and intimacy.

Why must you go away,
Leaving me to soak in falling raindrops
All alone.

(I wrote this while I was listening to Bruno Mars’ heart-warming song ‘It will rain’)