“The living don’t wait to die alphabetically, nor do the dead want to be arranged in an order”, I penned down, half amused by this discovery of mine. I sat beside a small obscure grave marker , hidden behind the grand gravestone of another famous person. My headache didn’t show any signs of leaving me , nor did the weather look like it was going to let the bright sunshine seep into the grey Parisian sky.

“What are you searching for? ” He asked while finding himself a place beside me. Wearing a brown bowler hat and carrying a cane , he looked like he had walked out of  a  Rene Magritte painting albeit with a face and not an apple.

” I don’t know” I replied to the vague question with the most evasive phrase coined in English language.

” Nonsense! you obviously know what you are looking for, else your eyes wouldn’t be darting around like that of a madman seeking his sanity” he declared.

I laughed, a nervous laugh afraid as ever to say things out loud lest they become real and heavy with words that I possibly cannot take back. ” I guess I was looking for some alternative life altering mechanism over here” I said. “I guess I was searching for a person who died the same day as I was born” I continued. “I guess I was searching for an everlasting connection with the obscure in a way that I can never find otherwise”

“Hmmm” he grunted. “A bit lonely aren’t you?” he asked a few minutes later. ” No, not really, but sometimes I wish I had a legacy to carry or perhaps a cross to bear, so to speak. There is an innate satisfaction in knowing a piece about a stranger that could be polar opposite to who you are , but it also sets the roots for an identity that you have been running away from” I said.

“And what maybe that you are running away from?” he asked “These findings about myself.These words to be precise” I said without thinking.

“Clever one , you are, aren’t you” he patted my head in a avuncular manner and walked away into the labyrinth of gravestones, cane not making a sound, bowler hat not blowing away despite the storm brewing and wind hissing a warning.

“Insane might be a better word” I mumbled  to myself and went back to searching and not finding anything significant or at-least deluding myself about it.



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.

Maybe it’s called Tribute.


collageSitting at the grave of another,

Reading their words,

Not said aloud,

Not whispered either.


An ode for the brief time when we were together;

Searching for you,

Nothing as exact, nothing above you either.


Traveling so far,

Hearing another church bells ring,

The gauntlet hangs over,

Time changes the music that images bring.


Blinding the possibilities with older scenes,

It all comes down to familiarity,

Reborn with you,

Living this life as another me.



Camera360_2013_5_29_05354820130531203823It starts slowly, this need to travel, the need to escape, to leave that idea of you behind which was being lugged around. Unneeded yet attached to you by a strange umbilical cord that is difficult to cut off . The idea then builds up pixel by pixel until it becomes more than your being.This is exactly how the tables turned for Alice.

At first she shrugged away the idea thinking of it as an inconvenience, in the way of getting to all her stone clad plans of life . She ignored to see the pixels together , but then one day she just turned around and all she saw was that her plans were crumbling down and just that  ‘idea’ was breathing down her neck. The next thing she did was to run home or the illusion of home, packed her bags  or rather a duffel filled with the bare necessities and just leave.

When she stepped out of the door she didn’t see the need to say a goodbye but rather a thank you to her boyfriend of 8 years. Mostly thanking him for bearing with that person who had no inkling of what or who she was. She contemplated on leaving behind  a post card explaining everything that was going on in her mind but it felt like a slap on her face than his , so she just hastily scribbled “I LOVED YOU” on the postcard that she got him five years ago while she went on that trip to Crete. She turned it upside down,maybe like a symbolic gesture  and put it on the refrigerator. When she stepped out of the door, for the first time in all her adult years she didn’t take her keys along, not because there was somebody waiting for her to return home but because she knew that things would have to come to a full circle with her ideas before she even considers to knock on a door that she closed.

Her first step faltered, a part off her was holding her back, but she took that first step for the guarantee of an uncertainty , for a madness that wasn’t her. She probably signed up for a death wish or she just saved herself from an eternity of boredom that would eventually overtake. The curiosity to drink on something that wasn’t her first choice or was remotely even placed in her list of choices took over and she walked. For the first time she walked towards nothing that she knew of yet she walked and not rush about, her gait had a secret to tell but everything was hushed up,buoyant with the hope that she could reach the place that she never thought she could.

Himself .


Florence ,Nithya Suri

He climbed the ladder upstairs ,

To the home of rodents and unawares .

In a dreary cold situation he lay ,

To compensate for the time ,

that never swayed .

As he buried himself,

In a cozy coffin ,

He wondered about the people;

Down below .

Would they have a story to tell ,

Or would they just remain ,

Talking and laughing ; ignorantly so .

He worried ,

In a jerky pace ,

Wanting this journey to end .

His thoughts choked him ,

Bringing him into a strange world ,

That no warm breath,

would ever dare to know .


Florence ,Ntihya Suri

The Beads



She ambles in this ghost town ,

In a collage of colors ,

The lagoon serpents around .

The shadows patches ;

Hinting the brightness of sight

Making a funny composition ,

That make her crave to fly .



Sitting there lower than the footsteps ,

She listens to the conversation incomprehensible,

The clock keeps ticking ,

The church strikes twelve ,

She doesn’t leave ,

Neither does she stay .



The beads keep clinking ,

Along with the water that flows ,

The thoughts rolling  ,

Compelling to make them her own .



Another few minutes ,

Another few decades ,

Of this passing contentment ,

Perching by the window of another ,

She declares this light her home.