El Hombre y La Mujer

“What is he doing to me?”

She wonders,

Speculating, how he does that?


That with utmost perfection, he makes her fall,

A fall that she used to fear,

Fear, that tasted sour,

Sour, or she’d say caustic,

Fear, of falling for a man, once again,

All over again, once again.


Fear, that all of a sudden vaporizes,

Vaporizes, the moment he touches her,

Touch, so fine that she never had before,

Touch, that at a time she wanted to run far from,

From touch, now at times that she deeply craves for,

Craves for, all over again, once again.


So fluently that he comes around,

Around, making an adorable wax melt for him already,

Already until, she sense him grazing,

Grazing, kissing softly at the ruck of her neck,

Embracing every fold and every curl,

And his warmth sending prickles to her all over,

All over, fuming the air with his kinky rojo scent.


And then,

Feeling him breathe right below her chin,

She steps back,

Back, because she still fears the fall,

Fall until, he grabs her by the waist,

Pulls her back,

Back again, making her gasp a hollow moan,

Moan, so silent that her heart skips a beat,

For, she sniffs him by her side,

For, she feels a man by her side.



She keeps pondering, how he does that?

Crafting her fall,

A fall, she no longer fears,

A fall, she now longs for,

In essence,

Mastering the skill, akin a boss.


My Handicap

I feel myself arrested by the chains of time. The ones who cross your path once, not necessarily stay forever. No matter how hard you try to steal them from destiny, it will always play its games. And midst these tantrums, stuck my soul. Acquaintance with fate is no more an acquaintance now. Very well do I understand it’s harshness. Somehow, I had always managed to withstand it’s shackles. But this time it feels as if it has arrested my soul once and forever. The heart seems stuck in an electric lift, falling down deep at an exponential pace. My fear is playing- ‘hide-and-seek’ with my innocence.

Does it hide in my mind?

My heart?

My soul?


Which cell to search?


Helpless eyes know nothing, but to shed some tears. This time scarcity found a new place to take a shelter in.

Scarcity in eyes? Strange? Yes!

Even the tears seem to get offended. The very thought of losing them blurs my vision as the leaking of the poison spreads all over my cells. The kid inside me is crying badly, but little does he know that his voice is the slave of his autism. No matter how high he raises the shrillness, the frequency, the pitch or the altitude, it won’t go past the flesh. It seems to have robbed me of my entire strength. A stiffness in muscles and a pain in the limbs refuse to stay away from adding on to the anxiety. Meeting them was a beginning of the magical fantasy indeed.

A fiction I read few days back, spoke exactly what I am going through today. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph then, seems to have joined hands with every single second, minute and hour of  my time today.

Ever heard of a fiction becoming the truth?0c060143131a7738421ed0bf4a4505bd

Well, that happened to me. So I name it a magic, for magic is a synonym for belief and faith as an optimist views it.

And I do believe in magic.

I seriously do!

The span seems to end now and my soul is still stuck there. It refuses to come out. Somewhere fantasy has arrested it.

What do I do?

I find a simile to the clock that struck twelve and the magic spell was no more for Cinderella. The third bell of midnight hears banging my ears at the peak of altitude.




And the magical spell seems shattered into syllables with those few noble and the finest souls I met, going far from me forever. Yes! It’s no less than a fairy tale, as I name it.

And guess what?!

As I recited it to a friend of mine, the reply that came from the other side was-

“It’s life bro! Stop getting upset at such things. People will come and go. It will take time, but worry not, time is the biggest healer as they say it.”

Correct in one way!


How do I ever explain them; they are no people I am losing, but the magic that will be lost, the angels who will be lost, the fantasy I will lose, an era that will be lost.

The particles of a golden sand slip off my fingers.

I know that. I can feel the slip. I can hear the slip. I can see the slip.


What do I do?

I’m handicapped.475a6ce6aef1ba5f72e672ac841dcaa1

The twenty-fourth hour


It was quarter to twelve.

As the elder needle struck nine on the mantle, here struck an idea of a brisk walk.

Twelve steps towards the moon and twelve away, and so I started walking. Everything was at peace with the surroundings and a silent quietude spread in the four directions, save the whistle of a solo breeze that blew past me. With ear drums vibrating on the radio beats and feet following an orbit, eyes wandered from one end to the other past the terrace, gazing the million stars. Obviously not counting them for I was a no kid. I came across a big star. Not sun! The one whom they call the ‘pole star’, which was supposed to be beside the moon as the science books had ever told me. The moon was a crescent, a usual night it was, but only the pole star seemed not to be at rest. It was in a direction somewhat opposite to the moon and somewhat opposite to my learned theories. The few seconds it took and I discovered the real truth behind the theory; pole star does not always stay beside the moon as I had always thought it to be rather moves with a speed not so same as that of the moon. If I say I’m experienced or I’m a no kid, I know I’m lying for still there are secrets that hide in the twenty-fourth hour of the wheel, yet to be discovered. It had been now fifteen minutes that my mind was lost in some so and so theories. The next thing that the sparrow sitting in the nest on an old rack lying in a corner saw was, me sitting down upon the floor scribbling something in the deep darkness, save the silver touch of Aluminum crystal that the moon flaunted over. ‘The twenty-fourth hour’ was what, that was being thought of. My eyes were wide open, still all I could see was the dense shades of black and gray. Neither an ‘A’ was visible nor a ‘full stop’. Once again that unusual hour gave me a close encounter with the plight of blind eyes, for as the tip inked the paper, intellect impressed upon the mind. I lived the life of a blind person for those few seconds. Another, the sparrow whom I use to observe the whole day and wonder if her husband exists, was now accompanied by her mate. A family completed with a mother, father and a new life dwelling inside the white walls. A secret discovered. Isn’t it? I don’t know why, but this hour fascinates me the most for I wander unfolding the secrets when everyone else is ‘busy’ folding themselves in their sweet dreams. As I shuffled through some of my incomplete theories, a thin rain patting over my feet made them follow the way down the twelve stairs. I smoothed in silently and the last thing that I came across was a yellow light burning in the nearby empty house whose walls had neither heard any voices nor seen any glimpses save few echoes for years now.

Was it a secret?

May be, of the twenty-fourth hour of the wheel!

I’ll kneel down


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But tears roll down my eyes when accidentally my gaze is attracted towards our dusty dry old pictures;

The field of the magnet seems so vast that they seem to govern one of my two thoughts;

Every action of mine, every capture of their’s, every thought reminds me of them.


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But few words seemed to overweight the strength of a love bond;

Few actions seemed enough to shatter the bridge between the two hearts.

An unlucky day it was when the trains of our hearts separated their ways.4e427361ae9d68911c07bd7852a9314a


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But I can’t now bear the unwelcomed silence;

I can’t hold the weight of guilt anymore,

Guilt of me being an autist.

My eyes now seem to run from the catch of their glance,

And my soul seems desiring to hide somewhere deep inside;

As if I’m a thief.

But is it really my fault?


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But I always bowed, even if it was their’s,

Intentional or unintentional.

I kneeled for the sake of that love bridge,

I kneeled for their sake,

I kneeled for my sake;

I always did.


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But that day I didn’t bow down,

It was the first time I spoke in that relation,

And guess what!?

It seems, I ruined everything.

I should have better kept mum,

For the silence of then, would have wiped the silence of now.


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But I ask the lords to be just,

And take my introvertedness for a while,

Until I could build the bridge once again.

A very look at their portrait pinches my heart off,

The axe feels sharp enough,

And the ache is as that of someone digging little bits of my heart every second.


I don’t know it’s my fault or their’s,

But old fears surround me,

I pray to the lord of silence, to give me strength,

To kneel down once again,

For the sake of that bond.

People talk a lot, stray dogs bark a lot,

But I believe,

I’m a traveler,

They are also a traveler,

A fortunate junction will await our reunite,

For I’ll make the trains meet once again.c2265aa0ea8f031fa13b0dc31a3346c2



Few pale pages

Corneas bowing to the centums, serving and collecting the thousand words, drinking the aroma of imagery, find a sail in the breeze of fantasies.

A theory concealed behind the twinkle of a glamour hides in those hundred pages and a millennium of thousand words. Those few pale pages taste as worlds far extended to the zeniths.

There floats a plethora of emotions in the prefrontal cortex of the human brain.

The shape of the alphabets hides in them the soothe for the physical pain caused due to someone in their heart digging little bits of it.

The electric atmosphere and the etiquette of going from fifty nine to sixty, sixty to sixty one makes the heart sing and more than exhilaration, makes feel like completeness.

Such is the power, the magic of few pale pages!


*The sunset made the sea sparkle with a million shades of orange and gold.*


– In tribute to the book ‘ LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT ‘ by Preeti Shenoy