i often wonder.. if i deliberately keep things vague. a lot of what i say sometimes seems very ambiguous and my writing seems almost cryptic. who could trace it back to what i actually felt.
things of little and much consequence, all made into secret letters... filled with symbols.

i smiled thinking if this was a treasure map or my odd shying away from things..
and how long i have been at it.

:) this time... more explicit!... more explicit!


There is a tree I have seen growing over years. I wish to make a poem for it some day but i think that writing about it would seem autobiographical. and I lack the skills to narrate..
If i knew more words for vivid, more colours than red or blue.. and if maybe i would have known what the rain laden monsoons were called otherwise ....
who knows i could probably have said .... that there are leaves, perching birds... and there are colours... and that the rains make it sway..


So we have soothed in the calm. it is harmony and there are lights everywhere. we think about our intimacy and wonder if it eventually would be set in stone.
we spot our territories. those preserved versions of ourselves. they are still important but of less consequence.
we remain happy for days at a stretch. Mind works with less vigil and clutter.

We wonder if this is the end of imagination. if this is where we turn dumb and mute.

but, then i see you looking over the fence with a lost glance and i feel that i couldn't possibly fathom uncertainty.

It is winter and as we stride along the field, i wish i could tell you that i feel wonderful.


we did not leave our names behind, not even dug prints of our paws on the walls.
you said we needn't claim everything.
that those sheltered caves needn't love me back.

it was a chanced discovery that led to what they call a life altering experience. As you and i stood there, for a moment i saw the whole universe.

And as you pulled me along and we walked away turning our backs... i glanced at the caves once..

i think never in life again will i be yearning..as much as i was in that moment to say... " I was here" and hold something by it.


Dear Firefly,

it is the Autumn that makes all of Autumn vain. when you lie on your back underneath the sun
the breeze stirs you up and reminds you of wilderness.

Your in Love... and you will stop at nothing. You will not reason, you will not see... you will not do anything that makes your love a little less Incredible.

it is night and as i speak of a purple... you talk about violet.

You have lost your mind... and i have too.. both on different things.


The ghost of my deceased grandfather who's socks i once tore up just to annoy him, had visited me few nights ago and taken away everything. turned all my thoughts into ghosts like him who touch no ground because they have no feet.
we cant trace those who stay afloat. thus, i hadn't written a word ever since.

i feel majorly unoccupied now, having nothing to do besides the telly or the phone.
the thoughts have run and the words too... but everything else remains
isolation, solitude, the nights and the dim.

If only i could convince myself that i am slightly delusional then maybe i'd be a lot more hopeful.



The one who used to clench his fists to soften his hard heart ..

i knew him well
and his poor, unobtrusive heart which flowed in ebs, noiselessly...

and he always compared it to the fossils or a rattling car.
and thought he's lived his whole life in the absense of it.


Sometimes it's difficult to make out if there is someone on the otherside of the phone at all, i barely talk back or respond.. but maa goes on and on... if she sniffs disappointment or anxiety in my voice. The most pointless and irrelevant detail is brought up, little scraps from here and there.... which mostly end up in me saying.." Maa, stop bothering me ... not in a mood"

I remember, as a kid.. i flocked behind her all day whenever i sensed that she was upset. she would be unattentive doing her chores.. but would somehow feel my empathy.

and I always thought that my mother and I were completely different people...


When i was a child, i used to say that trees didnt speak because they were caught up in deep thinking all the time. I carried on with this imagery for so long, and even now maybe it still remains some where in my mind. The other day, i drew out a fresh green plant as a symbol for myself and my imaginary person seems to be quite much... some day maybe i'd wind up in a house by myself.. as my thoughts shall leave no room for others to visit or stay...all kith and kin shall be dead..nd all lovers left... so that they lead happier lives with others..

memories, i will store in pickel jars... nd thoughts shall flow with white linen curtains as sunlight filters in through them...


Someone i hardly know remarked: you know, for your own kind.. you think too much, are unusually suspicious, tend to talk a lot but go write short little poems instead". i chukled.

i am alarmed at how gooey i have got off late since the monsoons.. perpetually fluttering eyes and dream mushing even in sticky, patchy bus rides.
these days i can manage to de-annoy myself, to be a little distracted from this squarish life and act like an anthropologist living amidst the village within myself and meticulously documenting humanity ...

p.s :)


So, i am going to write a little about the arrived Monsoons in the city..
Not a poem.. because Monsoon's nauseated with poetry.
yet with every wet step, dark clouds gather and in my heart what was lifted, drops back again..
yes, it is the same recluse memory again that makes me love everything about monsoons... or else i couldnt see it.
may be it is... my own neurosis. :)


Now you're telling me ....You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it ...You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague

Because I need some of that vagueness now, It's all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid

Joan Beaz & her song for Dylan...


The first time, u dont feel anything.. or maybe see pink, blue or red. To me, Good Sense prevailed. I realised I have been sticking my toung out for too long now.. thinking it would mean something... I have been foolish.

Its done with now, Now i am Free Falling :)


The sea had always made me sullen. i always think this is what oblivion would look like.
i once told a friend, "dip a message or a finger and it would be lost forever". i told M, i am fascinated by her loving. she loves like a fortress, and i sailed to one such in the middle of the sea that holiday. they said it was the only one which could not be taken in, that it always defended its contents..
thought of M so much that day... it was the only thing that kept me from all the salt, brine and sullenness...
and as we drove into that sunset, in a car with a bunch of strangers, i imagined that there was love where the roads led inward and made circles around a reckonning of 'being in love'. that it wasnt puzzling or complex.. but slow jazz


Mostly i doodle around my writing. it's never really conscious how i come to each word. i walk down the evenings on sideroads near the sea and that part i am really selfish about. i would take no one along. sometimes these evening walks seem symbolic to the larger truths about myself and my indulgent nature. My writing too is perhaps figuritive. I dont really know whether i have turned every experience and activity in life into something i could use. I know that if i did i wouldnt want it that way. i write with a lot of weakness and insecurity and also with a lot of love. i guess we all live as people and not as gods and goddesses. and there's the whole point.


My name, i did not choose. it was given by my beloved Grand mother. As a little girl, i always felt it was unfair not to have let me choose my own name. but now i think i couldnt have managed it.

when i was five i wanted to be called 'Shomi' so that i dont forget my best friend who i left behind while changing cities. somedays i wanted to be called Leela because she was my faviourite character from a book.. I have always wanted to be 'Mia' from Pulp Fiction. and then one day someone lovingly named me 'Mausami'. all my life i have sought after different things and named me differently each time. thinking i were it.
our names should suggest our personalities. but our vageries are such that one name limits it somehow.
well.. i could not go without a name but maybe thats why i never name my posts.
none of my writing bear titles so they could be ambiguous.
honestly, i could never decide on one and also giving a title somehow makes writing more authorised, directive.
when a friend quriously asked for the reasons.. i thought to my self "shotti to!"


"Mom o' dukkho bedon o, Mom o' shofol o shopon o', Tumi bhoribe shourobe.. Nishi dini shomo tumi robe..nirobe.. Hridoye mom'o."- Robindronath Thakur.

in quite.. firefly hums...nd expresses love.


After long years of keeping grudges like a sophisticated adult. one day of screaming, crying and badmouthing everyone feels therepeutic.

today the monkeys rampaged my neighbourhood. they tore down most trees, stole from houses left everyone intimidated.

more than for food, it was as if they struck for their shrinking habitats. every hate word with utter vengance.

in the end.. by the sight of them disappearing in the horizon like bandits or the turks after rampage.

and as my personal aggression subsided... i felt an equal calm..

i felt like them


When it died, instead of burying it, i tossed it up aiming at the outerspace so that it becomes an other worldy thing and doesnt haunt me.
the satellite caught it and while i was watching the telly, the news lady spoke of it.

i tossed it up aiming at the outerspace so what bound me to it breaks, so i forget or only distantly regret. so that its becomes into an asteroid, a planet or something else.
the satellite caught it and brought back it's ghost.
i should have buried it instead.


i dug it out from a directory which keeps everything and
Remarked: "i wonder how hot/cool/beautiful/stunnin/attractive u are that ppl jus cant resist u.."
i am deeply sorry for annoying


the funny part is that stories we write in parts of what we remember
and not the whole of what we remember.
memory might account many things including billboards and signs or even patterns in cutlery..
but that bit we dont mention.
like if i were to write a story about my dad.. it would most definitely be about how he loves airplanes.. like a young summer school boy. completely fascinated by them.
about mum.. i would write of her indulgance in cooking for me.
all my life i'd thought if only i could do anything to take away her regrets, but the sight of her preparing my meal when only a side of her face i can see, there is a strange feel of content in it and there are no regrets.
and such short exerpts, brief encounters would make my whole story.
there would be so many days, so much else left out... but i guess thats the nature of a story and a story writer.


Unknowns write poems in a journal everyday.
they are poems of love.. mostly.
i read,re-read, recite, hum.. go back and forth, murmur,sing, take off, brood, reminisce with them.
everyday i stare out from the rider's seat in a bus
and that view of the glimmering sea looks like the window to a wall clock
and in it a box with me in a birdy cap, stuck to a spring.. waiting for the hour to tick.


You rode so many miles man frnd.. that when u spoke of them, i tried imagining how much more would they be from both my arms stretched apart. for i have never known of miles the way you have. i have only read of their connotations in stories where lovers part.

and when you reached over the mountain, looking down at the endless abyss, i heard drums rolling and thought to myself..." One leap and he will cross over into the chasm, we all want to go after death.."

i thought i'd never see you again.


A dwarf woman doesnt hold her man, she clutches him
steps on her toes and rises through his body like a creeper
striving so that her kiss lands on his neck,without him bending, without him noticing, while he looks on to the other side..
so it could be made into some surpise from being a regular act of love..
the tiny feet tip, the calves stretch and the little fingures curl to make a fist off the shirt..

and that is the love she swears by..
a love which looks above, perseveres and reaches for the higher...

they say that love is a leap one has to be inspired enough to jump..
but on a perfect Valentine's, i'd wish to be able to tip than take a leap...

for my Little Women..
For Their great loves and tippings...
For Rubai and Tania...


For every one of the greats have said that men should come out of the spell of being a gregarious lot and seek their individualism.that conformity is not a cool thing.
but at every point in your life when you discovered some thing meaningful in a book, painting or a piece of poem..it was made by some one else. a unknown man or a woman.

if that kind is also conformity... a kind of borrowing someone else's and calling it your own...
then this is how i look at it... i think although things mean differently to each one of us...
the soul remains the same...
for it means that all of us strangers stand on the fence line of a large circle with the one dotted centre...
if its a good thing or a bad i dont know..mayb we should think of a third determinant besides good and bad for such things...
today wen i read one of the comments on my post..i suddenly thought of this... and i realised..
that the most amazing relationships of my life have formed on this probability...


life, and then a pause to think, to put a word against it.. and what could possibly come up from a twenty year living.

but tonight.. i am really happy. These few days that are past had taught me some thing about myself which i aspired for but deep down never contained. when time came, i discovered it in me... ambiguous but robust and undetterable.

sometimes i look in the mirror and tremble with awe at the colossal courage that i bear.... and whatever that i have made of my self and my life.... seems a good job.. worth living for.

As the world fell apart and fell back in place...as hope went out and rushed in..like a moment of bloodlessness.... i stood on my own little feet to see it...to fix it... i chose be alone.. all by myself.

they say no man is an island, that there is vulnerability within each one, that we are all bound and bonded in some way....

for a little girl.... breaking free from these barriors... for once in her life..is the taste of the absolute freedom.. which she thought was only hypothetical...

now she could live the rest of her life.. with her 'greatest moment'...

this moment will live forever....and so will she...


if i ever were to make my house of love there would be a very few to live in it. all i would do all day would be to see them moving on their steps, in and out of the rooms... reading the newspaper, speaking on the telephone,staring at the window. and i..i would wind up in one corner...with all the love in the world. the love that i have for them and the gentleness with which they love me. sometimes i would get gooseflesh thinking that they all are right before me, with their hearts beating steadily, their organs working well... that they are so perfect in flesh and blood that it all seems indestructible.
We all know of love and ourselves the way we know of the moon or the bomb or a rotten egg..


Burn for me...
The nights deepen and the fires burn out...
I lose my trace and diminish...
Burn for me..
so i shall make lanterns of you...
put one in each corner of my dark little hut...
So he finds it in his way back to this place
this house which is his, which is mine...
Burn Firefly..stay...

This post is dedicated to my blog and Rubai...both stand as my space of expression and finding...