I? Me? Who? (Poem)

Who am I if I'm not me?

Why am I if I'm not me?

What am I if I'm not me?

A faceless stranger?

A soulless spirit?

A body without a body?

I? Me? Who?

And who's that asking -

"Who are you?"

Black and White (Poem)

I walked down those memory lanes long forbidden by time,

All alone, all in the night, in the darkness.

But I didn’t loose my way,

I never could have,

With the ghosts of memories as my companions.

They took my feet to that spot,

Below the barks of that ancient tree,

Where I first met her,

Where dreams were first made,

Where my life took a turn.

They played for me the vision of the past -

She walking towards me in that peacock green salwar,

Books in her hand, her long braided hair,

That smile on her lips and yet,

Cautious of herself and forgetful about the world around her.

They lead me to that portico in front of the library,

Where we had spent hours,

Looking into each others eyes,

Talk in the language of silence,

Sharing “sweet nothings”.

Life looked much greener then,

Though through my pink glasses.

There was love in the air,

Hopes, high up in the sky,

And every heart beat felt like a thud!

I’ve heard that ghosts see no colours,

For I saw all that in black and white.

Or maybe, it was the moon light.


I can still hear the fading tunes of a love song,
Never heard before and that'll never be heard.
But the music is so fine, rhythmic and insane,
That a heart that has learned to love and pine,
Can only listen to it. 

The peacock green has faded,

My heart beats have mellowed,

I see no lips smiling at me.

The sound of silence has become very loud,

Those “sweet nothings” have become nothing.

Funeral (Poem)

That mournful Sunday, I still remember,
The day, for my friend, that dusked forever.

People gathered in numbers,
Some faces familiar and some not,
To bid adieu on his last journey.

Tears of pearl that rolled down the cheeks,
The deepest pangs that lingered the hearts,
The silent grief of acceptance and
The grieved wails of non acceptance.
All these and more of displays,
To wreathe the mortal's case.

But the smile, I recollect, that played on his face,
As he lay couched in his case.
A smile so resplendent and of grace,
That the flower in my hand shied off at a gaze.
A smile that never decorated his face,
Never once in his soulful days.

I wonder what elation of thy heart,
that brings a smile so divine when one departs!

Is it the assurance of a dawn after the dusk?
Is it the happiness of ultimate liberation?
Or, is it the silent agreement
to the non-agreeable of the fleshy days?

My thoughts thus wound around
the stubborn negligence of realities.
But my hands didn't fail to scatter
the scoop of sand over the case.

The scoop that added to the heap
that keep the things forever underneath,
Hidden from the eyes that came to wreathe.