Behind the Bookshelf

My Happy Place.
The shelf at the end of the hall.
Labeled Architecture.

Today I learnt : I can stuff my face with shawarma, talk to a hundred friends and walk till the world’s end. But the only real place where my demons are proud to roam about is the quiet, serene, old-books-smelling library. Squatting on the floor with a book in my lap regardless of what genre- I find a certain kind of peace that helps me stand up after I stumble.


Soul Searching

I can’t speak for others
Because its not my place to.
But lately I’ve been thinking
These thoughts that loom over
The usual stream of words
That my mind echoes on a
Every second basis.

These thoughts are my soul’s
I like to believe, weirdly enough.
Others say the soul is silent.
How do they know?
Perhaps they’ve never felt the constant unrest mine feels
When it cannot shut the
Incessant background noises?

My soul has something to say.
Something I lost in the depth
Of my memory – as I grew up.
As I stretched out, that connect
With the self, withdrew inwards.
And now I’m stormed by
Whirlwinds of stimulated thoughts
That have no heads or tails.

Now I look : up at the sky,
Eat things I loved as a kid,
Go to places I left memories behind,
Do things I did with my tinier hands.
Anything at all : to awaken those
Triggers which will take me to
Myself: the one that’s hidden safe.
So I can usher it out,
Apologise for the ignorance
And hope for forgiveness.

I need to get back to the
Simple things that made me
Happy : so happy it didn’t matter
What my next meal was,
Or what my partner thinks about me.
Nothing at all : just that moment
And my eagerness to see how the
World would play with me.

Because life is not lived by me
Anymore. I only think. Over think.
Worry about things I can’t control.
Love, hoping for reciprocation
And work tirelessly for an appreciation
That doesn’t matter in the greater
Scheme of things.

My broken verses bring out
My pain: the pain of a person searching for a soul that’s silent.
Because this however needs
That light that shone bright
In an other age.
An age that I called: Happiness.


A mind clear of prejudice

And a voice that doesn’t fear

judgement or criticism.

She walks into the room

with a stride so confident 

and a persona so jovial

that it makes the entire 

room acknowledge her presence.

She’s the one everyone

turns to when there is an

issue to be debated or

voices need to be raised.

Her boldness isn’t gaudy yellow

but a sun-burnt orange 

that makes you linger

despite the brightness.

She writes from her heart

of a faraway pain and a 

stubborn darkness that

has its invisible shackles 

around all our hearts.

You connect to it even if you

wouldn’t agree that

you’ve been there, too.

You either love her

Or you’re shy to accept it.

But she’s got you with 

her enthusiasm and 

spontaneous ingenuity.

Before you know it,

you’re already waiting to 

see her again, like me.

Catch her : Marinated Minds

Read her latest Book – Make It 2 

One of her works that I love the best :



You stumble and fall.

You get lost.

You join nomads.

You abandon travel-mates.

But you’re still walking.

Sometimes running – out of breath.

You never stop.

Life doesn’t let you – that’s its cruel sweetness.

The unseen beauty of how things work – the process in continuum.

You choose some of the paths you take.

And the others choose you.

You find companions on the way.

Some stay while the other have a way of withering away.

Some demand your time. Some are free.

You’re either a nurturer or a wanderer.

You choose companions – for life or for the moment.

That’s the law- break it- and you feel lost within your Universe.

You’re always thinking- too less, too much, deep or shallow.

Reminisce – nostalgia -memories give light.

Fears. Challenges. Betrayals – bring dusk upon you.

You breathe. You sleep. You cry and then look up at the constant sun.

This journey that our lives have begun – ends only at the beginning of another.

Twilight hours


These twilight hours. If you’ve managed to stay awake up until the wee hours without intoxication or adrenaline, then you experience this loosening of a barrage of thoughts. Thoughts you’ve put off for later or avoided altogether. This is the hour they get you. The conscience drops the veil and presents itself.
You may have the tendency to talk at this hour. If not vocally, then through text or art. Because its too early for tomorrow and too for the spontaneous response we’re so afraid of. You are inspired to sow seeds which may or may not germinate into great things… but you’re hopeful enough to try. The milkvan has arrived…its already tomorrow. Will you see the sunrise or sleep till sundown? Will you want to stick to the decisions you made now?
These twilight hours bring us closer to who we are and what we we want to be because we are unafraid. No one is watching and no one will know. You can dance and you can scribble poetry. You can eat the whole pizza in the fridge or do your laundry. Nobody can stop you be yourself because no one owns this hour except you in your own wonder. The limits are subjective and there is no one available to objectify anything.
Respite or thought-soup – depends on how you like it.