Death of the Superhero

Memories of childhood innocence

Poured down the shower,
One drop and then another, together;
Washing away age, that settled
Like filth on my naked body, and
In my hand I held a magical stone
That odd-looking translucent slab
from a world not our own
I was the chosen one –
The guardian
of the curious little thing
That rested on my palm, and
In that moment I was invincible
In that moment,
I was a Super Hero

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
They are here. This is it.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
There’s too many of them.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
There’s no room for fear.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
I will not surrender!
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
This is my day of Glory…

Thud! Thud!
What is it Ma?

“Stop day-dreaming and come out right now
You’re running late for school
You’re a grown up, a big boy now
Super heroes aren’t real, son,
When will you understand?”

Love Story of Light and Black Hole

He was the light and she was the black hole. He had so much love to give, but she could feel none of it. He gave her all that he had, until one day, when it was time, he crumbled and turned into a black hole himself, to be with her for eternity. But fate, it seems, isn’t without a sense of irony. All his light seemed to have healed her, and she couldn’t bear to face him anymore, because all she could see was a past that she wished to forget.

Let Poetry Be!

A clip from my performance from the inaugural show.

A first-of-its-kind show in Bangalore, Let Poetry Be (in collaboration with Strip Tease, the graphic art magazine) is a free platform for the youth to express themselves, shedding aside the usual boundaries and drudgery of life. This platform will see poetry coming to life, through reading, music, art and every and any other forms of artistic expression. Through it’s events, Let Poetry Be will bring young poetic voices and seasoned ones under the same roof to share their creations

Events hosted by Let Poetry Be will welcome cupfuls of expression ranging from joy, angst and love to envy, rebellion and more. With the help of these collective cupfuls, the vibes of the youth and poetry, Let Poetry Be aims to sculpt a giant melting pot; a pot of ideas, creativity, colours, music, art and everything fun.

Poetry knows no description nor does it know any identity. As a result, the element of poetry, although sedate and unassuming on the exterior, is a brimming volcano of passion and a wild tsunami of colours and energy on the inside. It is this colourful energy that Let Poetry Be, is tapping into.

Shed your shackles and be part of the experience third Saturday of every month at Atta Galatta.

You can find them here,

A Love Letter

I do not exist for you, nor you for me, and yet I dream everything that you dream of, and feel all that you feel. We have never met and yet, I see your face in everything that is beautiful in this world, and I hear your voice in the music that I love. I have read about you in books and felt your presence in places I escape to. I have written poetry about you, for you, and yet I do not know you.

They say you are a figment of my romantic disposition, but I disagree. I know you are real, as much as I know I am. Are we destined to cross paths in this lifetime? I do not know. But deep down I know I can Love you.

A Day At The Office

I come to work and I have a courier that needed to be delivered. I approach the front desk in the lobby.

Me: ‘I have a package for Mr. X’

Receptionist: ‘Tower-B, 1st floor, Room No. 23’, without looking away from the computer screen before her.

Me:’ ‘Thank You.’

I turn my back to the receptionist, and head towards the fire exit, having lost my faith in office elevators a long time ago.

I was a man with a mission.

I reach the first floor and find the elevator lobby awfully quiet. I had never been to this part of the building before, but the first thing I noticed were the doors. They were opaque unlike the other floors in the building I had been to earlier.

‘That’s weird’, I thought.

I swipe my access card, open the door, and step in. The floor was dimly lit. I checked my watch. Eleven in the morning.

‘This can’t be right. The floor is too quiet for this hour.’

There was no other sound besides my muffled footsteps on the carpet. All the manager cabins were empty as I walked past them. But that wasn’t surprising as they were almost always deserted.

I go deeper into the floor towards the bays where all the people usually sit. I went past one bay and then another until I was at the end of the floor. There was no one there. Not a single soul to be seen anywhere.

I take a step back, reach into my bag, pull out the only thing in my bag that I could use as a weapon – My Drumsticks.

Zombie Apocalypse Mode – ENGAGED!

*The above story is based on real experiences and has been dramatized for creative purposes. B-)

When The Poetry Stops

When the poetry stops
I shall take a deep breath
and then look back
into the eyes of my past
and it shall show me
A forgotten legacy –
A memoir, a gift ;
a curse.
Little pieces of my  life
Latched onto lifeless words
in a symbiotic existence,
breathing life Into each other
Feeding on time
Holding nothing
No meaning, No memories
No questions , No answers
Just a quaint music
Floating faintly in the air,
Like a tune out of an old record
Buzzing in the corner,
and my heart shall go numb
at the sound of the verses
echoed in a million voices
infinite like the universe
Expanding into nothingness
it shall consume my soul
Drench me with its beauty
Soak me with its purity, and
Carry me to a distant constellation
Where I shall close my eyes
And rest

(Written in response to Trifecta Writing Challenge: Week 110 )