The end is nigh

April 17, 2017 § 1 Comment

It’s the end of an era. That’s what they all say.

I’ve been trying to reconcile myself with the idea of an ending and, know what? It’s not easy. There’s barely a month left for my last semester on campus to end. I have no idea how I’ve made it through eight semesters on this campus. I don’t know if I should weigh my experiences in terms of battles fought in public or in private… if I should gauge the extent of my influence through the number of foes made or that of friends earned. Should I flaunt the proud medal of lessons learnt or the indelible stains of regret?  I truly do not know.

I only know that it has been one hell of ride. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. At this point, all I can really say is– Thank you.

Thank you– whether you were that friend who was there for me through the thick of the night. Or that friend with whom I’ve shared a few harmless laughs and traded passionate stories with. Or that friend I’ve worked on last minute assignments with, shared club work with, or waved at between classes. And, thank you, even if I’ve never spoken to you. We never met because we never had to. Our lives ran in tangents, our interests never brought us together. But, you must know, my college experience is richer thanks to your refreshingly different imagination. Together, unknown to each other, we’ve built a rearing, kicking, thriving beast of an ecosystem that is a thing of beauty.

Relationships have changed, motivations have evolved, self-identity has been remoulded in a furnace of hot contemplations and cold disappointments. In the mad run behind grades, internships and impending deadlines, and the intoxicating stillness of special moments that have been seared into our memory during college, we found ourselves a story.

This is our story. We’ve left our imprints all over it. It lies in our memory like a snow globe of frozen time carrying a whiff of rain-washed eucalyptus leaves leading up to a short but memorable pit-stop called BITS Pilani.

BITS Pilani – Thanks to you, I’ve known magic.

Poems about Winter

December 27, 2016 § Leave a comment

I’m having a horrible spell of being unmotivated, confused, and uninspired by things I love. Like reading, writing, everything. I’m trying hard to break out of it. I’ve always thought that my head, my heart and my soul lies in my pen. For this reason, I think I’ll write quite regularly, almost feverishly, in the next few days.

I’m looking to be saved.


Cold morning light breaks onto
a realm of sleepy possibilities
I wrap myself tighter in my rug,
am I awake? ready to leave?
Fingers lace nervously around
a thread of cloth coming undone
Another tryst with the rough edge of
life, and then some more, for fun


December 23, 2016 § 2 Comments


We should talk about it.
The heaviness in your voice when you speak out. It‘s your turn, don’t worry, dear darling. 
We should write about it.
The fear in your eyes when I hear you say please, baby! there’s no need to be sorry.
We should let the world know.
What it means, all these words that you whisper in your sleep and how they go unheard

Your skin
Your skin has turned sallow with the poison that you brew in your own silence.
Your eyes
I can see them droop gently, but it’s not cute how you’re always so worried.
Your lips
used to curl at the corners with a hint of honest laughter, now I see frown-lines

When did you grow so ancient?
Every thought that escapes your mouth is a prayer that goes unheard.
When did you stop believing?
In the strength of your will that took ages to build but now I see it crumbling
Sweet child, don’t you know that I’m watching?
And all that I want, and all that I need, is for you to believe…

you can be happy. 







Sunny afternoons and casual contemplations

October 11, 2016 § Leave a comment


Is there a word in the English dictionary that means “constant need to write”?

I wonder.

If there were, it would save this blog from quite a few meta-articles on writing. Or maybe not. I’m one of the many amateur writers out there who has written about writers block when …surprise, surprise, I had no idea what to write. It doesn’t help that there is a word for it, I just would not shut up about it.

“The world does not need more literature on writer’s block, Meghana,” I tell myself but to no avail.

I can’t seem to decide what I want to write– just that there is a burning need to. Sometimes I etch a scene with a harried character finding himself standing on an open stage, his knees sweating out of stage-anxiety, and I pick that very moment to drop my pen on the sheet and give up- let the poor bastard freeze in an alternative dimension where I’m playing Cruella Deville (oh! How I love puppies)

Then sometimes I write poetry-long, short, incomplete. And at other times I just want to sit down and philosophize and fantasize and epitomize on these curious things called love, life, pain, beauty and desire.

On unexpected holidays like this one (a big thank you to the 30,000 gods of my religion. And, oh, for secular democracy) when I’m soaking up some sun in my loose cotton shorts and oversized hand-me-down t-shirts and feeling generally doozy- I think that, hey, now’s a good time to talk about life.

I’ve come across so many styles of writing and I keep discovering more. It’s amazing how style- this elusive, luscious, captivating thing- can be expressed in writing. The intricacies of it are beguiling. A trained eye can tell one good author from another because his writing style is nothing less than his own fingerprint.

Take Ray Bradbury- so child-like in his awe in descriptions, so evocative and poetic in his use of words. I find him to be my biggest influence in my writing style.

“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”

– ‘Zen in the art of writing’ by Ray Bradbury

Take Bukowski- who lived and breathed his words on writing for the sake of writing. No beginning. No ending. No story. No catharsis. Yet his verse was hardened by decrepitude of the low-lives in L.A. Alcohol, Sex, Women and Words. A mix that was poetic in its world weary realism.

What about Wodehouse? He who deals in verse for the sheer joy of word play. He doesn’t write about the joy or glory or melancholy that pervades our existence. Good lord, no! He writes about the absurdity in the ordinary.

In writing, I see new ways to see the world.
More writing, and I appreciate them even more

Do you know how it is like to be understood by someone in another time, another place, another city of broken people, someone who exists no more. Or wait, does he? Doesn’t he reside in these pages? Don’t his words still move you until you discover thunder and lighting and rage inside? Don’t they make you feel more passion than the hundreds of people you meet everyday at the traffic junction? He exists…and he is like no other

From thought experiments and logical word-contraptions to a celebration of the beauty in the ephemeral to dealing with the constant flux in mankind- books have personalities of their own. So refined, so exquisite, so well-engraved in time.

Sometimes they teach me to be the wisened old statesmen, sometimes I’m running the footsteps of an excited child.

I’m more than me
I’m more than I can ever be.
Because there’s always more books to read.


August 30, 2016 § Leave a comment

Every song has

a raagam-
the highs, the lows, the trills, the lulls

a taalam-
an aching pulse that carries its spirit forward

a pallavi-
a poetic refrain that echoes long after the song’s certain death

When I watched the story of
the guru, the dancer and the disciple
unfold in front of me
I was touched-
the piety! the soul!
I sat by you on the low wooden bed of
our family home
struck by cinema three-decades old

Un-fazed by the reverence
of the divine song
of the dance of the gods
(Open follower of blasphemous
serial tv)
You already knew the beauty of the ordinary.
so you picked apart the stem from the beans
passing instructions once in a while
I grudgingly lent a hand

with the resplendent pink bottu
powdered and patiently painted
black savaram to match your thinning hair
a diamond stud gleaming on your nose
like rainwater on a lotus leaf
crushed cotton saree that smelt like homecoming
your skin- cold against my hands
honey-combed in texture

an apostle of fairness
in a world filled with usurpers of chocolate
the one who keeps, and keeps, and keeps
for all who want, and want, and want.
you know our needs never end
and when they do
we must think of another who
still deserves
like Pushpa – the maid who grew up at home
like Sruthi- Pushpa’s little girl
or Ammagaru- every cook that ever was

we never knew your
raagam– your childhood, your motherhood, your memories
taalam– the fears, the worries, the resilience

but I know how I’d
draw circles on the broad expanse of your back
press my small hands
on the hard calluses of your feet
searching for invisible knots
in muscles gone sore and cold
I’d brush my fingers through
the sparse silver-grey strands of hair
that kiss your scalp
your smile like a crescent as you open your arms
while I land a peck on your cheek
A memory so strong….

you’re almost there.


a poetic refrain that echoes loudly
long after the song has ceased
to be



August 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

Image result for moon through trees photography

do you remember the quickness
in our breaths
eyes darting under wicked lashes
searching if we’re all alone
if the night is ours to own
do you remember the brush of fingertips
hidden meanings in the space
between us
like dragon eggs in mid-flight
settling upon us like silver
move away-
our secrets may catch the light
exposed to the curious passer by
a touch of electric phosphorescence
and two-coats of love


I passed our favourite spot
by the bay
where the dragon flies made
lazy eights
and the wild grass spoke to the
it seems like it were only yesterday
that we stood there with ragged breaths
and impatient eyes
under those anxious moonlit


Sometimes when the night is clear
and the cicadas don’t sigh too loud
I can hear the echo of our footsteps
tap tap tap-
your impatient shuffle punished the road
thud thud da thud-
went my half-skip half-walk alongside
I can hear them by the
window and
I catch myself wondering
if I’m at the edge of a framed moment
a small peek and short stretch away
from that silver-stained, luminous
if only I could find a momentary lapse
a stitch in time come undone…

the moon was our only witness and-
I think she still remembers us




August 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

Image result for bed photography images

This morning…
my thoughts break into a
sudden song
my eyes are heavy with
sleep and
a persisting thudthud rings
in my ears
the world is a victim of
my abandon
I draw myself farther and
farther in
and farther and farther
the morning breeze settles on my skin
like a hot and despairing exhale

This morning…
I stretch my fingers and toes
to grasp all that I can not have
and I drool a wet, shapeless pool of
what remains of last night’s dream
The morning headlines blare and shriek
of a restless, hurry-some reality
I draw myself farther and
farther in
and farther and farther
content in the semi-lucid knowledge
of memories un-lived
and wishes unfulfilled
and lessons re-learnt
and loves long-lost

It’s the haunting melody of
everything we no longer have
and everything we never will
everything that has ever
moved us to shudder, shiver, sigh
in the empty remembrances of
the night
until we shrank farther and
farther in
and farther and farther