I saw you in the dream again last night! I saw you stand up and fly away. You had turned into an orange bird and you flew too close to the sun. And I saw you disappear.

I woke up and realized you look like me, talk like me and smiled like me and i felt you–you even felt like me. But you were not me.

I keep hearing the same old song again and again and again. It reminds me of pastel colored hills which I saw when I was a child. And now the child is all grown up and even the dreams are not pastel anymore. They are set in orange overtones. And the song is sung in a foreign language and I do not know what it means–but it is on repeat. Like death–it is on repeat.

There is a broken pencil on my table and I keep looking at it because I cannot remember why I put it there since it is not mine. And it sits there, forlorn. I know I will never use it because if I do—I don’t know what will happen. I think whatever I write, it will come to life. So it sits there–not moving, broken and forlorn.

I eat sugar–I have been eating sugar for three weeks but I do not know why. It crunches like gravel between my teeth and the white glass–I engulf. I think there is a plum tree growing inside me but that has nothing to do with the sugar. It has nothing to do with me as well–because the tree has green leaves and I sometimes can feel them tickling my innards. Soon I will be able to pluck the plums and make jam.

The opaque lantern is lit and there is light. And I can see. You are still there–looking away, your face towards the wall. For a decade you have been sitting with your face towards the wall. And for a decade I have been having the same dream. And for a decade I have been making plum jam. Now there is so much of it that it drips from the walls–which are made of plum jam.

As the macabre desert tries to engulf our house again–I reach out to you but stop myself because it is suddenly so still around me that I sit down and listen to the wind outside and decode what it tries to say to me. It has a message for me–I know who it is from…It is from the bearded goat which lives across the ocean. They will slaughter him tomorrow and he sends his regards. I will send some plum jam to his family.

The moths are back and they dance around the lantern. How silly–there is no music anymore and they still dance–on repeat. Till the get close enough to it and burn to ash.

And just like that—the match between day and night ends. I go to sleep and I know the dream will come again. Maybe it is all the sugar I have been eating. There will be no day or night for another ten years and then I will wake up–and sit with you, facing the wall–and eat plum jam.



The earth produces a sound which has never been heard before. It seems like the sound is barefoot. Like the little girl who ran on the naked grass–giddy and in a trance. Fixated on her imaginary friends who ran with her. And a soft breeze blew past them.

Did you see the large tree with had purple leaves and an orange trunk and it bore a golden fruit? We used to go sit under it–and it smelt of lavender. And we would laugh and sleep under the sun. That tree is still there–it is old now. It still has purple leaves and an orange trunk and bears golden fruits…but it doesn’t smell of lavender. Maybe that was just us!

And in the zoo–the grey monkey lives on top of the moon which hangs low. It danced for us–when we went to see it and it bowed at the end and clapped its hands and we cheered for it. The monkey shook my hands and hid somewhere within the moon. I still see the moon some nights—and wonder if the monkey still resides there.

I saw the dirty pavements today–they had red dust on them. Red, like blood–only it wasn’t. It was dust because there was a dust-storm here last night.  For a minute–it felt like the earth is glitching–because of the noise and the optics. But it was just the earth–standing very very still and seeing the mad frenzy pass by.

The alien visited me today. He came in a yellow disc which swam in the sky. He smoked a pipe while standing on my balcony and told me to close my eyes and imagine one hundred planets which look like fish-bowls with pink fish inside. I did and it made me smile. He smoked some more pipe and then ate the lemon tart I had baked last night and left without saying good-bye.

I stood by the red phone booth on Tuesday and it rang on Wednesday. I picked it up and I talked and there was static on the other side. It said so much but I could not understand it. Then it hung up. And it began to rain.

Today is the day 365–and I talk with my shadow. Because I am alone. Everyone is gone. They left in a hurry too. And I see fireworks in my head. And I sing on top of my lungs–for I am stranded in this abyss. Everything has been wiped off. Now eerie and empty buildings stand tall and grey. The seas have begun to smell of stale water. The afternoons are days and the days are evenings. There are brown nights. Everything stands still–except me. I am free.  And I have everywhere to go. I have imaginary friends too–like the little girl who ran on the naked grass. I know–because I was one of them.

Tomorrow will be day 1. And maybe the impulses will stop.


In Which, Leaves Turn Grey


“The Dark never enters, but it also never leaves”

The leaves meditated

Beneath the purple sky

Above the yellow fiery sea

They had fallen from the tree,

After living for hundred score years and three

Now, what did they see

Birds in a sequence and ships in a fleet

The leaves meditated

What did they feel?

Has Spring gone already? Has Autumn come?

They moved with the soft waves

And what did they hear?

Was it the sound of rain!

They meditated…

They had fallen from a tree

After living for hundred score years and three

Now they were ashore

They meditated for long

Then they turned grey.

“The Dark never enters, but it also never leaves”



You ever felt this way before? Had you ever so many questions to ask?

Questions about life. Questions about faith?

Questions about God. Questions about death?

There is confusion.


There is destruction.




Rotten with fear. Burning in anguish.

Mere contemplation.


What is a question without a definition?

Till death do apart–is it a question or mere interpretation!

They die, so some go to heaven and others to hell.

Is it a fact or is it a question.

What is that force called, which changes the season?

If i say God, is it an answer or a question for a question?

Where does the tree come from.

Are we humans? But that is a joke.


Why? What? How? Why?