The tide was here last night and it left the ruminants of a colorless ocean on the silty beach. The children no longer come out to collect the shells. And the women do not come to lay on their bare backs on the beach while the sun caresses them gently. And neither do the men linger on the nifty shores. Everything seems to be taken up by the tide–the sickness. And there is no laughter anymore. And no one can even cry, for tears are forgotten. And everywhere there are empty streets and empty sheets. And mankind seems lost and it is nowhere to be found. The clubs are empty, the shops, the mosques, the churches, the synagogues…people seem to be wiped away from the face of the earth, perhaps taken in by the sickness.

And in a dusty corner, with an ink of fresh blood, a few lines can be read–by the ghosts of the living street

Today I am taken up by a sickness, It breathed within me
Yet I moved beyond the sun–into the turbulent sea
Because that was one way to go, and another way was to be
And did I want to be? Or did i wish to go
If I could recall the last time I laughed, it wasn’t long ago
Then why could I not feel–the beating of my heart
Every time I was to breathe
And now I will not be able to see
The love-starved faces with their touch-starved bodies
Feasting on emptiness and a livid glee
Because where I am going, a sickness lives
A sickness beyond our average needs




We often become overcome by sunlight which emanates from within our cold core and exhumes us and turns into an inextinguishable fire which then spreads out. There is no way around it. If we let it burn, it burns everything. If we embrace it, it overtakes us. If we let it go–it eventually becomes faint and fizzles out. It is like a forlorn shadow which follows us around.

Of this, like most people we meet in our lives–who are meant to stay and meant to leave, there is no tangible memory. They become ghosts which follow us and haunt us like shadows, sometimes to entangle with our bodies and often, just as parts outside of us–trying to fill us and make us whole. But they never will and they never can. Because they are shadows, incomplete.

And we–all of us, are defected. In that, we have one main defect; we are missing from ourselves. We are absent from ourselves. And every time we try to catch our own fleeting shadow–we fail.

And we often sit around in odd places where no one knows us–thinking to ourselves that maybe serendipity will come through and maybe we will see someone or something who can take a look at the turmoil that we are and see the nakedness of our being and appreciate it. But it never happens. And if it happens, we suddenly grab hold of ourselves and draw the curtains back–because no one actually wants to be seen. No one actually wants to be felt. No one actually wants to be touched.

And like shadows–we follow ourselves into the great mists of yesterday, today and tomorrow. And like shadows we sometimes fade mid-way. Just like the people who come and go from the busy trapdoors of our lives.

But the truth is, we cannot have shadows without ourselves. And whether they are elongated or shortened or dark or light or in front of us or behind us—they are there, unwilling to leave us, as we are, reluctant to let go of them.

We are all, in a very requited way, attached with our shadows!

It’s a Crack


The window from which you look outside-into the grey stillness of the fading away world, has a crack. A very small and subtle one. But it grows every minute and soon it will turn into a void. Do you see this crack? Does it remind you of yourself? Does it remind you of anyone else? Does it remind you of the tragedy that is the human world? The human world which has been taken over by the crowds of people. Banal. Does it remind you of the the rabid dog which goes around yelping into the bleak, dingy streets filled with darkness? Does it remind you of the transsexual romantic wandering looking for closure form the world? Does it remind you of anything? Anyone?

Because there is a crack in everything. And everything is in that crack.

Remember the time when the sparrow waded in the sky and looked down below and the only thought it had was about jumping down and killing itself…Only the tragedy was that it had wings and it could fly. You do not remember because you were not there. But next time you are, remember this. Maybe that is why the sparrow flies. To dive down so it can perish. Maybe it is not about the flight, the freedom–maybe it is chained because of its wings! You do not know–because you do not have any wings. And that is your tragedy.

Remember the time when an orphan boy roamed around in disarray, finding a home inside his house, bluffing with his own being. He adopted a stray dog, because he saw something familiar in it. Only, the dog got gunned down, shot once, shot twice, shot dead and cold. That is the tragedy of the orphan boy who now wanders the streets, finding a home outside his house. You do not remember, because you have a home–outside your home. And that is your tragedy.

Do you recall the time when the old woman forgot herself? She sat in a wooden chair looking at the window with the crack and simply forgot who she was. She could not remember her happiness or her sorrows or her longing or her empty shell. She forgot to smile. She forgot to cry. She only remembered that she has forgotten herself. That is her tragedy. Oh so you do recall! That is your tragedy.

Remember the poetry of the vagrant? How they talked about the happy worlds and the giddy dreams? And the tumult in those cryptic words? Silence in the dead language? Remember how the vagrant passed it on to no one–and was lost! That was his tragedy. You can not remember because it made no sense to you. And so the poetry of the world was lost once more–and that is your tragedy.

I have no more stories for you–except I do. But like a subtly cracked window–I will pretend I have nothing. Except I have an abyss. And your tragedy is that I see, I feel and I hear. But you cannot see me watching you, listening to you, feeling you. Because you do not perceive me–you cannot hear me, you cannot feel me. That, perhaps is the tragedy of those around me. And my tragedy is that I know it and understand it.

And the window has a crack. But it is just a crack. And it is a defiant one. And like all defiant things–it too shall break. And that is perhaps the biggest tragedies of all. The tragedy of all tragedies.



Dusk dispatched messages for those who liked to linger in the wild calamitous shores of the Night every time it reached a transition point. And though there were only few–they never opened those messages. For they knew already what Dusk would have to say, they feared what Dusk had to say–and they were tormented.

Sometimes they stayed back and did not cross over to the night. They became ghosts. Sometimes they climbed the broken walls and would glance at the Night. They could not decipher its mysteries and its depth. But neither could Night decipher their longing for the Dusk. So sometimes they would hang back and stay over, within the Dusk–the silent stillness which marred it with its pink, orange and lavender skies and the dead clouds which were as formless as ever. It was then that they would become free.

Dusk would leave messages for those who liked to stay back. But they would not open or read  them–they felt betrayed. How could they not! For they could stare at the Dusk for hours and become immersed within it, becoming one with its slits, with its dismal glory, with its sorrow, its longing and its clouds which were as formless as ever–and Dusk would not stare back.

For it was Dusk–the cross over, the transition, the orifice of the day and night–it could not stay forever. For it was an episode in the grand theater–and it wasn’t final and it wasn’t anything. For it could not linger on around the empty shores of the people and it could not stare at the hollow, slowly turning pages of them–it could not stay back and listen to the silent music of their souls. Dusk was not free. Dusk was not a ghost.

And so–it would dispatch letters and messages which no one would read. And one time during a moment of transition–a passing wind blew one of the messages towards the Man who would stay back every time–staring at the immensity of the coming night, shuddering–with his eyes fixated towards the Sky which was asking questions he did not have the answers to. And the spell was broken momentarily, and he glanced at the letter and a lament of pain escaped him. And that was the last he was seen–on the shores, for he crept silently into the dark abyss of Night, never to be seen again–leaving the Sky broken and alone–as it suddenly took the shape of a question never to change back into the blue vastness.

Delta One


Where is this home which I cannot find
I have gone to the farthest horizons-
And to the hazy shores
Yet, this home which is missing
I could not even find its door
So I climbed the mountains and sat in their sinful peace
But the home I was looking for–
I could not find its lost keys
Even the desert was as empty as it could be
Because the earth oozed this cold bitterness
I turned inwards to my soul
But it was not at ease
And I tried looking for this home then
In the heavens, people and even trees
They were as haunted as they could ever be
And maybe vagrants are not meant–
To find a home
Or maybe it was never meant to be
So I turned away from myself
And maybe that is why home was lost to me
Or maybe, within me there was nowhere to go
So it is was cold and hollow as it could be
And even the stray raven has a place to go
So maybe–
It was not about where I am going
But where I was coming from
But alas!
Even there I could not find
A place to rest my torpor
And that is why the space was as daunting as it could ever be

A Fable; Part Three–The End


But there were fireworks and this was the glory
For this is just another story
Slowly the Grey Rose would die away
And the Piano’s tunes, forgotten
The two—buried apart
And the memoirs will also fade
Yet the stars would still be there
And the moon, the sun
And the freckled sky
And somewhere would fly a Purple Dove
And a Blue Kite would fall in love with it
Glass will shatter and the pages will turn
Swings will oscillate and the pendulum will break
For such is love; a curious display

A Fable; Part Two–Love and Purpose


But was it dead or was it alive
What was it’s purpose?
Who was it for?
The Stars did not know
And the Moon was not sure
The Sun was perplexed
Yet the Piano knew
For it had fallen in love
With the Grey Rose
It’s petals remained of dust
Like the Piano’s internal rust
It’s stillness filled the sky
Like the Piano’s still cries
It complimented the brilliant moon
Like the Piano did the dusty room
And when the time would be right
The Piano would look outside the window at night
The Grey Rose would be there
And the Piano would sing a tune
And it was a love so complete
But doomed
Like a sailor’s ship on the island, marooned