the 3rd day of spring.

the 3rd day of spring.

Their eyes ran dim and the flow of blood within them suddenly touched the euphoria. The soft mole beneath her lips was gazing at the two, as they geared their emotions, for each other, to a whole new level. Che violently brought Nano closer to him, and the melange of two beautiful souls meeting, marked the beginning of a new chapter onto their lives, but this time, without a true proper meaning.

It was all after a bottle of dry Gin is when Che touched Nano’s hand for the very first time. She let him touch her hand and suddenly the grip got tighter. Her scattered hair was stopping Che to distinctly get a view of her lips and feel them as soon as possible. The one which disturbed Che the most was the one touching her lips, and not letting go of that place, but Che with his clean hands placed the hair where it should have originally been. And then they finally kissed!

The clock had no idea what time was it, as the two were in no mood in letting off the moment go, and then is when the door bell rang. Neither of the two wanted to stop. The bell rang again and this time with it rang a yelling voice. Her sister was home, bringing along with her, two blonde strangers, completely unknown to Che, and a long cane stick. The night was soon going to end with the clock striking a 4 am.

Neither of the two wanted to cut and run, but time wrote a different morale. The night ended, but with its end marked the arrival of a beautiful morning onto their lives; a morning where the hangover of that kiss turned out to be the real essence of their strange relation. The dilemma of love buzzing around the two ended, and the abyss of aliveness was ended by the panoramic aroma of fondness.

7TH of March 2017, painted a new-born string onto the hyperbola of their lives; with an end of the 3rd day of Spring.


‘the black bindi’

‘the black bindi’
i am flowing within the rhymes of thy fragrance
dwelling within, I see a song with a holy romance.
but ‘the black bindi’ which you wear arouse my soul
ignore my dirty green whom i shall roll……….

Phoenix, and her 3 bangles

Phoenix, and her 3 bangles

I asked her for coffee; she said NO!!!

The Lucy grace of her face, forces me to believe in the vagarious pains of love, but the lack of human exposure in my filthy ideas of lust & love, grappling me back from the divine holy-grail of life. It all started in a hot summer morning when the mural of her aroma strangled my moment onto a mauve bliss. Wow! She looked amazing. Suddenly the hot summer could not stop me back from following a life which I earlier hated and still I do as of now.

LOVE, LUST, Infatuation etc..

I could not place myself into any of the above mentioned fancy notions as I was living a dream of my own crafted misery. The overwhelming weight-age of love stoked my concise to believe that she is the women of my future. She grew more beautiful after every passing morning. Her dreams were a daily encounter which I gradually started liking.

A drunk evening brought a horrendous amount of energy into my weak bones and ignited the ashes of love of my sexual desires. I wrote a poem out of that tribal energy, and the rhyme went like this:

The early morning allure on’s me jolly,
Like my morphine of a moronic melancholy.
You bliss my day with a horrondas notion,
Oh! Your indulgence of an individual inception.

Today Romeo and Juliet can only be found in Halloween parties. As not being a Romeo, I tried the other way around, and had pledged to do the same till the time she don’t bestows a slap upon me or butter a sweet little kiss.

Today she wore her 3 bangles, she looked divine. She wore a red bra within it her budding breasts hidden. But my dog sharp eyes snapped each and every move she practiced; knowing the person has been rejected on a broader essence.

The Letter

Dear Phoenix,

I saw a half-naked women shitting in a park on a hot summer day; no one to watch, she forged her turds like a half rotten banana. This is how I started my day, today.
How to butter or how to cheese; I cannot. The Bulldozer of my boiling blood makes me exclaim onto your Pharaohs of pragmatism. I have dedicated my life for achieving something that fly away every-time I come across it. The mirage of your magnificent melody had punctured my brazen brain with your yells of love. Birds do not sing at a point of time when the valor of your timidness scrolls my mind, once I see randomity deep within your eyes.

Should I pronounce you my love; I don’t know!!!


The Stoned Gentlemen!!!

The Global Battlefield…

The Global Battlefield…

Dilian a 19 year old Canadian has left his fancy Ottawa-an living and migrated to Syria to fight a global infection, ISIS. A Denis Cuspert, aka Deso Dogg, is a German who joined the Islamic State. He’s become a household name for many. However, in this war – in which Germany has been directly supplying weapons to the Peschmerga forces since the attacks on Paris and is more than indirectly involved with Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and other Gulf states – hardly anyone is talking about the German civilians in northern Syria that are fighting terror. A civil war that crumpled the very lone existence of a nation that was once quiet. A revolution which simply demanded democracy, had crafted an outrage among the egos of the Arabian sentiment that fetish-ed the entire world with a lust to mark a name for themselves. ISIS is condemnable; in a modern day society there is no need for an ideology such as the ISIS’s. But my concern is not ISIS; I feel pity for the 19 year old Canadian who is risking his life to fight a war which cannot be won by guns or tanks. On another note I do like Dilian’s guts to exploit the explore within his self and justify his deeds by projecting the Civil War to be a Global Battlefield.

Einstein was precise when he famously said that 4th World war will be fought with sticks and stones. The ether way to understand the quote is that someday we among ourselves will get so involved within, that we celebrate the principles of world war by rehearsing a scene using sticks and stones. But the n-th world war will be violent; it will tear the world apart. The explosion will soon turn into a reality, and people like Dilian and Denis will command their respective platoons to paint the world with their brazen echoes of destruction.

Something has to be done! A Global Gandhi is a much needed drug to curb the situation of this global turmoil. Mixing his philosophies will empower the masses. Peace has to be the lone weapon and the United Nations should soon intervene or else the future of UN simply looks as once League of Nations faced. I will not criticise the UN ether, but as an observer I could simply sense the wrong dwellings within the organisation.

India has been a global hub for peace and prosperity. People from all ages exercise the principles of Gandhi or Tagore to lead a life of bliss. But a modern day India has also experienced the heat on the name of many saffron outfits, which had brazen its name like an old biscuit. Communal-ism and vandalism has surfaced our society with many basic principles of hatred. If a dual separation within the Muslim landscape rape the very lone existence of the Arabian Peninsula, think how many parts Hinduism has been parted?



Swing the city bird make
Puncturing the air, so bake
Up above the sky, who do
The city green will clean the loo

Spring will fade making summer to red
Birds will tall making the leaves to fall
Sweat will flush without blush
The crow will crawl with a rhyme so brawl

The red car flashed her mice so loud
At a road with the sun so bright
Fade will the sun go which will let the moon glow.

I sit on a building so tall
Where Miss Lullaby paints her life; that’s all
Far below I see a man
Smoke in one and his bright saucepan

Monday Mirror

Monday Mirror

War is business
Religion the snake,
I Am in my walk
Blasphemous quake.

Heights are low
Faces so glow,
Brazen Flow
Within mellow metro…

Lullaby was her name
Butts so tame,
Her bag was red
Announcer John around his bed.

Speed my ride
Unleash your tide
Packed her wide
At Central Secretariat with Mrs White!!!

Foul smell briefed my end.
Take Gate Number 343.
Waited boss Mr Error.
The Monday Morning Mirror????????

Rolling by the streets

Rolling by the streets

The last night hangover had not yet gone when I started wiping by sneakers which lay in a cover of dust, for a shone morning walk. While breathing in the fresh spring, I recalled that I had a sumptuous task to ravel with few humans later in the days evening. With the termination of my morning walk the sun brought a state of abyss with a mild headache to boost it more. I couldn’t break my fast as the laziness of my brain opt not have anything and take the bed’s way till the clock struck 4. Dreams rolled by and the clock struck 4 when I made my move to meet the first bohemian, Mr. John Gilbert. Engulfed by the anguish to prove his heart, Gilbert grazed towards me; with a theme to rock and roll and he waved his first hello, and I second that.
The metro rushed with an oscillating haste towards Jor Bagh and the prey to meet the other two tickled our unconventional brains. Was in a complete astray to way the door and meet them soon, as the high spring noon was about to fade with the clouds cradling the azure. After a 30 minute of walk and clicking random images of world art we met the other two and the lazy day was about the blast into the rhymes of AC-DC. Pete and Natasha kept themselves busy trolling the slangs in the walls of Lodhi Colony, but suddenly a wall strolled their mimics and mics and made the duo to applaud the content and craft of Mr Borondo. At first I could not get the depth on the wall but after the allure from Mr Prodigal (Pete) himself I made the craft a deep glance. An annoying photophobic stewed my depth by posing in-front of my camera and demanding me to make him look good. Pete had him framed, but he asked for more. Balls of fury glowed within me and I decibel-ed him the three magnificent echoes of ‘Go To Hell’. He pleaded like a desperate virgin, but I am not a philanthropist. Jack Gilbert did not care much as he kept himself busy in portraying the vibe to showcase his gleam.
Busted by the droplets of the singing rain, I thought about the smoke in those painted colours which made me to uproar the brazen ‘Psalm of my life’. Our legs were our lone chariot for the evening, and after completing few miles within the colony we were encountered by a piece from our old NCERT textbook. Pete aversely waved the piece being crafted by someone from his alma-mater, but Natsha made her cognizance ready to name the piece a ‘TeliMoni Chutiya’. By the time we reached Indira Bhawan darkness started to crawl, but that could not hide the fancy tower of the building with a solar panel on the roof top to uplift the legacy of a family that has grazed within the Indian Polity for long. My thoughts were haunted due to the presence of Jack Gilbert as I could just show them the solar panels and made my walk away.
The walk was over so as the fine noon, and the parting moments brought the Woo’s to meet them all very soon on earth. We were waiting for our bus, but the machine was in no mood to gleam her façade. Suddenly a car stopped by and a girl came out of the front seat, she had the allure and the aroma in her eyes which made me to blunt the last kush with a depth. She clicked her profile pictures and looked into our eyes with a parody of trill. I and Jack Gilbert boarded the 540, Tara Apartment, they crossed the road over……