A Scintilla of Thoughts

the cat’s pajamas




Don’t fall in love with someone who writes, because

They will scratch your heart and
creep through the narrow
passages in your head which were
destroyed by landslides and
blocked by boulders.

They will pick up shovels and
every other tool that they crafted for their art
and shatter the mortar in which
you trap all the memories
which still nail you to a cross.

People who play with words can
sell their soul
for a sliver of precious gem
hiding in mounds of coal

People who pen their minds can
destroy your soul
hit an axe at your pretense
knowing that there is something beautiful to

write about
in everyone.

Don’t fall in love with someone who writes :

they might damage you while they dig,

and might leave what they find untouched,

after they have told the world about it.



carved stones and stained scriptures,

perennial yet

perishable pieces of tarnished souls,

feeding and filling what might have been

a crack –

– in a lonely lifetime

fretting for acceptance by an unforeseeable future;

and so, I’ll dig.

A leader’s conceit, a beggars whimper,

A soldiers struggle, a traveler’s splinter

An expression of a lovers lust,

In a coffin, two bodies trying to adjust;

Rotting, rumbling earthy riddles

Screaming at outlying stars, a pitch harsh enough

To resonate stories – that have been,

And will be.

And will always be.

And so, I’ll dig.

Image : Persistence of Memory, Dali

How To Save a Life

A Piece of Advice

Age, race, gender – yet what remains undivided is our ability to give advice. We always have a scoop of this happened to my neighbours sibling, poured to the brim of our necks, which obviously gives us complete jurisdiction over any matter. Coming to terms with the harsh reality – that each one of us is a blissfully small vessel with a leaky hole at the bottom – is something best avoided.

I do sometimes let my particular wisdom overflow, because having had a shallow experience of over twenty years – of no particular tragedy, it is my duty to show those around me the passion I contain for understanding humanity. Hence, here’s my very irrelevant, just-thought-of, delightful secret – live and let live.

No seriously, as long as it is not mentally or physically devastating anyone – it is not a problem. If it is, do your fundamental best, with whatever knowledge or power you’ve garnered over the course of your short guest appearance, to stop it. If the laws of nature do not allow you to help it be stopped, bottle your delicious pieces of advice up and give hugs and comfort to whoever might need them.

That’s all I have in my cup of tea right now.



I was the wind and I, I brushed past you. You seized to notice, crying inside the beautiful bubble formed by the strings of your withered perception. I stayed for a moment, taking hostage in the trees, whispering to you, whining to you and you’d look at me with rose-tinted glasses and sigh, for I wasn’t yours to breathe. Or so you’d believe.

I was the peacock with a tapestry for wings, and when it would rain, I would hide my tears with an upward gaze and shadow my face with the brilliance of vivid pastel shades. They had been carefully embroidered to please – and distract. You’d look on from a distance and lament, for my joy was not yours to share, my beauty not yours to feel. You’d go  back to sleep in the warmth of your covers while I, I’d pretend to dance in the rain for a glimpse of your glazed, lonely smile.

You were someone who would never find the white daisy in a field of swamp, a daisy which yearned to be plucked by you from the dirt.


“Mother, I will not go to school from tomorrow. I hate it.”

“Why, what happened, Billy?”

“A big boy came to me in the bus today. He asked me for my lunch box, so I gave it to him. But he punched me when I told him not to eat all of it!”

“What? Why did you give him your lunch box?”

“He had told me that he wanted to be friends with me, mother, and you had told me to make some today.”

The helpless mother wished to put him right back in his crib, for his first day at school had taught him more than she could in three long years. She had taught him what numbers were, today he had learnt how to count, and soon he would solve Calculus.

Oh, her worst fear, her fragile one had taken his first step into a perplexing hell called life, and she could but be a mere witness.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Imaginary Friend.”



Yet profound

Stringed together

Could bite, or bound

Knots in your throat

Escaping, never to return

Could dance in her ears

Or be lost, forlorn

A for an Apple, B for a Ball, C for a Cat, I was taught in class. I’d learn them by heart, innocent to the trauma or calm these words could inflict, once formulated into the expression of what consumed my head. Where would I be, however, without this power, this prize to express?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pride and Joy.”


I remember when
My head hit the door,
As I sat against it and
Cried all night on the dusty floor.

Yearning for
All the luscious green grass
On the other side
Starving to lay
My inhibitions untied.

In a garden of lust
by each tear of my past
My eyes dying to grab it all
A field so boundless
A dream so vast

I cry still
For I can’t stay.

Last Laugh

It took half a lifetime full of cliffs and ridges for her to finally make his smiling face the first thing she saw in the morning. Tears and scars had blooded the lines on her palms, to the point that they would represent her past, and not her future. It had begun how it concluded, a smile. A slight gaze, a chat, a night shadowed with conversation. They were what any two people in love are, two innocent hearts completely disconnected with the rational section of their brain. When they got together, a hut became a mysterious castle and a bed, wonderland. Calm as a lake yet stormy as an ocean, a feeling best left undescribed. They then faced the wrath of reality when society would pull them apart, for they were born as could not be. They fought a valiant war, against all odds, and emerged with battle wounds so deep, but the victory nectar couldn’t be sweeter. Each day, they then woke up hand in hand, looking at destiny with a new found respect. Memories they made and songs they sang, and time started flying as it always does.

She glimpsed at him, her trophy, her star, which she had stolen from a possessive night sky, meant to be her little niche of peace in a chaotic world. He looked strange with his eyes, so perfectly coloured, now staring blankly at the roof. Twenty years later, there was no change in his smile, but his face was now without emotion. She couldn’t understand. She had pushed all who came in between her and hers. She had never felt so helpless before, as she couldn’t push away the force that had finally snatched him from her.

Death had the last laugh.


I will drop you a letter in the letter box
Each day I will pray
That it reaches you
Carried by postmen kind
And pigeons grey
covered in morning dew.

I will write what each
heart-beat of mine
screams out,
each day in rage.
Your lonesome expressions
Are a dream to me
And wild imagination
When you read the silent page.

Every line I pour
To you father, or mother
Or lover,
Or a friend long lost.
Days I will ponder,
Before it lies on your table
Soaked with scribbles, and
Words and sentences crossed.

A long wait now follows
Leaving me lost in thought
Because pages
In your scrawling script
Are all, that my
Desperate eyes had sought.

What great it could be, if I could instantly tell you what I feel.

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