the head spins in its own contradictions.
a ceaseless, indifferent
spiralling.
the sickening nausea of existence.
p.s. - fainting not allowed. 

harmony

on a sun drenched january afternoon
my toes twiddled on the balcony railing 
relishing freedom 
from a perpetual wintry encampment.
a white spotted pigeon on the window sill, 
a grey one on the unused cooler stand
formed my audience 
as i hummed known and newly discovered tunes 
- for them, as much as for me.
they looked in my direction, 
i smiled,
they flew away.
i turned my tuneful attention
toward the fluttering peepal leaves
leaning out from the terrace
and sang to them.
they danced,
i smiled,
and walked away.

last night

silence stealthily stepped out last night
after putting me to bed.
i know where she went.
"i want to see a flowering gulmohar tree",
she'd said.
the seasons of her heart
had nothing to do 
with the wintry barrenness all around.
my dear silence
come home.
this is no country for the young and living.
besides, the noises are out to get me.

foggy whispers. frigid silences.
winter is a way of life.

unknown hues reflect on the canvas. not to be found on the palette. loss has a color code of its own perhaps.

survivor

its a survivor.
innumerable cups of fresh and stale tea later
experiments with 2 brands, and 5 flavors of toothpaste later
bouts of sleep semi-sleep insomnia later
focused recourses to reason and un-reason later 
many conversations, more silences later
rich hauls from nostalgic waters notwithstanding,
it stays, and how. 
the lingering taste of failure.
delicious. 

hours run by. time stands still.