maximum city evenings


Image credit: Fanil Rajgor, National Geographic, May 31, 2016.

Let’s go. Enough of this.’

So you pack your bags, board a plane

To a city where friends are plentiful

(And by ‘plentiful’ we mean more than 0).

Good times are promised, and so we start;

The thought of pending time-sheets and pesky clients is discarded

For a brief, but not completely reckless, moment.

* * *

We head out, night on the town;

Tonight, we will have so much fun!’

(Why did having fun require such premeditation, so much work?

Were ‘good times’ really good times unless organic, and without any stimulants?)

But you go, you knock back a few;

Do things and say things you ordinarily wouldn’t do.

But it’s not enough. ‘Need more. More!’

More spirits swirl in that glass, and your head swirls too,

In sweet oblivion, mistaken for long-overdue euphoria.

So this is what being 25 means, huh?’

Morning comes, and you hope it is otherwise.

* * *

Today, you stood at the window;

Looking over at lines and lights running back and forth across the sea.

No mist, no fog; the sharp outlines of the buildings

Are blurred by a surreal haze.

Mimicking the scene, the mind’s edges are frayed today too.

A pair of gnarly hands seems to inch closer and closer;

No sleep the night before. ‘This does not make sense!’

Have you begun to wander again? Dread sets in.

But you resolve; ‘not again. Not again in this city.’

Reach out to the last reserves of strength and dignity,

“Write” some transient words, exhibit them to a largely-apathetic world,

And hope, that tomorrow will be kinder than today.


the sea


I am standing at the edge

of the sea of clarity.

So close, and yet,

Deliciously out of reach.

I cannot plumb its depths;

I never did learn how to swim.

(Did i subconsciously avert the truth?)

The sea calls out to me sometimes

And i go, despite better judgment,

And stand again at its edge, and wonder

What was the use of coming here

When i knew i would learn nothing,

No epiphany would strike.

My faith, that there is contentment at the end of a mundane routine,

Would not be renewed, but that i would only

Return to the monotonous days with more disillusionment.

I walk towards the sea

To touch upon its restless surface.

It obliges, with a gentle wave, to pull me in

I resist, and it sways me as i stand firm.

And then the wave retreats;

Gone back to join the multitudes who have tried before it.

While i am left standing alone again, as

The sand shifts beneath my feet.


i want to write



‘Number 8’, Jackson Pollock


I want to write,

but my brain will not focus tonight;

it is swimming merrily in the potent rum-and-Coke i drank at dinner.

I want to write,

but instead i think of deadlines

and calendars and unread emails and to-do lists.

I want to write,

but the words are shifting shapes;

like the rising heat, they seem to wave and dance.

I want to write,

but i live in a cursed age; too much information and

not enough time to form an informed opinion.

I want to write,

but my thoughts are blurred;

it’s like trying to see through rain-specked lenses.

I want to write,

but it is not that easy anymore

to summon my artless ideas

and mould them with pretty words into deep epiphanies.

I want to write;

but i am not even sure if there is something ahead,

like vague outlines in the swirling fog of dawn in winter.

I want to write,

to relate something that both of us thought of, but couldn’t find the right words for.

I am doomed

to be verbose without being meaningful.

what if


Here’s to the what ifs

The ones that got away

The roads not taken

The regrets over yesterday.

The coulda woulda shouldas

The cliches that rationalise

Every piece of luck, good or bad

And the unaccounted irregularities.

Here’s to cold comforts

And the numbing familiarity

Of slow days, blending into blurry years

And wondering what could’ve been.

A toast, to the doubt that plagues

Every apparently well-reasoned decision

To choose the safe option, yet always

Seeking the deep end’s adrenaline rush.

For the 0.01% chance

Of you being the outlier

Will always make you second-guess everything.

That minuscule possibility, which

Defeats every pro/con list,

The irrational, that romanticises

Labours that would never materialise.

These questions must be for daydreams,

These worries are the folly of youth

For how could we know, we are so young!

All we can do is to just sit back, and

Enjoy this show.

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