Somewhere in mountains high,

It is snowing again,

In soft soundless flakes,

As the snow leopard awakes.


Somewhere where the oceans heave,

The Orca bursts in wondrous leap,

Where the waves mingle and meet,

Under a night sky glistening sweet.


Somewhere in the jungles hidden and wild,

The tuskers bathe and spray in delight,

As the eagle owls take to sky and alight

On lingering trees sleeping mild.


In the swirling wispy mists,

The butterfly in groves of trees sleeps,

Opening it’s beautiful wings in dreams

To the surge of life within.








Somewhere, the sun is rising
all the time;
Red gold splashes coloring the sky,
Myriad birds chirping in anticipation and delight;
Memories when unbidden come and sit by the side.
Somewhere, the sun is rising
all the time;
The morning jogger stepping up sprite,
The newspaper boy hurrying on his route-line;
Some brewing tea, coffee in sleep groggy;
While some already up and ready,
As others slumber in sleep aweary.
Somewhere, the sun is rising
all the time;
More so, in soul and mind,
Mixing, coloring, shifting shade and light;
What consciousness with each passing splinter of time !




She is a maid,

Thirty to thirty-five

years of age.


Three of her children,

She left in the village,

And the other two are here

with her, in the slum near.


They were starved,

She says

And had to get away.


From her village already

have come so many

to this suburb here,

In a slum near.


Her husband she says

works in a place

some distance away

and visits sometimes,

But mostly at night.


About a month back,

Forlorn and wane

in our service lane,

Looking half dead;

She wanted work,

As a maid.


Like shadows in lament,

Her voice is faint

And her name is Rinku;

But by god, can she argue!


Our driver, a pundit,

The first thing he did

was to find out her caste;

Which is the bit

that in this universe vast

matters to him first and last.


She is of low caste,

This he

with satisfaction informed.

But she is alright,

further he said;

As he is of a heart

of decency large.


Rinku’s baby daughter fell ill

a week back,

As when did

also our baby girl.


Both the babies recovered,

But yesterday, Rinku said

that returning home in evening,

she found her baby shivering

in vomit and urine.


Rinku is a maid,

Thirty to thirty-five

years of age.


Three of her children,

she left in the village,

And the other two are here

with her, in slum near.




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If ever I die,

That will only be a reprieve,

For I shall walk again and again

In mystifying forms of Life.


Keep the sparrows alive,

Chirping from tree to balcony,

And the beautiful butterfly,

That sips the nectar honey.


Keep the eagles soaring,

Kissing the Sun high

And the tigers roaring,

That gods bow to knees nigh.


Ah, the life that runs wild

Gambols, cascades, spirits

In fascinating forms of life.


Let them be alive

For if I ever die

That will only be a reprieve

For I shall come again and again

To walk the wonderful forms of life.




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It is not that I am uneducated,

In a decent subject have I graduated,

And also have a degree in law,

But these things can have their flaw


Nationalism, communism and jingoism,

And big fat books on humanism,

I don’t much know what they really say,

Even as others rage on them night and day


A mullaji is my left side neighbour,

One day, before his house, a mob did gather,

And all was in such great clamour,

Some with spear and some with dagger



Litti chokha I was eating in a dhaba nearby,

When I heard this rising cry,

Rushing back I told the mob, – hey bhai !

let’s first have litti chokha and some hot fry !



From the dhaba, the litti chokha was promptly brought,

Then with satiated bellies, some peace was sought,

They told me that mullaji was doing some converting,

I said but many starving belly too, daily he is feeding

And when the starving belly by charity is fed,

That charity more than religion it shall respect,

They left then doing nothing scary,

And mullaji still feeds many starving belly


So often now, everywhere, I hear these many,

Shouting how our country is better than any,

One day, in this hot-selling toddy shop,

I met this Mexican who was on a world hop

Soon, we were laughing, giggling and brothers in arms,

Raising toasts to god’s highest alms,

He told me of the version of toddy there in Mexico on tap,

And Mexico seems to be as good as the land here we have,

Then whether I am a nationalist or am I not ?

This question sometimes does trouble me lot



And then where I live, some go around as humanists,

And then there are others who are known as communists,

Of poverty, they would paint such pictures stark,

That often I thought how grand was their heart,

Till I learnt that inspite what they preach and say,

Their maids, drivers, cooks get the lowliest pay !


Nationalism, communism and jingoism,

And big fat books on humanism,

I don’t know much what they really say,

Even as others rage on them night and day




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images (4)
I could not take your call,
my grief is still such a wall,
I read the message you sent,
and wondered what it meant,
wishing me a world of happiness,
when you put it in such darkness
you ask if I am alright,
don’t be such hypocrite,
wasn’t I the papa’s pet?
but you packed and left,
caring little for tears shed
I have given all your gifts away,
they made me miserable everyday,
please don’t message, don’t call,
for my grief is still such a wall,
someday when I am enough strong,
then I’ll call you daddy once for all

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