My inner voice is a male Asian Koel,

always unseen, always hidden

in heaps of leafy, nonsense thoughts—


I don’t often get to hear its mellifluous note,

as those gibberish leaves rustle and nod

making me caw, rattle and click—


I cannot be happy with the subsong I make,

with words of hoarse alphabets and voice

while all the while there’s a Koel within me—


I have seen those moonlit moments too,

when within a span of darkness and light

all leaves are still, all alphabets sleep—


peeps the blackish Koel holding in its beak

a rapturous joy I often dream to speak.

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Voice @ Poets United


My Words Of Silence


My words of silence

are in monochrome-

they forever sit

on their haunches

in this dark space

of grief-

I watch them closely-

I let them be-

it is possible,

one day they will rise

from this noiselessness

to be a blue-throated-barbet


Posted for my prompt Word @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Shoes (A Haibun)


Vincent van Gogh – Shoes (1888)


My old companion is a pair of sandals I use with my Sari and Salwar-Kameez. I can’t recall when I brought them home. All I know is that they have stuck with me through thick and thin. They are as sweet as my ageless home flip flops and the boot. They smile at me and never feel abandoned when I neatly keep them on a little shoe-rack and walk barefoot in extreme heat. Neither do they feel forsaken when I have to wear my boot on the uneven Himalayan path for they are certain that I will always return to them. These omniscient pairs know of my Achilles heel unfit for stiletto. They know my fear of Falling from Grace of a still unscathed body. They are aware of my ambitionless soul to raise myself a bit higher. They also know how tied I am to my comfort zone of old, unbroken and never failing friendship.



in storms and rains

not a soul by your side

but old friends


Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Shoes @ Poets United

Hometown Haibun


I wish to downsize my living and move to my hometown where I grew up. To do that, I have bought a tiny apartment with plenty of sunshine and southerly breeze. At old age what more do we need than that? The town has changed though. My old school is still there with a new and spiffy look I had not seen before. All school friends have faded out; some from memories and some out of this world almost like the thickets being vanished with their birds and fireflies. There’s no horizon to see the sunrise or moonrise but there is no shortage of brooding high-rises like eyesores. Lusterless stars blink half heartedly. They seem to be scared of manmade light. Local markets have thinned making rooms for big malls where young ladies in designer clothes tip tap the mall floors with their stilettos. Whatever happened to the beautiful Saris? Stray dogs are aplenty but not so with the cats. Where have they gone? People are moving into small or big apartments selling away their ancestral properties to promoters who are always on the lookout with their hawk eye for such lands to erect their skyscrapers. And quiet flows the Ganges, here, as before like the Changeless God. I wonder though if the Ganges-dolphins are still there like they used to be when I was a  child.



Through a pall of smoke

Two bluetail damselflies dart

Towards a wetland


Posted for dVerse Hometown Haibun hosted by Mish





The quintessential, ambush predators

are they

who camouflaged in code names

like Little Boy* or Fat Man**

thwapped out their tongues

of hatred and pride

to ambush their prey…..

Who are their prey?

Ask those specters

who lived in the 1940’s

in the area of Hiroshima

or Nagasaki….

*Atom Bomb for Hiroshima

**Atom Bomb for Nagasaki

Posted for my prompt @ Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Weapon

Psyche (Soul)


Here in our land we grow up with the idea of reincarnations, that tells us Soul or Self or Atman or Brahman or God or Consciousness or Living Energy is different from Mana (Mind), Buddhi (Intellect), Chitta (The storehouse where all the Samskaras/ impressions of our past work or Karma are stored) and Ahamkara (Ego). The mind is a subtle body that stays with all the Karma done even when the gross body passes away. It takes another body through birth to work out the Karma. The body, while living, houses the eternal and immortal Atman making every living object Divine. Once this Atman is awakened, he/she becomes One with the Atman and escapes the cycle of births and deaths.



However I am one of those souls whose Atman is in deep sleep. So every day I have to wake up with a Mind that’s a cheeky brat and has the power to become a stormy sea with sky reaching waves of unholy desires. Thank God that I have received a Name to perform Japa (repetition of a Mantra) to soothe it down. My Mind tries to escape from the task until Buddhi ties it up and forces it to do the job. It’s a hard struggle everyday to brave those waves. I have already taken a bath in fire. It’s agonizing as well as ecstatic to see a desire fall like an auburn autumn leaf. I covet to make a bonfire of desires. Even if I have to take a million births for that I will certainly do that.



flakes of darkness dance

only for a time being

the sunrise happens

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Psyche (Soul) @ Poets United

The Body



That day I dreadfully discovered

that my right shoulder

had a mind of its own-

I was amazed at its ill will-

even its whisper was painful to bear-

I couldn’t say, “How dare…….”

I have to put up with

all its mischief, for the time being-

my mind is an angel…

I watch how, like a loving mother,

it makes the sick baby

do all the stretching-

the baby won’t budge

at the time of towel stretch-

but the stern mind is ever so patient,

takes its time

and then makes the babe do its job…

that the devil sloth

doesn’t appear and gobble up the mind

is my only prayer now-


Posted for my prompt @ Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Poetry about the Body





we stand in the doorway

of a lingering dream

to reach

a close space of four walls

with a roof overhead

called a room

to shelter us

from a sneering world-

the full moon in the open

with its icy touch is deadly to us-

let all open space be theirs,

the sky, rivers, oceans, mountains and all-

let them eat the moon, stars and the sun

with their everlasting hunger

for more-

this dream of ours

will carry us to our own door


we carry on weaving

this hope-



Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Doorway(s) @ Poets United