Shambhavi & me…..

As I end those twenty-one minutes of restful activity,

My focus settles at the third eye cavity.

As silence pervades the room and stillness pervades my existence,
A slim shred of air makes its entry and exit,
Opening the doorways to perception.


The only creeper between life and death,
Teases me with brief spells of unexperienced Truth.

This short bout of daily stillness
Is my small effort at experiencing limitlessness.

A Prayer for Syria

Syrian crisis

You don’t know me.

But I’ve been following you,

For a while now.

I try to make sense of what’s happening to you, everyday.

Yet, I never see sense.

I don’t see sense in your pain,

Your destruction,

Or in your loss.

I wish my government did more to help you,

Considering that we go back a long way down the timeline.

But wait, we don’t need to have a shared history,

For us to feel your story.

I am just so sorry.

I am sorry you lost your family,

Your home,

Your honour,


And with it, the last standing witness to your rich heritage.

But I pray that you don’t lose hope, my friend.

I pray that you don’t lose your spirit to reclaim what’s yours.

And I most sincerely pray that you don’t lose your ability to love,

To give better than what you got.

I pray, my friend, I pray,

So my tears aren’t my only tribute to you;

So I can conceal my inability to be one of the Goddesses of my land

With ten hands,

And take out the beasts on your land.

Just remember that there are humans outside your land,

Praying for you,

Crying with you,

Opening their doors for you.

Hold onto that thin ray of hope, my friend.

Today, we remain divided only by governments,

Or we wouldn’t need any armaments.

But there will be better times ahead,

Times when people like us who can care, will run the world.

No, don’t ask me when!

Until then, hold on, my friend.

Grab all that you can

To not give in,

And to stay alive.

There will be better times ahead.

Just giggles

When Varsha told me that she wanted me to make a glass painting for her, I began to wonder what had gotten into my colleagues. “Did all that work mess with their ability to think? First it was Crisenta asking me to paint for a price and now it was Varsha. Why do these people want to waste their money on a half baked artist like me?”,  I thought and simply laughed. ” I’m serious, dude. Paint for me”, she said. I didn’t see why I should say no.
Varsha wanted me to paint a beer mug for her sister’s birthday. Given that her parents were annoying her sister about marriage, Varsha needed the painting to be one that would remind her sister of the awesome life she was having being single. Now that’s what I call a sister! But Varsha had no intention of employing my creativity. She laid it all out very clearly to me. “I need you to draw a really hot guy with a beer mug in his hand”, she said. So I began looking for a beer mug. Not one shop in the whole of Indiranagar and Tippasandra had the sort of beer mug I was looking for.


A few days later, Semper told me he had seen some nice beer mugs in a shop on 100 feet road. Varsha and I went there, that very day during lunch hour. We couldn’t find any beer mug that conformed to our requirement. But we found something else. It was a jug. A plain, simple one that was worth the money. We bought it right away.

Meanwhile I had the draft image of our hot guy ready.  At home, upon seeing the draft I had left on my table, my mom began worrying as to what was going on with her unmarried daughter. My brother hated the very sight of the picture I had drawn since it made him feel awkward. When I showed it to the girls in office, there were giggles all over.
The time had come to finally immortalise it on glass.

That night I painted the image on the glass with much caution. My fingers had still not stopped trembling. Once I was done, I forgot all about the painting and slept.


Next morning, my brother gave me a dirty look and said, ” You are not painting anymore.” My mom commented,” why does this guy have six packs all throughout his body?”
“Six packs are fine. Why does he have such big boobs?  Ask her to take that away from me!”, my brother cried. Every male friend of mine who saw the painting had just one thing to tell me – ” That’s a little too graphic. You didn’t need to go into so much detail.”
I simply laughed my heart out. When men draw and photograph skimpily clad women, they don’t pay any attention to the unreasonably high standards they set for a woman’s looks. But when women show the slightest signs of being picky, they get quite intimidated. And I was witnessing it first hand. Oh! The look on all their faces! Worth a million bucks!
Anyway, at the end of it, Varsha and her sister loved the gift. And I felt good.

Just memoirs

My brother and I were blessed enough as kids to be taken care of by our grandparents when our parents were not around. With Mom working, we always went running to our grandmother for lunch. My brother, being the picky perfectionist that he is when it comes to food, developed his sinful tastes early in life because of our grandmother. The woman did have magic in her hands. And as for me, I just needed an excuse to have her feed me. Yes, I have always loved being pampered and that has not changed much over the years. “My hands are dirty”, I’d say. And when that ceased to work anymore, I came up with a more innovative excuse – ” I worked in the lab today and the chemicals won’t wear off with one wash.” She knew I was lying. Yet she’d feed me. She was our second mother. So every time her old age reinforces her unreasonableness upon people, we would defend her knowingly or not.

The last time I was about to visit my home town, I told my mum very clearly that I didn’t want to go to any temple, that I just wanted to spend time with my grandparents that weekend. That I didn’t want the little time I had with them to be disturbed whatsoever. For which my mom commented rather sarcastically, ” Please, you are not expected to come anywhere. Let me do my work peacefully and you can sit all day showering your love upon them.”

I didn’t really shower my love upon them. But I was there, talking to my grand dad, reading a book as my grandmum watched her wretched TV serial. And then when the Bangalore high Court finally ruled the thenTamilnadu CM Jayalalitha guilty and sentenced her to imprisonment in the disproportionate assets case, I began painting on a frame. Nobody would believe that an adult painted that one. Three faces, each denoting me and my grandparents, was all that it was. Everyone thought it was childish. It was drawn by a child after all.


But my granddad came up with an interesting perception of what I had painted. ” The eyes are so prominent in this painting of yours. It could ward off evil forces”, he said. I still don’t know if I must laugh or cry to that one.