Dreaming Of You

When the pain of loneliness nibbles at me

When the melancholy of solitude nudges me by the elbow

And I’m afraid to turn around

To stare it full in the face

It’s then

that I dream of you


I dream of you

How it would be like to have you by my side

– To feel the warmth of your presence


What it would be like to share all good and bad

– To know that someone loves you


What it would be like to be inspired and to inspire

– To lend a hand and be lent one


What it would be like to share my joy with you

– And to know you’re there when failure strike


What it would be like to laugh with you

What it would be like to cry with you

What it would be like to wake up in the morning to a cheerful face

– And to return home to a charming smile

What it would be like to share a glance of complete understanding

What it would be like to tread the road of life together

– Hand in hand, in step with each other


That’s how

I dream of you

Of sharing a life

With you.

I Drift

I Drift

I think!

No, I drift.

I walk!

No, I drift.

I live!

No, I drift.

I love!

No, I drift.

I dream!

No, I drift


I live for today

In fear of tomorrow

– An unhappy today

– A frightening tomorrow



I drift

From moment to moment

day to day

month to month

year to year



No ambitions

No goals

No meaning


I drift…

Extract of Chapter 1 of The Jasmine Bloom

He left for home at seven and promptly got stuck in traffic at Pragati Maidan. The driver behind him, despite realizing it was a jam, honked away merrily. A street vendor holding a bunch of red heart shaped balloons tapped on his window, made a half hearted attempt to sell him one, and then walked away to a better prospect. Right when the rest of the drive home seemed to be smooth, he got stuck again near Lajpat Nagar. He saw the plethora of sign boards on the left. Geeta Coaching centre – BBA, MBA, BCA, MCA, BE, B.Arch, B.Tech, BScIT, MBBS. Sachdeva School, Indian School, Shiva Coaching Centre, Saraswati School. With many more degrees. He didn’t even know what half of those degrees stood for. It was like they jostled with each other to shout the loudest. So Delhi, he smiles to himself, competitive, every one fighting for space. A city of ten million. Ten million souls breathing together. Ten million dreams dreamt every night.

At Chirag Delhi crossing, he saw Imran, a load of magazines and books balanced on his tiny body, thread his way to him.


Sameer rolled his windows down and shivered in the cold January air. The traffic fumes burned his eyes. “Kaisa hai?”


“Very fine,” Imran responded in English.


Sameer smiled. So Imran was trying his English on him. “How’s school? You go every day?”


Imran nodded vigorously. Looking through his pile of magazines, he added, “Sir, no new Business Today or Women’s Era.


Wearing an oversized coat and a muffler that covered his head, Imran didn’t seem bothered by the cold, the pungent air or the cacophony of traffic around him. Under the flyover – with posters of Sanjeev Kapur selling Tata salt with a slightly constipated smile – a bunch of ragged children sat around a make shift fire, warming their thinly covered bodies.


“Sir, books? Chetan Bhagat, Arvind Adiga, Fifty Shades, Narcopolis. Good books, sir. Booker awards.”


“You know I don’t read those big books. I don’t have the time – or the patience.”


Imran flashed his white teeth in his most charming smile, “I know.”


Sakeena, Imran’s mother, peered from behind Imran, joining them. She sold incense sticks on this crossing. “Sahib, one request.”


“What now?”


“His shoes are all torn.” She took one of Imran’s shoes off to show him. “The other kids make fun of him at school.”


It was tattered, a gaping one inch hole at the top. He took out his wallet and handed over a five hundred rupee note to her as the traffic light turned green. “But this goes strictly for his shoes –and I want to see those shoes tomorrow.”


He winked at Imran. “What color?”


“White,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, flashing his white teeth again.


“White.” Sameer pointed to Sakeena, as drove away. Driving the home stretch, he felt more cheerful than he had all day. An encounter with eight year old Imran always did the trick.

He reached home after eight. Damn the traffic. There was a talk of moving the corporate office to Gurgaon. Life would be a bigger hell when that happened.


Pari, his nine year old, sprawled on the living room sofa watching a Hanna Montana rerun.


“Hi, daddy”


“TV as usual. Homework?”


“All done, daddy.”


“Where’s mom?”


“Don’t know.” She shrugged. She hugged him without taking her eyes off TV. He held her a little longer; she smelled of talcum powder but then let her go back to Hanna Montana.


Kavita was in the kitchen, an oil stain on her faded cotton top, helping out Ammaji, their long time help.






He had noticed that of late, their conversations were increasingly in mono syllables.











At the dinner table, he didn’t see Tania, his older daughter. Kavita said she had eaten already.


“Whatever happened to the rule of dinner at the table together?”


“You have to give her some space, she’s growing up.”


Tania had turned sixteen last month. Sweet sixteen. Very little sweet about her these days though. Loads of attitude. And acne.


“You lecture me on not spending quality time with the kids – and now you’re defending her. Ask her to come – spend some time with the family.”


No reaction. Kavita fussed over Pari’s plate, “you have to eat cauliflower.”


“Fine, I will fetch her myself.” He pulled back his chair and got up.


He knocked on Tania’s door. ‘Keep out. Danger Zone,’ the sign on the door with skull and two crossed bones said. Of late, it did seem like a danger zone. What times – he had to knock on the kids’ doors now.


“Yes?” She shouted from inside.


Justin Bieber glared at him from the bedside wall. Tania sat on the pink floral bedspread, her eyes on the laptop, cell phone on her ear. God knows who she talked to with the door closed. Her candy cane pyjama bottoms ended on her shins. She seemed to have grown half a foot taller overnight. The old toys, Winnie – the pooh and Ted – the teddy included, huddled in a corner, discarded in favor of her new toys – laptop, phone and Justin.


She looked quizzically at him.


“Dinner. We’re all waiting for you.”


“I’ve eaten already, Dad.” The phone was still on her ear.


Look at her. She treated him like he had disturbed her in the midst of her final discussions on world peace.


“We always have dinner together, as a family,” he persisted.


She seemed annoyed but sensed it wasn’t going to be the thirty seconds conversation she had hoped for. Whispering into the phone, she put it away. “We don’t always have it together. You eat alone in front of the TV when there is a cricket match on. We can’t have a rule you enforce only when it suits you.”


Tension at the dinner table. Pari, who always had plenty to say, knew better than to start any conversation. Kavita quiet. Sameer fuming.


It hadn’t always been like this. Dinner used to be a fun occasion. The girls recounted stories of the day, vying for his attention. They raised hands for permission to go first – when Tania talked, Pari had to wait for her turn. Kavita joined in the fun too – raising her hand to get a word in. They had been happy. What had gone wrong?

Book Review: Before Dawn – Sapardi Djoko Damano

Before DawnSapardi Djoko Darmono  Before Dawn – Sapardi Djoko Damano

I read a book of poetry after a long time. The challenge in any poetry translation is if the poetry can survive what can be a brutal translation. It is to the credit of the poet and the translator that some of Damano’s  poetry (written originally in Bahasa Indonesia) still manages to shine through. Two things stand out for me (i) the vivid imagery of capturing  everyday scenes of life and (ii) the profound reflection on old age and death. Two samples to illustrate my point: “I ordered waving grasses and wild flowers – I don’t know what you ordered. I ordered river stones on a bed of swirling rapids…” or “He doesn’t like talking about his glasses, which he sometimes forgets where he’s placed, about his silver hair, about his empty house, no longer occupied by wife or children, about the bad weather that causes him to sneeze…” There are many nuggets of the kind in the book.  If nothing else, the book did whet my appetite for both –  poetry and Indonesian literature. Perhaps poetry is not meant to be read like a  novel – page after page till it’s over. It should be read in small doses, – one or two poems before going to bed.

Recommendation: Read the original if you can. Otherwise, don’t bother.

I Remember Your Smile


I still think about your smile

When the speck of a dimple formed on your cheek

And your lips spread  to the corner of your face


Remember how I liked to kiss you at the corners of your lips at such times.

You seemed so beautiful, so childlike beautiful and your smile turned broader, the dimple deepening and then evaporating.


A fist squeezes my heart inside

and I die a little

That’s the feeling with which

I remember your smile.

The Last Battle


often think of you

with a yearning intensity which amazes

even me!


Lying on my bed… exhausted

… unable to sleep

My throat choked with a sob of loneliness

I imagine you

In the other world

Waking up

In a white bed on a crisp sunny morning

Going about your business


Pausing just for a moment

To think of me

And once again

Going about your business

My own thoughts hurt me

Me – thinking about you with a helpless craving all the time


you  giving me just a pause and passing on


But then

That is how things are!

You are you


I am me

And I’ve lost yet another battle to fate


I’ve lost battles before

But I’ve not been demolished so completely

My battle weary shoulders bear a testimony


This was my last battle


I lost it


Now I want to rest

To sleep

Not to be disturbed from a deep dreamless slumber

Ever, Ever, Ever.


I Miss You!

I Miss You



The scenario has shifted,

The ambiance has changed,

And I am alone

In wilderness

The mist of solitude hanging on me

A subtle current runs through my heart


I remember you

I remember your smile

I remember your eyes

I remember your  face

I remember your  voice

I remember how you burst out laughing

I remember how you withdrew into a shell

I remember you

I miss you


I do.


Book Review: The Yellow Emperor’s Cure – Kunal Basu

The Yellow Emperor's CureKunal Basu The Yellow Emperor’s Cure – Kunal Basu

A playboy Portuguese doctor finds his father suffers from Syphilis and want to cure him. It is the nineteenth century and Syphilis doesn’t have a cure in the west. He goes all the way to China to find a cure. The book is essentially about his journey within China. There is the layer of Boxer revolution in China that adds complexity to the plot and makes it a bit more interesting. The book didn’t work for me. Basu seemed overeager to describe the Portuguese and Chinese cultures to the reader – the pestas in Portugal, the early morning rice in China and the like and lost the plot somewhere in the middle. Two other major flaws (i) the characters are not consistent, they seem to want one thing today and another tomorrow. They are also difficult to believe – at least some of their actions are. People vanish without reason and (ii) there is no subtlety in writing. Basu doesn’t give the readers any credit for intelligence – and as a result says too many obvious things – making the reading a drag. So it is not the story but the telling that doesn’t work

Recommendation: Don’t bother.

Why You?


I asked myself,

Why you?


Is it the curly curls, the beautiful eyes, the smooth throat, the nibbly earlobes…


Is it the silky voice, the infectious laughter, the ready with, the inimitable sense of humor…


Is it the vulnerability, the innocence, the charm, the evoking of a paternal instinct…


Is it the innate goodness, the moral strength, the consideration, the desire to do what is right..


And then I thought

Isn’t it enough

That I know

It’s you


How many of us –

How many many

Spend lifetimes looking for that elusive

Her and him

And never reach there

Isn’t it enough

That I know

It’s you

So why bother

Why you!

Book Review: The Casual Vacancy – J.K. Rowling

The Casual VacancyJ.K. Rowling   The Casual Vacancy – J.K. Rowling

So Rowling goes adult. And how. Gone is the magic of Hogwarts and Harry Potter. We are back in the real world. In the small town of Pagford where everyone knows everyone. But people are vicious to each other. Particularly parents to kids and as it turns out kids to parents. It seems Rowling retains a certain sympathy with her ex-primary audience – the kids. It’s a bit of a pattern of parents being mean to their kids. Despite a slow start, the story picks up pace quite quickly and then becomes a real gripper. Rowling has sold 450 million copies for a reason. Her characters are multidimensional and their behaviors, motivations and actions are compelling. In an earlier post, I made a comment about Eleanor Catton’s capability in creating characters with intricacies and layers. Rowling does that too. Gavin, Kyrstal, Mary Fairbrother and Miles are a few examples. The much talked about bad language? I didn’t find the book unusually profane – it had it’s share of ‘f’ words and sex but not more.

Recommendation: Read.