city-sounds drowned
by the pelting rain,
the night plays on like an
unplugged song on loop.

(continued in caption)

-

clouds of your desire
trespass my horizon;
this rain is a prisoner
of our love.

-

Pain, like death, is the greatest leveller I know.
And that is what gives it an edge over all
the intense emotions known and felt by the living.

In fact, if you do look at it that way,
it's also the only real emotion that there is.
Everything else, perhaps, is a derivative of pain.

Take the extremes of
our emotional spectrum, for example.
You will see how exuberance
is nothing but pain getting high on life.
And grief, the slow, gradual coming to senses.

-

there's something about
facing the dark in darkness.
imagine being at the rock
bottom of a pit and looking
up to see a slice of the sky
with lumps of clouds swirling
like snow flakes in purple moonlight.
it's the face of hope.
and sometimes it's much more
than the hand that pulls you
out of that pit.
this is my face of hope, you know,
and i am looking at it square
from the darkness of my room.

it looks much like myself.

-

rain lilies

'they bloom when it rains'
she says looking out of the
cab window as we pass
the nursery along the street
opposite my house. the sun is
the colour of morning tea, 
warm and pooling in our laps.

-

KHICHDI: A Short Story

(based on the premise shared by YQBaba)

#FilmWriter7
#YQFilms

-

weave not your dreams
with fragrance of their love.

for fragrances are known to
dissolve and depart with the wind.

-

spears of sunshine come
stabbing through wayward
branches. and the wind is cold
in my face, almost erratic.
it shakes massive
jackfruits to the ground. my
walkway is pulp-splashed,
and this lazy drizzle does little
to wash it clean. sprinkling
soundlessly like find sand -
dusk-colored and oozing
out of this schizophrenic sky;
touching everything, drenching nothing.

(continued in caption)

-

how else would you
treasure these tender
times of togetherness,
without spinning the yarns
of our lives into the
supple spine of books.

how else would you
remember me if i've
not written enough
to be left as trails in time,
when nothing of us
remains anymore.

-

[read in
caption]

-