Love will find a way

We draw our borders, we stake our claim, 

 yet love still rises, a quiet flame. 

 It slips through silence, it breaks the night, 

 a hidden lantern, a stubborn light. 

 Though cages surround, the heart still sings, 

 longing travels on secret wings. 

 Love will not vanish, it will not stray, 

 even in boundaries, it finds its way.

Uncle Ji

A bundle of hawkers and hustlers,

The station is extremely busy today,

A colourful hustle at the platforms,

It has all the stirrings of a crazy day !

Birju dusts his tiny tea- stall,

Whistling washes the kettle's spout,

He wonders if he has enough milk,

As he gathers his gingers about.

His friend lajjo is a sassy lass,

She's fought all for her lucky spot,

She readies her mini samosas today

And turns the oil up a notch hot

And by the side of Lajjo and Birju,

Is the rickety wrought iron chair,

Uncle ji sits on it a little hunched,

Face a mix of hope and dispair.

Years and years ago a young boy,

Made his pretty lover wait in vain,

He broke the trust of his dear beloved,

And an escape on that evening train.

Years have passed , moons have gone,

Many trains have come, all have left.

The platform is loud bustle of colour

Which leaves his life more bereft. 

Same expression on the same face,

Day on day, year after year. 

Uncle ji sits around every day,

His eyes always hopeful, yet- bare. 

But Lajjo fries a couple of samosas,

Birju sparks his kettle, boils the tea.

Wrapping their love in a paper plate,

They smilingly serve it to Uncle ji. 

Piyu, 28.11.25

The Safe Place

The app said, close your eyes and breathe,

find where your heart feels safe to be.

She wondered what that place could mean,

a thought unformed, yet softly seen.

She closed her eyes, the noise grew thin,

and silence wrapped her from within.

No arms, no words, no borrowed grace —

just breath becoming her own space.

Where thoughts would rest, not seek, not chase,

where stillness wore a gentle face.

She found, beneath her ribcage deep,

the quiet place she longed to keep.

Active and Passive

Ms. Puri once stood by the blackboard,

chalk in hand, drawing arrows between subjects and verbs.

“Active voice,” she said, “is when the doer owns the doing.”

I loved that.

How language could feel alive —

how every sentence had a heartbeat.

Those were my Wren & Martin days —

neat margins, red-ink corrections,

and the quiet joy of getting every tense right.

I didn’t know then

that one day voice would mean something else.

That it would no longer be about verbs and structure —

but about courage.

Now I see it everywhere —

the active and passive not in grammar,

but in people.

The ones who speak, who act, who take charge.

And the ones who drift — quiet, agreeable,

living as if life were someone else’s story.

We’ve begun to mistake silence for wisdom,

indifference for maturity,

and detachment for peace.

Being passionate is seen as naïve.

Being guarded — sophisticated.

But oh, what a lie that is.

To live actively

is to take ownership of your own mess and magic.

To say I care even when it’s not cool.

To show up — not just when it’s easy,

but when it’s inconvenient and raw.

It’s to feel deeply.

To fail loudly.

To forgive.

To try again.

Living actively means staying awake —

to your heartbeats, to others’,

to the truth that no one else can live your life for you.

It means standing by your words,

being accountable for your silences,

burning with conviction

even when the world applauds the cold.

Because apathy is slow poison.

It dulls the soul,

and paints life in shades of grey.

And calm isn’t always peace —

sometimes, it’s just the absence of courage.

So speak.

Even if your voice trembles.

Love.

Even if it gets messy.

Be active.

Even when the world teaches you to fade.

For the grammar of life

was always meant to be written

in verbs that move.

Solitude

 Solitude

I wear detachment like borrowed skin,
a calm that hides the storm within.

The world believes I’ve let it go,
but hunger whispers soft and low.

A touch, a glance, a fleeting thread—
the ache survives where silence bled.

To cage the fire, yet feel its flame,
is solitude wearing another name.

Constant

The Miser Within

It’s not just about money.

I once knew someone who wouldn’t buy an extra helping of dessert — not because they were watching their weight or saving for something big, but simply because “what’s the need?” was their instinctive reaction to anything that felt even slightly indulgent. At first, you chalk it up to frugality. A sensible approach to life, perhaps. But over time, you begin to notice that this carefulness seeps into everything — into how they speak, how they experience joy, how they relate to people.

Because a miser isn’t just someone who won’t spend money. A miser is someone who is perpetually afraid of waste — of time, of emotion, of vulnerability. And so, they scrimp on everything. They’re hesitant to compliment someone even when they are clearly moved. They refrain from expressing joy too openly, almost as if happiness should be portioned out cautiously. Even love, even laughter, come with internal calculators asking — is this worth it?

It’s as if they’re living life like a balance sheet. Every gesture, every connection, every feeling is weighed and measured. What’s the ROI of going out tonight? Will hugging someone back make me appear too available? If I appreciate someone’s work, do I lose some of my own perceived worth? They look for returns before making even the smallest emotional investment — as though the goal is to make life end in the green.

But life doesn’t work that way. Some of the richest moments come with no measurable output. Some of the most generous actions bring no immediate reward. The best conversations, the deepest laughs, the warmest connections — none of these will ever come with a guarantee. Yet these are the very things that make a life full and lived.

What’s tragic is that miserliness, when it becomes a way of being, begins to alienate. People around such a person start feeling unseen, unappreciated, unloved — not because there’s a lack of emotion, but because everything is doled out in such small, cautious doses. The person holding back thinks they’re protecting themselves. In truth, they’re just slowly creating distance — between themselves and joy, between themselves and the world.

So here’s a reminder: don’t live like you’re guarding a vault. Be generous — not just with your money, but with your time, your attention, your words. You don’t always need to weigh the impact before giving something good of yourself. Say the kind thing. Laugh freely. Celebrate fully. Not everything has to make perfect sense. Not everything needs to be optimised.

Because life isn’t a spreadsheet. It’s a series of unrepeatable moments — and the most beautiful ones often show up when you stop asking, what’s the need? and start saying, why not?

The Random Call

 

Part 1
There are random people I know,
With myriad randomness to show,
Who would call me just whenever,

Text me maybe now, maybe never.
But not him. Nuh nuh, not once.
Was there ever a chance,
Of anything remotely unknown,
Any random randomness shown.

Every Friday without fail
Come rain, or snow, or hail,
As the clock struck five,
On his work-to-home drive,
He would always dial my name,
Our chat always the same.
“Oh hey, how do you do?
How has the week been for you?”
“I am doing good, how about you?
Did the week carry something new?”
Some weeks, “Same old, same old”
Sometimes there was news to be told.
Yet the weekly norm never broke.
Every Friday for sure we spoke.

Part 2
Till one such week. No call came.
The clock struck five all the same.
Yet, five became six, then seven, then eight
And it turned into an endless wait.
Ominous thoughts came down hard.
Worries started pumping the heart
Why wouldn’t the phone show his name?
Is it my-side or his-side to blame?
Oh! is it this? Or is it that?
Can't he drop a text or chat??
Friday came, and Friday went.
The worried heart tired and spent,
Stopped waiting for the phone to ring.
Resigned to whatever fate would bring.
Monday came, the clock struck two.
I had lost hope of hearing from you,
When suddenly my poor dear eyes
Widened with disbelieving surprise.

Part 3
“Oh hey, how do you do?
How has the week been for you?”
You said as if nothing had changed
As if this Monday was pre-arranged.
“I am doing good, how about you?
Did the week carry something new?”
I answered, without missing a beat.
My autopilot words on repeat. 
Then, "Why did you skip last Friday's call?
Did you perhaps take a fall?
Was it your brain, or liver, or spleen
Which made you break our routine?”

“Oh no such thing, all is just fine
Calling you had just skipped my mind”

Part 4
And with that, I can conclusively say,
Of all people who have come my way,
He turned out to be the randomest of all.
To beak our 30-year ‘Every Friday’ Call !!!

Termites

I spotted a termite hill sneaking,

from behind the almirah today.

A tiny trail of buff dust,

which was easily flicked away.

And the place was treated thus,

with some medicinal spray.

Then dusted and neatened up,

And made ready for display.

Yet behind that neatened wall,

untreated by that spray,

the worms went on and on,

nibbling and chipping away.

Grinding their teeth under the wood,

hollowing the fake display.

The termites went on nibbling,

ignoring the noxious spray.

I knocked on the wood to hear,

Fervently hoping that I may,

not hear the vacuous hollow,

behind the fixed display.

But the termites had been busy,

chipping the wood away.

Now, all that's left is the veneer,

bravely holding it in today. 

Urge

 

There is a song playing in my head,

like many-a-times it does.

Today it suddenly grows wings,

and raptures into an urge.

An urge to run away from the day,

and seek out a pie of dusk.

An urge to wrap a soft lace shirt,

fragrant with oud and musk.

An urge to gather the swirling pinks,

of the dusty, cloudy skies.

An urge to call the fingernail moon,

and indulge sleep to eyes.

An urge to lullaby away my thoughts,

and pillow them into dreams.

An urge to caramelize the pie of dusk,

and dance on midnight’s beams!

But the sun never sets in slumber town

 

The evening fades, sun goes down.

Then shines again in slumber town.

Behind our lids, by a riverside,

On golden sands in soft daylight,

A footprint yours, a footprint mine,

Ageless strokes on sands of time.

A new day dawns and life goes on,

But the sun never sets in slumber town.

Same story yours with the story mine,

Never does end on the sands of time.

HIDDEN

 

Two knocked knees, a flurried heart

A caught breath, with lips apart.

A lowered lid, a hidden smile,

Two fingers twisted like a twine.

A tapping toe on a resting foot,

Thoughts which stray off the route.

Gently dancing, sparkling eyes.

Breath laced with faithless sighs.

Jaunty laughs which hide the fumble,

Of vacuous words in voice atremble.

Stiff white linen with a lacy trim,

And a love story that’s hidden within.

Tethered

 There is a sense of power 

in waiting for you,

on the wings of time. 

You ask me to stop.

Worrying, I would slide

down the incline.

I, tethered by unknown,

wait. Beyond reason.

For you to be mine.

One Last Kiss

 

Winter Bud

 

The World is a very small place

 

A Rainy Day

Will my tears form some clouds?

I wonder, seeing the tiny drops.

I wish they would reach where you are

And the wind stills, and the time stops.

And it rains and rains, long and hard. 

And you ponder on the rainy day. 

The raindrops would let you know,

What my tears could never convey. 

Of why they didn’t serve aloo parantha and why my migraine was a baby migraine.

Of why they didn’t serve aloo parantha and why my migraine was a baby migraine. 

 3.10.2023. 

I am writing this anecdotette sitting at boarding gate no. 21 on the Kolkata airport at 7 AM. I have just been denied satisfying my aloo parantha and masala chai craving. 

The food court here, offers me awesome chicken rolls, mouth-watering biryani, an array of sweets which make my pancreas insulinate just by looking. There is a wide range of aromatic darjeeling teas with fancy cakes and cookies on the side. 

But the Delhi in me is seeking aloo parantha and masala chai to start the day. One roll shop kindly offers the skin of a roll as a substitute to the parantha I seek. I can see the dramatic eye rolls served with chicken rolls as I politely refuse. The shop people are perplexed with this bengali speaking, bengali looking woman who seeks a very punjabi breakfast in a city which is a gastronomic delight. 

Disappointed with my aloo parantha search, I am sitting right now with a fancy replacement in the garb of a crepe and assam tea from Flury's. (I am secretly enjoying it to the hilt, but the disappointed face is for the shopkeeper who offered me the roll-skin). My thoughts veer to yesterday's tea time which was wildly different from the fancy Flury's tea I am sipping right now. 

Yesterday, we were gathered around an ancient tea stall which for some reason also had live chicken and fish (in all their smelly glory). Adding to the obsteperous crowd, there was a stream of noisy traffic which made us shift closer and closer to the chicken coop. It had been raining on and off for the past couple of hours. Someone was wearing an institute T shirt with a banyan tree as the institution emblem, painted on the front pocket. The conversation took off to the back history of the 100 year old college and it's banyan tree emblem. What was fantastic to note, was the depth of knowledge,  and the acknowledgement or rebuttal of that knowledge, showcasing the unusually high intelligence quotient of the crowd gathered around the shop. 

As we sipped the milky, frothy tea and munched on descriptionless cookies served out of bulbous blue glass jars, the sun decided to peek out. The freshly washed sky made the sun rays pierce sharply. The umbrellas came out of their plastic wraps to protect us from the sun. The sharp sunlight made the conversation veer to migraines. Now, THAT was a topic I could contribute to, wholeheartedly. I got ready to spout medication advice and tips and tricks to beat the deadly 'M' . 

Even before I could pull out my dark rimmed glasses, I was attacked with "How long have you had migraines?"

"Four or five years" I said, assuming I would be greeted with empathetic 'ahhs' and sympathetic 'ohs'. 

Alas ! My response was brushed off with unexpected alacrity 

"Just that long?" The speaker peered through her own dark rimmed glasses which were thicker than mine.

"I have had them for over 30 years." 

I was already feeling small and inadequate as I offered my feeble voiced advice to have vanilla icecream when the migraine hits. As expected, I was told that 30 year old migraines need 3 preventive medicines in the morning in addition to 3 more in the evening. And 5 year old migraines were the milky toddlers in a world of double shot espressos.

 

It was firmly established that my migraine was indeed a 'baby' migraine which would take many years and many struggles to mature, before I could proffer advice over milky tea standing next to a chicken coop. I retreated behind my brown umbrella fully convinced that attainment of such eligibility is an uphill task. The face of Maa Kali on the shop signage next door (Maa Kali Puja Bhandar) started swimming in front of my eyes. I didn’t realise I had already landed myself migraine. But then, it was just a 'baby' .

I finished my tea and bid a silent bye-bye to the chicken who were  savoring the last few hours of their life. Then I quietly disappeared into the wild cacophony of a crowd super-rich in intellect and social justice driven humanity :) :) :)

Delhi Love

If I had time....

I would drag you with me to pretentious kavi sammelans in the IHC, and then drop a real tear. 

Browse through madhubani paintings at Dilli Haat stalls, till we could get momos and fruit beer 

I would wake you up at inhuman hours, take a DTC to Darya Ganj, for the Sunday book bazaar.

Then push away bufallows at Ballimaran to find kachoris served with spicy aloo sabzi and achaar

I would have you pay 30 bucks (or maybe more) to the little boy at CP, who called me didi

And I would wear his gajra even while I trotted around wearing a levis with an oversized tee

And then I would drag you to the lane behind the Statesman house at the Barakhamba crossing.

And have the best bread pakora with milky chai served in paper cups with 'nescafe' embossing

We would leisurely explore the new cafes behind M and N Block, CP , walking hand in hand.

I would make you spend some more at the fake sunglasses kiosk with every fake fashion brand.

Tired, I would make you take an auto (we will haggle and pay only 50) for a Khan market drop.

And dive straight into Bahri sons and explore the length and breadth of the delightful shop.

We would stare at dismay at the snake-like 1 hour waiting line of humans outside Khan Chacha.

I would scoff and pretend to like sushi (which I don't) and still settle down at Yum Yum Cha.

I would pull out the tiny poetry book I bought at the Sunday Bazaar and locate my favourite poem.

You would have to say hello to forgotten people I bump into while I pretend to know them.

We would do the Sunday crossword togther, using yellow steadtler pencils with pink eraser ends.

Staring softly at the setting sun reflected in your eyes in the magical moment when time suspends.

I would pack away the sushi (I couldn't finish) in a brown paper bag, for the pup near a fancy car.

And then decide to drag you to the kwality waals kiosk on wheels, and ask for an orange bar.

Satiated, happy with the way the day went, I will look up with orange lips and a goofy smile.

I will fill my heart through my eyes, in that ephemeral minute which would vanish in a while.

Silence Marks My Day