From The Bard's Pen

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet,
to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me—
nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

- Hamlet

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

My Second-Best Bed

My Darling,

You deserve the best I know,
But since I’m no longer sure 
Of your feelings for me, 
I leave,
my second-best bed
For thee…

A bed where I lie
Dead now…
Uncomfortable as hell,
With bed sores
The feelings and memories
This wooden structure holds,
I hope they pass on to you

The lonely nights 
When I waited in vain,
The discomfort of bed bugs,
The backbone strains..
It’s all in here
In this bed centuries old,
It’s where we first made love
It’s where I died alone…

The best bed of course
holds memories serene
The birth of my lil ones,
the maternal scenes
Your touch will spoil that-
that purity of love.
You deserve the second-best bed,
The one with giant bugs.

Darling, I hope that
When you lie in that bed,
And close your eyes,
And look for some rest…
I hope you also feel 
Even if only for a moment of time
What it feels like to be termed the “second-best”
Almost all of your life…

Thursday, February 16, 2012


Innumerable bidders
for my virginity

Not that I was beautiful
No... just vulnerable.

Syrupy promises
poisoned my ears
And there were gifts to incite greed
Sparkling gems, rubies,
rare stones
paved the path I treaded.

None offered love
I wasn’t a girl one could take home

They averted their eyes in daylight
Eyes that worshiped me
At night.

I bargained hard

Not really...

My dreams I traded-
for the crisp currency
for a gold chain
for some beautiful crimson cloth

a white shroud for my father..

Friday, January 27, 2012

A forgotten rose in a diary

Lending a yellow tinge to
the crimson words
it lies there forgotten.

Often I have dropped it,
misplaced it or left it behind..
Strangely it turns up
at the same page every single time.
Bookmarking the day
we lit candles for my god,
when I started believing that you
indeed were the One.

Many more pages I scripted
for love and loss,
watered them with my tears.
Yet you remained there
a silent observer...
A voyeur.

I can just see that malice
in your fading petals
that herald the winter of my love.
Or perhaps it is just the scent you
leave behind on the pages
that have become one with you...
Chronicling a love forgotten

Just like a forgotten rose in a diary..