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The Man, next to me…

 The man, next to my seat, wore a violet silk,

So I asked him, “What is Violet to you?”

He glanced at me, like he was staring at blankness,

Then with a pause he sighed and answered, “Nothingness,

It is same for all colours, just I know with Indigo

My Home stands along in the fields of Texas;

There a Blue car waits for me daily

To pick me up, but I reject it,

More or less I like the Greenness of the grass,

It feels home when I stumble upon it

And I personally prefer the Yellow bus more,

See how I loved to talk with others;

In my home it’s all alone, the Orange phone seldom rings

And I feared it as much as when the doorbell rings_

I see Red, all red and then it’s the same Nothingness.”

I was amazed really, so I asked in a trance,

“What about the black? I mean your suit; do you like it the same?”

 He smiled a little then, and with another musing he said,

“Why? –

For me, the rainbow is painted Black! I only wore a part of it;

Cause the Red was dried up a long Ago!”







It was a clock; ticking spontaneously without a notion to stop.

I left my bed to chase after it.

Though my body didn’t follow my wish

and I collapsed on the pink tiles of the floor.


When I opened my eyes, everything was still;

the tap on the basin, the corridor chair,

the moisture in the air & the moon’s way to grace my limbs.

I never enjoyed them so much in my life:

till this very moment I gasp only for reason & hope.

But now I know what really matters_


The clock,

beating loudly than my pulse,

waits like a polar bear in Aurora Borealis;

For the fish that will swim up the river,

the very next minute…


And they will find me on a table in the next morning, 

Etherized and Still.







Do you know why I was famous? – For pick-pocketing.

I used to travel by buses without any proper destination in mind.

It was a joyride to be in motion, when you are not bound by any rules.

I think I was a child back then

cause 10 rupees a day were enough to please me.

It was more than anything I was capable of doing on my own;

Buying a hurdle on my way home, I used it for tire-rolling.


But that swiftness of my hand is of no use now;

Pick-pocketing is a silly thing.

While I can perform robberies, I have the control;

a whack job like me then, never dreamt of this to happen.

To provide your family is a heavy duty

and being caught is out of the picture now_


But that was the only spice I enjoyed, 

because of its thrill in check.

Frisson of being caught by a hand, faster than you;

It used to made me feel ashamed,

but that was the joy of pick-pocketing_


What is there in these millions I stole now?

They meant nothing as I hurry home

daily with stakes on life, planning for the next day.

But what would you know of this? – the child was long gone

and the adult, tagged with duties, took place for him.

Do you find any resemblance in them?






One summer afternoon I heard a cracking sound,

like breaking an eggshell from which a chick came out,

and I found myself in a mustard field.


Everything was yellow around, where for the Sun

it’s playtime as golden aura intensifies.

I thought it resemblances my room;

in my farmhouse, on second storey, the yellow

paint and the morning Sun plays the same way

like this.


Though it was starting to fade,

I remembered the spectacle clearly.


In a distant vision, I saw the IV tube.


But with that same cracking sound, 

suddenly I found myself in an ablaze,

surrounded by extreme screams and prayers.


The mustard field is in flames now;

the same yellow but more dangerous, in his red armour,

roasting everything as if he is displeased_


with the way civilization works and animosity grows.

The enemies and rivals never play fair,

taking lives they prove their greatness

over poor and weak.


One day I will woke up again,

and this chain of hatred will follow.

This is how our world works

and this will be the way it ends!

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