365 days can take you places.
Maybe in some other world,
With alien surroundings
And foreign people
Somehow yet holding in their eyes
A warmth that is the only familiar thing,
Maybe that is where you will be.
All the universe needs
To change and restructure
Around you
Is but a second,
So what of three hundred and sixty five days?

Image labelled free for reuse.




Light hair falls in curtains over her rapturous face,

And her arms wielding the bow

Moves over the strings,

In impossible tandem

With his fingers over the keys.

He hears music,

His head out of the ocean now,

Dullness gives way to clarity,

Like the first shine in years

Breaking through clouds.

Aprils have come and gone,

Yet he hopes this time, it stays.

Together, they make something more than two.

Is he overtaking her?

Is she leading?

It is impossible to tell,

Or maybe it isn’t,

Because while the world sees the race,

They are locked in a dance.

Based on anime series “Your Lie In April”. Image not mine.


With each click of the “Like”,
And each tap on the little heart,
Social media helped her
Take one little significant step
Away from her stubbornness,
From childhood insecurities,
And teenage grudges.
Contrary to what everyone said,
Facebook and Instagram
Are what helped her grow up.


The question. “Will you do this for me?”

The answer. “Yes.”

The first evening, the first book. The cracking steps of a dusty campus building, weighed down by the stifling Sun. One voice reciting, in smoothly flowing Tamil, and echoing in English, the story of a crooked sage who dreamt of writing of a war that ended everything. The other silent, listening raptly.

The next, on a rainy morning, the second book. The iron-wrought balcony, and two mugs of black coffee, steam spiralling into nothingness. Through the muting sound of rain on everything, the first voice speaking of a dejected princess, her longing for revenge, and the beginning of the end. The second, listening, enthralled.

Then, the third book, as they sat beneath the sprawling banyan, the mela existing in constant motion of color around them. In between bites of chaat and sips of buttermilk, the first voice, describing the tale of an unfortunate brethren, turned against each other by the deeds of their fathers. The second, listening.

The fourth book, on a summer afternoon. The sunlit grassy courtyard of a stark white colonial building, remnant of a chained and enslaved history, under the free open cloudless sky. A platter of mangoes between them. The first voice reading out some familiar age-old love story that was destined to end in sombre seperation. The other listening to the first, looking, but not seeing, the sky above, feeling a strange pleasant unease.

The saga does not end there, but the distance does.


Inspired by Venmurasu.

Happy New Year

Haze, and through it, a significant line,
Thinner than hair,
It pulls me through.
The passion of some singer
Pours out into the alcohol.
Travelling beside me,
Blessed am I to call them that.
To them, I put forth,
A small part of my buried, dormant soul,
And they take it,
Some give me back a part of theirs,
Some guard theirs as vigilantly as ever,
And I am nevertheless glad,
For in this moment where another chapter closes,
And I can do nothing but accept that
I am one step closer to whatever tomorrow brings,
This is a small moment of harmony.

Across the Water

Today I found your clothes
Buried deep in the mess of motions
My life has become.
I wore your shirt
And on its sleeve
Was still lingering
The smell of air conditioned trains,
With a hint of that horrible coffee,
And tears and the sun and you.
What can I do?
I put an ocean between us
And still you can reach me across the water,
And across time.


Slanting golden rays
Filtered through leaves
Highlighting bright
Against darkest tar
Of our path.
You and I walk.
Wrapped in warm
Cocooning silence,
Dragonfly children
Floating around our toes
And the sky in five directions
And a solid bed of ground,
You and I walk.
Till the molten gold
Dwindles to a dark light
And all that is left
Are the twinkling lights of souls
And the still-stretching path,
You and I walk.

Fireflies in Bubbles

Unlikely pair,
No one would have imagined
That they would make sense.
No one ever thought
Of putting them together.
But when Fate took matters
Into her own hands
And made them meet,
It wasn’t explosive
Or beautiful
Or any of the other words
That so called perfect couples
Were called.
It was, however,
Alcohol induced childhood,
Love borne in mason jars,
Innocence mixed with innocence,
Like fireflies trapped
In rainbow soap bubbles.


A hallway freshly emptied
Of people matured since their introduction.
A scratchy bowl
Holding keys to
Decades of Memory.
A dark room, a table
And a broken man standing alone.
Blood tainting the frozen ground
Spreading pink snow.
A brother holding the mangled body
Of a sister.
The East wind whipping
Around two men.
And to think it all started from
Three children breathing again
After seven years of war.


An Apology

This is an apology written, not in my usual style. If this were a story, I’d rate it for language.

I know we mess up.
You mess up.
I mess up.
We’re both shitty people,
And all that.
But we’re human. Right?
We’re only human.
So I get it.
Even if you don’t feel apologetic
For not keeping in contact much,
Or even if I don’t feel guilty
And say sorry for being
A total bitch from time to time,
Whatever the fuck happens,
Even if I’m not yours,
You’re my best friend.
The thing is,
I only let a definite number of people
Close to me.
And I don’t want that number
To go to negative.
I love you.
And even if, after today,
We speak only after like fifty years or something,
We’ll still be best friends then.