Ode to caffeine
Those two glasses there
Sitting side by side,
Two ice-rock islands
Floating on golden sea;
Warm from gentle sips
Tell our story.
Fuss over chords – Dylan or GNR
Who sang it better?
Harmonica to guitar,
Forearms touched, heads banged
“Mama take this badge off me”
Beats, foot tapping, heart strings
Tell our story.
Long night, short wait
Holding on to the handle
Almost swaying wooden bench,
A gusty evening at that and
Flurry of dried leaves,
All those half-baked
Tell our story.
Oh! and endless caffeine talk
Yes, that sums it up, about right.
Remembering the friendship day, I wrote this ode for a very special friend and I dedica...
Today freedom is a truce between what we want to do and what we can do - more like a choice.
I see that young boy, who hasn't moved past the trauma of child labor, borrows my bike for ten minutes and gulps dusty hot air in city traffic of Hyderabad, like it means the world to him and I read freedom, in the twinkling of his eyes. Freedom knows no language except that extra amount of vitality to push the door open - oh yes, the doors always open from the inside.
I see that single, woman, fatigued - who stands on her balcony with a glass of wine and wishes she wasn't alone. She looks at the sparrow on her windowsill with the fluttering curtain and writes poetry into thin air as if word...
As far as eyes can see, there’s dust along the skyline
An impeccable layer of synthetic fog
Encroaching the last of blue canopy
As man-made toxins are blending into fresh air.
Our food and future is being manufactured by machines
Somewhere crimes are happening in darkness, or
The costliest treasure of womanhood
Is being ransacked in broad daylight, somewhere.
Faces like masks are letting their presence known
As enemies, once up close -
Extending their hands for our neck,
As starvation, hatred or languish.
With each passing moment
The city is getting filthy and gloomy
Far from the beacon of hope and love
It used to be in my nascent youth.
Yet only thinking about you is making ...
THIS WEEK'S TOPIC | PITCH PERFECT
I am a big follower of your film making. Today I am writing to you since I have an idea for a movie script. It takes me a great deal of courage to speak up to you in this letter but from watching the films you have made, I feel if anyone can connect to my idea and bring it to life on big screen, then he would be none other than you.
The movie begins with a man, John, in his late thirties, whose wife leaves him along with his daughter, after some of his major investments fail to work. She was always against his business plans. He was running a printing business successfully in a small town. He tried to put up a joint venture with one of hi...
Embers - an ode to Abhijit Roy, philanthropist, blogger who was recently hacked to death in Bangladesh
Won’t lit a candle for you tonight
Would be too meek,
Or, borrow your words
Wouldn’t make much of a difference
Now that you’re gone-
Who were you?
Who believed peace can be written-
In a world where
Evil and ignorance
They might have decimated you,
That the scythe
Has now achieved immortality,
But I am not afraid,
For those holding the scythe
By those, who aren’t-
Lend me some of those cinders
From your heart
If you can-
No, I won’t lit a torch for you
I’d be one....
In those snapshots
or hung from the wall
Talked about and
Will not come out of the frame
Words are such powerful things
Alone they are bare, derelict, hollow
A consummation of your life’s tears.
Words, such magical creatures
When found in an old notebook,
Change course of life.
Tucked them away in the old cupboard
Didn’t you – dad?
Thought that will keep them from the world, but me?
In the attic you left more for me than you think
Or, I’ll ever admit
Yellow, torn pages, genes, poetry.