To Be Found

If no one asks about your distant gaze

You can calmly keep staring off into space,

And stay wherever you have wandered off to;

Without a sound, in peace for days,

But it does not hurt to have someone

To tenderly invade your breathing space

So that you can safely resurface,

And bask in the joy of being found for sometime

Before you lose yourself again in that place!


“I am completely a loner. In my head I want to feel I can be anywhere. There is a sort of recklessness that being a loner allows me.”
Arundhati Roy

Brain Fog

I see you,

But I can’t see you.

It’s the brain fog,

It is one of those days.

You make a good point,

But I woke up

On the wrong side

Of the floor today,

Can you make it again

Any other day?

It looks like yesterday,

And like the day before,

And the day before it too.

Everything’s ablur,

But I am giving myself

Points for being here anyway;

I am sitting at your desk,

Mistyping passwords,

And I brought

Herbal tea on a black coffee

Kind of day.

I wish I could

Restart this day,

But I am also not up for

Reliving today today.


Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels

A Choice

I order myself

To disappear, every time

I misappear

In front of someone

Or something that appears

Out of nowhere,

But it never gets to

The point

Of a grand reappearance-

The one I could

Rebelliously sit out.


“There comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book or simply close it.”
Shannon L. Alder

Image by sergei akulich from Pixabay

Disjointed, Short Stories – Part – III

I. A Beeping Reminder

Oh, how the beeping was fainting every day! Presbycusis was catching up with him. It was always 22:30, it seemed. A timer for something. He no longer remembers what he had set it up for.

22:30. The last time he had heard from his parents. Many years ago.

II. Hush up!

There is a stranger in the hallway. I have not talked to anyone today. They tell me that I go about deflating other people. I don’t know what that means. What if this stranger is actually looking for someone to talk to? Besides, his coat looks too big for his body. I should tell him.

III. Missing

I was enraged. All the A’s were missing from my cereal bowl. How I loved them! It is strange, but the A’s taste the best. I let my mother know about the missing A’s. She shows me my biology report card instead. There is a C there.

IV. Different

He works six days a week, goes on educational trips, attends seminars, and reads in his free time. He tells them that he has made it. He asks them to not waste a single minute of their lives.

He is her favourite motivational speaker. She listens to him while washing the dishes. Three times a day, for three hours. There are fifteen people in her house, and not enough money for a dishwasher.

V. Changing

My older brother has the best taste in movies. Every Sunday, I call him to get recommendations. However, I had not anticipated how different everything was going to be this weekend. I call him, and he suggests a documentary! My brother had his thirtieth birthday two days ago.



I felt like taking a break from poetry, and then I thought about writing flash fiction. I have shared such stories before as well. The previous ones can be found here and here. 😊

Image by Roman Grac from Pixabay


We could stay quiet

but we seldom do.

We are like fine dust

that exudes invisibly

from the seasonal crops

during the nights

of the Harvest Moon,

triggering old asthmas.


“It is hard enough to remember my opinions, without also remembering my reasons for them!”
Friedrich Nietzsche

Photo by Pierre Sudre from Pexels


To be entirely here is absence

from somewhere else,

and a thought this daunting

keeps me from being here

completely at times,

and I often wonder

if somewhere else wants me there

or if this place right here

could use my absence?


“I mean, maybe I am crazy. I mean, maybe. But if this is all there is, then I don’t want to be sane.”
Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

Photo by Anni Roenkae from Pexels


I love what sleep

Does to the eyes;

Melts the brown in them,

And defrosts the white,

The red tendrils lost

Behind a dreamy sleeve,

The eyelids but a slit

To let in just the night

That proclaims that things

Are all right for a while.




You are found

In the spam folders,

Haunting the news feed,

Chirping like a blue jay

On the world wide web;

You are too virtual

To make sense.


I hope we are never treated

Like a telephone number;

Hurriedly, illegibly scribbled

On the back of someone’s hand-

Too random to be remembered,

Too inconsequential to be saved.


Out of a Dream

I dream of a place

where dreams

are more real

than reality

could ever be,

and I am as real

as one could ever be

living out of a dream

that could never be

lived out otherwise.


“We dream to give ourselves hope. To stop dreaming – well, that’s like saying you can never change your fate.”
Amy Tan, The Hundred Secret Senses

Image by hdphotos from Pixabay

The Pep Talk

You are going about

Your usual day,

“Don’t cry, don’t cry,”

You say to yourself

As you step onto

One of the many

Stones in your way,

And the bounce

In your step

Just wouldn’t stay,

But as the day continues

That bounce isn’t the only

Thing that you lose…

“I am fine, it’s all right,”

You lie to yourself,

While you secretly hope

That one of these days

The world shall choose

To step out

Of your way, but for now,

It’s okay.


A Summer’s Day

It has been terribly hot here since a few weeks, and I have a lot of work to do this weekend, so I took some time out to imagine the kind of summer day I would like to have one day. Maybe I will, but not for the next two months though. Anyway, I am grateful for a mind that lets me find sanctuary in imagination. 😊

I made a to-do list today

On a piece of paper

And tore it to shreds!

I could no longer feel

The knots in my stomach,

And the grey clouds fled.

I have been reading all day,

Taking in the sky’s blue

And the sun’s mighty red!


Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

John Lubbock

Image by Aleksey Kutsar from Pixabay


Some of your stories

feel strangely familiar,

and my heart rejoices

even if it gets to

live one out

in non-real-time.

I wonder why some part

of me drifts away

and finds homes

in the old coffee houses

that I know only

from the pictures

you have shown me?


“Once upon a time there was what there was, and if nothing had happened there would be nothing to tell.”
Charles de Lint, Dreams Underfoot


She leaves behind the past,

And some memories

She unwittingly drags along.

Her house overlooks the sea,

With a foreboding-

She does not belong.

Her life was a musical,

But there was

Never an opening song.

People like her are exquisite,

Still other people

Get them all wrong.


Image by GIOVANNI_MARCELLO from Pixabay




One book.

Separate pages.

Distinct contexts.



At different times.


She checks herself out

From her personal library,

Based only on what she sees;

For she was not like a cover,

But more of a book jacket,

Comfortable and beautiful.


He always buys books

From the wandering peddlers;

There is more than one town

On his nightstand.


Image by Pexels from Pixabay

The Hope for Better Days

I shall drink out

of my favourite vase

without throwing

the wilted flowers away,

and I shall poke

the lonesome cloud

above my foggy head

with a stick that I shall fashion

out of every thing

I should have thrown away

a long time ago.

I might sing myself to sleep,

but I shall not sleep a wink,

and I shall beat

some eggs and feel bad

for the whites,

and the bright yellows

outside my window

that I can see, but cannot

touch for a while,

and this thought shall bring

an offhand smile

that I shall not smile

in hopes of it growing

into a big grin one day!


Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.”
Pablo Neruda

The Rain Dance

The meteorologists are confident that our part of the world is going to see some rain soon. I hope they are right. I hope there are no floods this year, and the rainy season arrives as a blessing for everyone.

Well, our lives had slowed down,

Waddled like a baby duck

Through the hottest days of June.

A quiet, weakly pulsating, hollow,

Yet palpable stretch of time,

With no promise to end soon.

We slowly let the air in,

And gently breathe it out

To get into the rhythm of monsoon.


Those We Knew

As we grow older, losing friends becomes inevitable because we are people after all and that is what we do. We lose each other.


I think I am greater

than the sum of my parts

but I am not sure what that entails.

There is nothing like a quiet

afternoon in the Fall

but you already know the details.

Orange is your colour

and I remember telling you that

in one of my protracted emails.


You abandoned all pretense

at politeness and told me

to take you out of my second-rate art.

I erased a few dozen words,

emptied out the sent items folder

and that seemed like only a start.

There is a hole where the world

used to make sense before

but now everything has fallen apart.


Photo by Maizal Najmi from Pexels


I was feeling weary,

And it took me

A few moments before

I could talk myself out of it,

But I also knew that you, too,

Were feeling blue,

And that your reset button

Was malfunctioning,

So I got strong

Because you could not,

And one of us

Always has to be it

To get through what we

Go through!


*I think I may have posted this one before, but I’ve been reminded by an app that today’s the one-year anniversary of this poem, so I felt like celebrating the occasion by reposting it. 🙂

Image by Aleksey Kutsar from Pixabay


Not friends with vanity any more,

I might as well become my own mirror;

I’ll ignore the smudged fingerprints,

And I shall not fix the minor cracks,

and shall not wipe off

the permanent misty tracks.

I’ll stand back to embrace the parallax,

And my reflection’s imperfections!


Photo by Mariana Blue from Pexels


It seldom worked.


Felt real;

Made peace with.

Thoughts set free.


Too late.

Grim words penned;


Made sense;

Left at that.

Every you knows

Someone like me.

A small world.


Image by Darkmoon_Art from Pixabay


When everyday life overwhelms me a bit,

I find myself fixating on quiet, little (un)happenings,

Beautiful despite their apparent insignificance.

Such as spaces between the words in a book,

Post-lunch dip on the busiest of workdays,

A longing for solitude even when in good company,

And daydreams about being anywhere

But wherever you find yourself at the moment;

The little somethings that may not be nothing after all.



Inside the depths

Of their rational minds,

In the dark, forsaken cellars,

A few unruly thoughts ferment,

But they might choose

To feign indifference

When all their sober ideas

Begin to break under the influence!


“Flirting with madness was one thing; when madness started flirting back, it was time to call the whole thing off.”
Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance

Image by Игорь Левченко from Pixabay

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