Where did all the crows go?

Where did all the crows go?

says my disappointed mother

who is now sitting 

with an untouched bowl of

puri, kheer, khajur 

and ghughuti

What about others-

I ask?

Heaving a big sigh, she says,

No Sparrows, No Pigeons

Not even a squirrel


Gone, Gone, Gone !!

in these uncertain times

a bowl of uneaten ritual bound food

just adds on 

to the ever existing worry list

it’s so cold,

they will come tomorrow

I falsely assure her

and she nods

maybe the birds know 

we have Covid

maybe they too 

are socially distancing themselves

from the human race

now they have abandoned 

human residing roofs

only eating organic

from the swaying yellow 

mustard fields

maybe this time, it would be us

passing on our viruses

to other kinds

so they have gone,

gone with the wind

hiding in the

abandoned human buildings

but not eating 

human cooked food

after all, they too

have to survive

survival of the fittest

when humans will cease to exist

animal farm will become a reality

the earth would be ruled by birds

And maybe then

crows too, will cook

puri, kheer, khajur and ghughuti

Until then, 

They are Gone, Gone, Gone

There are None…None…None !!

Bring the spring home

As I open my window,
my eyes,
fall on you.
I see you smiling,
up from the walls.
As I escape my door,
to knock on yours,
I find some of you,
peeking through,
the fence,
the passersby.
I envy,
the flourishing
gardens you adorn.
So I move closer,
to feel,
your presence.
Your sparkly eyes,
with a twinkle,
when I touch you
with my bare fingers.
Sitting on the crown,
your smirk mischievously,
the spotlight.
Bestowed by your charm,
I decide,
to ornate,
my place,
with your aesthetic.
So I bring,
the enchantment,
of the spring,

Rainbow Bulle

The yellow boots,
drenched in rainwater,
with mud spatters,
enters the big puddle.
A small rainbow bubble
welcomes the two feet.
Two adjoining dots,
peer back,
the lurking shadow.
It resembles someone,
but whom,
it knows, not.
They both,
unfolding layers,
of the other.
They both look the same,
yet they are years apart.
One with yellow boots,
only smiles,
while the other,
laugh with eyes closed.
One has melancholy eyes,
the other, sunlit sparkles in them.
The furrowed eyebrows,
at moonlit glow,
of the other.
Yes, they might look the same
but are years apart.
The umbra,
with knitted eyebrows,
gaze quizzically,
towards the two poles,
of this side.
As if asking,
the why’s
of the metamorphosis.
With a wry smile,
the vulnerable self,
answers, back politely.
People and time,
ever changing,
two’s of the world.
The silhouette,
slowly picks up,
coloured droplet,
and passes it on,
to the absolute.
The reverie breaks.
The yellow boots,
drenched in rainwater,
with mud spatters,
moves out of the large puddle,
leaving the trace,
of seven-band,
healed aura.

How overrated you are?

Do you know how overrated you are?
Arising from the pit of my stomach,
leading to a racing heart.
The waterfall from my eyes,

causing this unbearable pain in my chest,
and yet, they all tell me,
blessed I am, because I know you.
What kind of blessing is it,
where I give,
All of me.
and wait,
and wait,
and wait,
for all of you,
to hold me.
The poets praise you,
the writers write their stories about you,
and here I am,
holding the bare threads,
trying to roll them into a ball,
Always thinking,
how overrated are you?
From Moonlight sonata
to Rumi’s words,

you are every artist’s best muse.
And yet, I am sliding,
in abyss,
while trying to,
hold you.
And pondering,
why are you so overrated?
But then,
the spur of moments,
with gentle showers,
and warm breezes,

with a radiant smile,
and tearful laughter,
the corners,
and igniting,
the soul,
and in those,
I know,
my dear,
why you are so overrated.


The yellow rain boots,
with layers of mud,
kept going,
in the marshes.
The pale pink dress,
snugging to the body,
was moving.
Disheveled long hair,
as darkness engulfed
all around,
with the bursting
of grey clouds.
Tired yet alive,
In pain but still moving,
to where,
who knows,
but still,
in the pursuit of happiness,
Clenching hope,
between her,
pruney fingers,
new dawn.

Fernweh is German word, means an ache to get away and travel to a distant place, a feeling even stronger than wanderlust.It literally translates to “distance-sickness.”. While someone with wanderlust might sit at home and happily fantasize about all the places they might visit, someone with fernweh would feel a deeper sense of longing, a sort of homesickness but for foreign lands.


Here she comes
tiptoeing on the dry land
leaving the warm comfort
of dark clouds
engulfing all other odors
filling the air
with its sweet muddy scent.
The clouds roar
in pain of separation.
Striking lightning
and thunder on nature.
The soaked earth
bears their wrath
without a flinch.
tiny big droplets
in its bosom.
She looks up
at her sad lover,
with a wry smile,
on her moon face.
As if,
concealing some
last secret,
to him.
The earth consoles her,
with a warm hug,
and wise words,
Sometimes to reach
the zenith
you need to pass
through the hell.

PS: The city has been showered with its first rain of the season, subsiding the scorching heat of the summer. And I couldn’t resist my temptation to roll down my words on the piece of parchment.

The Crossover

Sneaking from behind,
the fallen branches,
I saw a beautiful golden deer.
Standing on the other side,
of the old wooden bridge.
A deja-vu moment,
luring me to fall,
in the trap,
of pursuing the stag.
I followed,
in haze,
The deer scent.
The walk,
to heaven,
is what I felt.
Holding the beam,
I crossed,
to the other side.

The other side

I lost myself,
in the beauty,
of that rare deer.
The time,
passed by,
And I heard my name,
from the other side,
I knew,
someone was looking,
for me,
on the other side.
The charm got broken,
when I lifted my eyes,
the deer was gone.
I stood there,
at this side.
I tried turning back,
but an unknown force,
kept me,
glued to the place.
One more time,
I heard my name,
from the other side.
I knew,
I have to go back,
to that side.
With heavy feet,
I dragged my limp body,
to the bridge.
But the walk,
wasn’t the same.
The bridge,
was tangled in algae,
I slip and slip,
bruising my dampen body.
Tell me,
Oh, deer,
How on earth,
do I cross,
from this side,
of dreamy heaven,
to the other side,
of real life.
How do,
I do,
this crossover.

March Madness

March you made me feel seventeen again.
The month started with the trepidation of upcoming days,
Just like then where I feared about my last exams of school life,
This time the fear was different, but the jitters were the same,
I was seventeen again.
This March had tears too,
Just like then where I cried for the end of my school life.
The melody of life was jumbled up, and the future looked blurred,
I felt like a fool for being seventeen again.

I was reading Harry Potter then too,
And I read Harry Potter in this March also,
Cause I was reliving my seventeenth year unbeknownst to myself.

I was trying hard to conceal the darkness inside me
Shoving away the lurking shadows in the boxes of my concealed past.

This March I laughed a bit too, at silly things,
the funny cats and dog memes,

It was the night that brought with it, the stillness of my life.
I craved some moments to last forever,
Even though I knew there is nothing like forever,
But what can I say, after all, I was seventeen again.
The beauty of seventeen is, it has hope packed with layers of disappointment,
Whereas now, I need to search for light within.
This march I felt seventeen again,
With highs as high as hurricane high,
Lows as low as Mariana Trench.
The only difference,
Between then and now is,
The intensity of emotions,
The Mt Kilimanjaro of then became Mt Everest of now.
So this how my march begin,
and will end,
by being seventeen again.


I have this unknown feeling
rising inside my pit,
I know not,
whether its a person,
or a place,
that I constantly miss now.
But I have this feeling for long,
long enough,
to turn my inside,
upside down.
I know not,
how long will it last,
but I know,
that it’s tearing me apart.
This feeling,
takes me to dark places,
of my own heart,
breaking me into
a million pieces of mosaic art.
I wish at times,
I knew what,
this missing,
is all about,
but I know not,
except that,
this saudade,
tears me up,
From moments to moments.
Leaving my soul,
into two halves.

Saudade is used to explain the feeling of missing something or someone.
It is used to tell about something that you used to have (and liked) but don’t have anymore.
But literally, it goes deeper. Its a beautiful word of Portuguese origin, evokes a sense of loneliness and incompleteness. In a whole bunch of clumsy English words, Saudade means “the love that remains” after someone is gone. It’s the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It describes a deep nostalgic longing. It brings sad and happy feelings all at once;