Red about Red

It was a happy, happy world;

Everyone, with happiness, wore the shroud.

Without it, step out, one could not,

Or sweep on you, the police would.

Put you in prison, force you to wear black,

If you still refuse the joyous cloth.

Red was its colour,

Or so it appeared to me.

For some, it may have been yellow,

For another, orange with a golden sheen.

But I liked blue,

It induced in me, soulful blues.

I wished, I prayed, I would come to love red,

That I don’t reject the hegemony of enforced bliss.

I was green with envy of those who loved ‘happy’;

Alas, resented and shirked, that colour was too.

Red, I turned, with a burning anger,

Against all those enforcing upon me, red;

Soon, one day, I snapped, into the hands of my freedom,

And walked out wearing black,

Into the arms of evil, free-willed death.


He was inside her, she on him;
Every cell of hers tingled,
All of his skin burned.
With an urgent cry, he came, to heaven;
While she lay shivering on earth, under him
She was him, he was her
And yet they craved for the other more
With each excruciating touch, every carving kiss
They moved earth, heaven and hell
Together, they ravaged their souls
Sucked into the eye of the whirlpool
Together, they created peace and magic
Amidst the torrents and pain.

The Spider’s Web


This was published on The Unknown Pen last month. Thought I should republish it here. (Here’s the link)


A spider spins a web – both to capture its prey and also to build a home for itself. Depending on your perspective, the web could thus signify a comfortable home – a den where you’re in your elements, or it could be a prison from which only death can help you escape.

Just like your mind.

We all have demons in our minds. There are dark crevices in the limitless space called ‘mind’. Those crevices are either never-ending, bottomless Tartarus-like pits, or are deep trenches with monsters hidden in the shadows.

Depending on your birth place in the landscape of your mind – either the green pastures of fertile, productive thoughts; the vibrant and colourful Aurora Borealis-like areas, or these dark crevices, your mind would either be your home or your prison.

In the latter case, how much ever a person may thrash around, lash at the webs holding him, all efforts will be futile. It would be like you are suddenly stuck in a bunch of wild weeds under-water. The more you struggle, the more energy you lose. And all this while, you are slowly suffocating.

It hardly needs to be stated what it would be like if your mind is your peaceful den. Some call it the state ‘zen’; some call it peace; some others, happiness.

For many, however, it is not to be. They languish with a decayed mind, often their whole life.

“God helps those who help themselves,” or so goes the old adage. But what of those who know not how to help themselves? These are often people who cannot accept or react positively to any ‘external’ help offered too.

Their basic response is also to suffocate their saviour. Case in point – the drowning man who chokes his helper through his panic.

So what of those then? Do they ever feel the beautiful warmth of sunshine on their skin? Do they ever live to witness the shooting star? Is there ever an end to this punishment?

Perhaps, yes. But more often than not, no.

After a while, these ‘prisoners’ savour the darkness, the pain, the utter hopelessness of unending misery. Not just savour, they bask in it.

For them, even a tiny pin-prick of light becomes blinding, for those eyes have been unused to light for eons.

For them, a break in the continuous ache, isolation, melancholy and wretchedness, is a pregnant pause that gives birth to hope; not just hope, but also all the buried needs of peace and happiness. It is a glimpse of memory to those who have forgotten – tantalising, and also frustrating.

For them, hope is dangerous, as it may force them to try to help themselves out – again. And that means getting further entangled in the spider’s web.

Some – the lucky ones – manage to escape.

Escape either to life or to death.

My musing


It swirls around my tongue
Sometimes smooth like skin young,
But, sometimes coarse and rough.

It holds great power;
Some beckon it, but for cover, makes many run.

Many wish to wield it;
Some to destroy; some to create beauty.

Yet many others over look it;
A mistake, very costly, that be.

For in it lies mankind’s greatest achievement,
But now, for great strife, it is now the cause;
A pity, for in itself, it’s sheer beauty.

Humans put it to different use,
Often based on a certain muse.

From it comes both literature and cussing;
Language, that’s my musing.

The Unknown Pen


The Unknown Pen is a youth-based art platform that publishes poems, articles, pictures and other forms of art from artists all over the world. Here is a message from the founder Syed Amaan Ahmed:

We publish interviews of artists, photographers, writers, poets, change-makers in our The Uncut Diamonds Section. We pick up people whose work is incredible, as per the standards of The Unknown Pen (TUP). We focus on the less-known artists who deserve the place. However, we also focus on genuine people who already are well-known/famous and also the people who are known in some parts but not in other parts of the world: this also includes various social organizations, NGO’s, groups, and so on. We pick up the best. We publish excellent work only to maintain high quality, but we do not give a damn about spelling mistakes, grammar, rules, etc. An artist is free! Sometimes we even publish unedited and raw work with mistakes. For us, high quality means originality and unique imagery. Previously published on TUP in The Uncut Diamonds:

1) Akash Kankaria (India): Poet/Writer (Age: 20s)
2) Minhaj Jahan (India): Poet (Age: 20s)
3) Zsa-Zsa van Zyl (South Africa): Artist/Painter (Age: 20s)
4) Caroline Cecile (USA): Poet (Age: 50s)
5) Don V Standeford (USA): Writer/Poet (Age: 50s)
6) Moupriya Das (India): Change-maker/Social Activist/Feminist and founder of SlutWalk Kolkata. (Age: 20s)
7) Jazba Theater Group (India): Theater/Street Plays/Art/Drama/Change

We have selected some of the following people for our next interviews, which we will publish soon on our The Uncut Diamond Section

1) Sandhya Kannan (India): Writer/poet (Age: 20s)
2) Sara Gilchrist (USA): Writer/Poet/Artist (Age: 20s)
3) Raven Drake (USA): Writer/Poet (Age: 40s)
4) Sue Das (India): Poet (Age: 20s)
5) Brandon Diehl (UK): Poet (Age: 20s)
6) Laurie Smakal (France): Photographer (Age: 18)
7) Pranaadhika Montenegro Sinha Devburman (India): Social Activist/Rebel and founder of Elaan (Age: 20s)
8) Anjali Pathak (India): Singer (Age: 20s)
9) Alina Tarabarinova (Russia): Photographer (Age: 20s)
10) Michele Montedoro (Italy): Photographer (Age: 40s)

Note that we embrace all nations, all nationals, anyone, whoever, from whatever background as long as they meet our standards. If you think and feel that your work is different, then do send us. And even if you think it is not different, then also send us and we will check and get back to you! Also, you can send an email requesting an interview and if we think you fall under The Uncut Diamond category, you will be interviewed. Email: or FB Message me. Please, please and please in subject line write: Submission/Poetry (or story or anything) and for Interviews, write “Interview”.

Let’s Revive the Spirit of Art!

PS: Spread the word, if you want to.



This was published on The Unknown Pen last month. Thought I should republish it here. (Here’s the link)


Everything in the world we live in has layers. The earth has layers – crust, core, etc. (Don’t remember my geology too well). Even the atmosphere has layers. The ground beneath our feet – the upper part of the crust – has layers. Our skin has layers. Everything has layers.

It is no wonder then that we, as people, have layers.

When we are born, we are naked; not just in terms of clothes, but also experiences, personality, and so on. Over time, we pile on layers – slowly and steadily. Some have more, some less so.

That is why we have different kinds of friends and relationships – a best friend, few very close friends, a bunch of good friends, and so on and so forth, on the basis of how many layers we let them penetrate.

But, do we strip ourselves to the level where there are no layers? I find it hard to believe.

Even the most honest person in the world, who has never lied, may still have a few layers. Stripping oneself totally might mean broadcasting each thought, each feeling, even the fleeting ones. Hard to capture each and every one of them. The speed of thought—conjecture alert—may well be faster than light.

This, I believe, what makes the breakdown of relationships so painful. One moment you felt so light without the usual number of layers, and the next moment, you felt weighed down. That constitutes emotional distance – not space, not time.