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Dimple Cheek

The dimple on her cheek is the first thing that comes to my mind when I think about her. I have written poems on her dimple. Poems on my desire to kiss and bite her cheek so hard, so that to begin the next day engaging in “Oodal” (false fight) for making it red. Did I utter the word Oodal? – the only Tamil word that makes her feel nostalgic. Yes indeed, it is her favourite word. Now I even remember how I use to collect all the Kural (Couplets) that talks about Oodal and reciting it to her.

I remember how she use to fall asleep on my lap – on the bench under the tree – in children’s park. She cuddles me in her sleep, murmurs about the day, and if lucky she gives real kisses too. My thighs pain and legs go numb but I never disturb her sleep. It is funny how she fell for me for such trivial gestures. While, I, on the other hand – after she falls asleep – continued to talk to her about how beautiful she is? When she feels everything dreamy/ unclear the next day. I feel good that way, because I repeat the same thing again and again.

Today, I don’t know why I am remembering random things about her – The tears she shed, the happy moments, fights, kisses, outings, gifts, songs, days, nights, stories, gossips, friends, dance – Thinking, whether she will ask me to live all these memories once again?

I don’t know.

But to end with, I still find her cheeks desirable and am not going to write a poem now. 🙂



She was sitting near the window – like a turtle, she was in her shell – immersed into the words of someone else. Her big eyeglasses were reflecting the text distorted; I leap to have a glance of what she was reading and all I could see was her bangles. Oh yes! bangles on both the hands – unusual I know. But the bangles looks as if she was cuffed to the book that she was reading. She smiles and laugh and widens her eyes with excitement as she read. Whomever the writer is s/he must be knowing “how to grab the attention of the other through narratives?” I know how powerful the words are both spoken and written. And I always wanted to conquer those words that interests other to get their attention; in this case her attention. Alas! I’m clearly failing.

The sun was gradually raising, and her eyebrows were moving against the light. Blocking the sun with the book in her hands she sets her hair. It was Monday, think she took a head bath and maybe due to hurry she didn’t dry her hair. I saw her hair tangled and wet. As she continued reading, her eyes slipped a line and accidentally glanced me seated next to her. Though it was like any other day I some how lost all the words that I carried with me for her at that moment. Her reflexes are so quick to understand the same before getting back to the line she slipped.

The journey continued without exchanging any words.

But the future is not.

Humming Bird

If there is a size below zero she looks exactly the one. Some time I wonder, how she navigates her little body? from place to place. And will she able to take a pat on her shoulder? as an appreciation for the work well done. I don’t know! She flaps her wings a thousand time to maintain a balance in the air feeding on every flower. But I hardly know anything about the purpose of her flight. Am not pitying her physical strength or romanticizing. But just randomly thinking about her.

She is known for her quickness. It must be natural for her to learn everything fast, but maybe without realizing the good and the bad. And it is obvious that she has to visit every flower that is empty as well as the one overflowing with honey. As a spectator I can reason out with my human mind that not all flowers taste the same. But she has to feed herself to survive. I see her getting obsessed with one flower which she finds attractive. She knew that the flower contains honey occasionally. In spite of the fact, she waits! For days and months starving. The flower never bloomed, thereafter.

The last I saw her flew- flapping her now the broken wings- to the same flower which she is obsessed with- looking for honey.

I am Thought

I wouldn’t say it was a bad day. For him it was a day of Indulgence, a thought which was so deep, it made him numb. He works in a night club, he has lots of work to do now. But he seems to be occupied. Everyone who entered the hall could sense, that he is troubled. He isolated himself from the crowd, who were shattering his thoughts with laughter and stares. So he stood at the entrance. “LEAVE right now”, a voice from inside exploded like a scream. It was a voice with such a terrifying intensity, he could hardly handle. The event was pretty colourful, the lights, music, drinks and so on. The ambience and the nature of the party reaches him like a wave, whenever someone enters and exits the event. The door excluded him and the guest differently, no actually he made that. He was not attracted by the event, but his thought breaks down constantly because of the guests. He sat like a model of pain, on whom the others were relaxing. May be he was a pain bearer who stood at the entrance, carrying the bundle of anger, frustration, pain from the guests. As the time passed, the music turned louder, lights brighter, there was scream, a mad laughter, and so on. It pounded his thoughts harder from both inside and outside the door. He covered his ears and head with both hands and fell flat on his face. His conscious was fading, but none was around to look after.

I don’t know how he did that, but yes, he somehow managed to drag himself into the rest room. He made a room for himself near the wash basin. And leaned towards the wall where a huge mirror was kept hanging. He splashed some water on his face, and wiped the blood. He didn’t regain his conscious, but his thoughts were. When he looked himself into the mirror, his thoughts got a shape. The longer he looked, the longer his reflection stared at him. His image started to blend in him and became one. An indescribable SCREAM exploded and he lost his consciousness. Nobody knows what he was thinking.

I am the THOUGHT.

It was cool, calm and drizzling

It was cool, calm and drizzling
I sat in a place where
Once an old tree stood with glory
With which our mason measured
The now called “foreign languages complex”

They called her old, and weak then
They dragged her to ground and broke
It was cool, calm and drizzling
But I no more feel it same.
Those birds left the place, so the old one
With no peace.

I was forced to stand and stare.
Not the one like Frost to share
But to tell things that not so fair
To the passers who least care.

I miss you old lady

With love
Your son.

Paint me with Love

I’m holding my hands
Too long and too wide
Too long so that I can reach you
Too wide so that I can hold you.

Never doubt for how long
I can stand like this.
Of course I complain
Now and then, too much of time
Pains my hands.

So paint me with love
I will stay freeze
Like the painting on the “grecian urn”
Playing the song which is never heard
Dancing without a single move.

When you are done
Call your work of art
As a master piece
Make people believe that I’m
The symbol of love
From then on, you can say nothing.

Let the world talk about us.
By making people’s gaze meaningful,
And breaking all their sarcasm and
Doubts on my madness which
Have been misjudged in the past.

If art tells lie to convey the truth
Then let the painting do its job.
Else let it stand for nothing
For the people who least carry
Rational minds for emotions.

To Good Lord Devil

My birth got legitimized

Since I got baldness from my father

My race was classified

With my brownish skin tone

My caste was formalized

With my cleanliness

My wealth was identified

With my dress code in general

My religion was traced

Through the symbols I carry

My language was standardized

With my unique accent

My character was recognized

Though the friends I have

But nothing in the above stood

For me alone but only in “relation to”

Good Lord Devil

Take me to hell

Where you treat all the sinners

In the same way

And if you give chance for all

To take next birth

Make us blind

Before you let us go.