Confessions : Of choices


The two people I always Have a love hate relationship is with art and architecture. Architecture is like a stable marriage, you don’t hate it neither do you love it after the initial throes of passion. But art is seductive and in return it makes you constantly miserable. My choices of life always oscillate between both of these men in my life. Sigh!

Crimson Mills


Shades of crimson,
that bleed light into the blue.

Surfacing a darkness,
That engulfs you.

Embracing this moment,
That blurs like a vague memory.

Capturing an entity,
That  is built to remember yet exists to be forgotten.

Paris in Patterns


When people ask me about Paris, I can’t help but smile. Paris to me is not special because of all the museums I did not visit or all the cafes I did not dine in. Its special because I saw the city, albeit with a grim cloudy murky lenses after my tryst with the sunny Greece. Either way, Paris now is officially my third favorite city, the true love being ROME.

Where lines meet the edge



The tables talk here ,

Without the noise of space,

White sets the mood ,

Beginning with the background of grey ,

Eames makes the water gurgle ,

The silence reflects the name.

There isn’t much happening,

yet its there ,

It makes you think,

It makes you stare.

Losing focus ,

Not of spindly legs or shiny cutlery ,

It darts along the room,

Masking the petty ;

Never would have been an experiment ,

Sans the conviction or the solemnity .

These edges that meet the lines,

With textures that meld ,

Together by  default intentions.

A vindication of light and seasons.

Translating to a pedestal for conversation ,

 The lines meet their edge for an designed reason.

In this  private cocoon ,

One wanders ,

To understand

Why they feel so content here .

Bricks and Mansions



Stripping away time,

Priding in the name,

Embracing the glories,

Closeting the mistakes away.


Beginning with desire,

So ignorant, so innocent,

Unwittingly walking into chaos,

Of rational choices and practical thoughts.

Joining the many,

An urge, a necessity,

Into the abyss of blemished sorts.


Real is the toil,

That amounts to nothing,

Whilst soaring,

With ambitions above the ground.


Starting as stepping stones,

Laying patterns of bricks,

Moulding the flexible,

Into concrete so rigid.


Changing into the inevitable,

Building glass houses,

So fragile, so brittle.

Knowing they would break,

Hurling ethics its way.


Selling lies,

 So boldly, so freely,

Deliberately hiding,

The workings of the in-betweens.


Returning nowhere,

Blinded and unaware,

Visions of success,

So tall, so real,

Blinking at monuments,

Buried under the mansion of politics.