i've switched off my heart
and put it in my pocket
sheathed my words
and put them away
buried under the blueberries
on the way to the sunset
i cant forgive
u didnt teach me how
but sometimes
i try and forget ...
and now baby,
i've come home

walk in my shadow
put ur little hand in mine
and follow me in through the back door
i should have done this
years ago

if i'd opened my eyes
i'd have seen
their blackholes and red eyes could be locked in their bedroom
while u and i turned the key
baby, how could i not know
what my fear was doing to you

they're bad men and women
they're monsters and bastards
they're ugly and sweet
and fatally lovable

baby, ill let u play
this time ill watch out for u
this time i wont run away
this time i'll grit teeth and stay


its just a memory
but so alive

a swirl of cotton
white. green bordered

soft warm skin
crinkled. wrinkled. white and pink

warm drinks and brandy
swapped escapades and memories

stories. of my beginning
yours.and journeys. one for every hour of day

stories of the beginnings of love
ours. yours. mine

talks. philosophy. logic. religion
lessons. how to walk. life

stars. moons. gentle warm sunshine
battles. tears. laughter

childhood troubles and worries
slowly growing up

all sorted, aired and put away
in your little black box

but its just a memory
and you're so dead

its that time of the year
to remember you

look at my body
and wonder at how you made it from yours

look at my yesterdays
and how you took me in

see how i've grown mamma
come back home again

Wonderful Life

the sun falls on your back in gentle waves
and wind comes in on your face
the week is done, and the accounts logged
the two days bonus free
life swerves and turns
you catch your breath and wait
for the monsters that this lap will bring
but its just days of gentle sunshine
and mild and gentle, near-happiness
once again, the song in ur head
says let it never end
all things said and done,
what a beautiful world
what a wonderful life


your eyes
shimmer secrets
flash smiles
whisper confidences
and jagged edges
of broken dreams.

invisible bonds
stretched out in dark moonlight
between two pairs of eyes
hushed. with not a sound
to break the fragile thread
like a spider web
glistening in stray drops
of neon
by the weaver
and the world
in the background
of the voices droning on.

ur eyes
seek out mine
and whisper on
and on
and on.

my eyes fall
ur eyes smile
my eyes smile
ur eyes fall
endless games
and secret conversations
at night

silent questions
and pondering
gently probing
futures and possibities
what might have been
in a dream
or memories
of another time and place
where we werent u or me
did we meet?

echos ring
of laughter and song
in dark glades of old forests
by flickring firelight
flames stroke damp skin
warm hands
waves giggling on sombre sands
moonlight blanketting
silent nights

was it you
that shadow by my side
in my memories
of a my forgotten lives

what is that wet?
how did they get
so sad
ur eyes that can twinkle like that

what did you see
who made u weep
who took ur dreams
and twisted them
to stab u from behind
what brought those shades of sorrow to ur eyes,
sweet gentle child

ur every dream
i ever dreamed
wish u were mine

when i'm tucked in
the traces that werent wiped out with time
pull at the corner of my sheets with tiny hands
they echo in my mind
behind tightly closed eyes

confession - i was listening to creed (those eyes, that stare at me in the dark)

cross posted on spilled to bloodlessness and my blog

What is Cognitive Science

This is a question I have been fielding a lot lately. Loads of people ask me what I am studying and I say I'm doing my MSc in Cognitive Science at the department of informatics and the next question is always 'What is Cognitive Science'. Well, I dont really know ... but I guess it should be okay, because I havent met anyone yet who has a definitive answer. However, I joined this club today called the Cognitive Science Society where a group of us will be informally throwing ideas around.

Originally Posted at Prerona.


now its too late to say i love you
by the time, i made up my mind
to come falling back towards u
u were already gone
time slipped us so slow and fast
days hurtled by, secs paused
feelings masquerade
words black sequinned masks
i didnt realise, what u were saying
till u stopped
now its too late
what a waste ...
the foolish yellow moon
looks blankly in the distance
a little lost
watch the stars as they dance
and then the night falls
all that good sense and good cheer
spills off the top of the tears
just a blank stare
wet blank empty stair
and in the parlour,
empty chairs

OST: Isnt it rich ...

Originally Posted at Prerona.

and beyond it all, there is the Ocean

from salisbury craig
Originally uploaded by prerona.

red berries on the way back
Originally uploaded by prerona.

Originally uploaded by prerona.

Originally uploaded by prerona.

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Blue Shoots

Originally uploaded by prerona.

Originally uploaded by prerona.

Aloo Peyaaj ka Haal
Originally uploaded by prerona.

Blue Shoots
Originally uploaded by prerona.

Okay - This is my weird photo entry - Was tagged by Rimi. I tag Hyde, Maddie and Austere

Originally Posted at Prerona.

irritated / amused / worried:

Apparently this *%&$£ called Aatmika has been reproducing my posts and old poems from my home page for the last year & passing it off as their own work @ her blog: ephemeralbonds. The blog is offline now but there is a google cache.

I'm not quit sure exactly how I feel about or what I will do about it. There's nothing you can do really except wonder if you want to put ur stuff online anymore. maybe take down the blog and definitely the homepage. Why would you wanna share ur work with such assholes out there.

wow! it even had me breaking my wont ever lose my temper again and wont ever swear :D
I wouldnt even have known had I not chanced upon the post at aimless wanderers blog, bcz she's been lifting his stuff too.

It makes me feel really gross and violated. i felt this way only once before when someone stole some of my personal data, but in a way that was good bcz it taught me to not trust people and that there are all kinds of strange people out there.

Why would someone do something like this ... dont they have any pride in themselves at all? What kind of person would do something like this. Everything we write has so much effort, so much work ... what kind of person would want to steal someone elses work and pass it off as your own.

Now I come to know that there are some more blogs where this is happening. And someone has been stealing my sisters work too! Which makes me about 10 times more angry. Bcz my stuff is ok, but she writes so fucking well. I hope the SOB's who do this just f rott in b hell forever.

I came across something like this once before, where someone stole some of my files and misused it. It hurt like hell bcz it was someone I had previously respected, but atleast it was instructive. There are some real 'strange' people out there, I learned.

This, however, is different. How can someone steal someone work and call it their own. I mean, obviously they can, but I still cant come to terms with it. And I guess it feels worse bcz the 'work' on the blog has a lot of emotional investment as well. Its got so much of you in it. So many memories, so many emotions, so much passion ... and its all defiled by one person mental illnes

Someone said I should be happy! Flattered! I guess thats just me - but I HATE being copied. There's nothing I hate more and nothing that pisses me off more. I think I even liked Ajay Devgan a little less when he started getting popular. Maybe I am too possesive about myself, my thoughts, my feelings ... I dont know. But more I think about it, the more I realise its only my own fault. What the fuck was I thinking putting my work where any bastard can come read it.

I know I'm overreacting; Its not worth it; But thats just the way I feel right now. Whenever I come online and see the blog it makes me feel gross. And I dont feel like sharing anything from inside 'me' with anyone online. So I'm going offline for a while. Will think about it for a bit. I know it will probably pass (soon) and I will be back. Mail me if you like (the id is on my profile)

Originally Posted at Prerona.

god of small things

its as if, the whole world and everything in it, were a tangled mass of threads, a mix of colours, textures and lengths; and its as if, life were picking ur way through the maze, too big for most of us, most of the time, to see the forest; but, its as if, every now and then, accidentally or otherwise you spot a pattern, a path that will unjumble the whole mass into one big pattern, and the rest will fall away: a theory of everything

thats what came to my mind when i finished with god of small things. it never ceases to amaze me how, sometimes, i will come across a book, maybe even buy it, but i wont like it or will not be able to read it, and then years later i will pick it up again and it will fall over me like the most exquisitely tailor made shirt slipped over my head ... and blow my mind away

bridge across, frieda, lila, steppenwolf and now god of small things ...

the days are cool again, but i am waiting for the chill. everything is new and different, sometimes interesting, sometimes strange and at times just plain bizzare. living in a dorm after all these years is just pure fun. living in poverty as i had plain forgotten how to, is amusing. remembering how deeply i had loved this city, is heartwarmingly beautiful. remembering how deeply i love that city, is heartbreaking painful.

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Hold On

i try to hold on
but time slips out of my fingers
like the edge of a precipice,
over a vast chasm, that i am hanging from
everything that logic drones on in my ears
i know, i have heard them a hundred times before
but what do i tell the tears that swell and tumble that heart that races and slows and growing heavier
sinks into my gut, where i hold it sucked in in fear
time passes, slips out of my hands
there is no forever
to have to turn away,
was pre determined
but its been such a short respite
and now out in the cold again
we come marked with our destinies
we must be grateful for our blessings
i had you to love
though you always fooled me
i had a few scattered stolen months
across 3 decades, with spirits of blood
there were moments when she loved me like her own
there were times when he held my hand
there were friends and laughter, however fleeting
though later the mocked me, the laughter lived on
and money, that atleast
i made and held, atleast that was mine
and words i learned and spun,
though meanings they drew none
and places i saw, though they all looked the same
and another orphaned, begger boy i saw
drifting like flotsam along the world
grateful, for each merci however small
thats how life teaches
thats how we learn


your blood
still drips between my fingers
where it had pooled in my hands
its red and bright and clean

i soaked up your life
in a small space
and surrendered my dreams instead
you wanted it that way

slumped in this deep black hole
where light, love, blood
just seeps in to tease
i see that its all a game, and everyone wants to win

as my life flows out of me
and lies in a pool at my feet
i can hear ur mocking laughter
and i am glad. atleast i amused u.


The sun bounces on the horizon, and finally, pricked, it spills over the waves, splashes the sky staining, and the waves wash it over to the white sands and bleached rocks.

the grey bird, on its way out, pauses for a glimpse and rest. its cobbled feet scrape the carbuncles on the stone.

he sits out the drama of the sunset and waits patiently for the moonrise, till the stillness of the night quilts the sleeping beach and sea.

nearby, a yellow backed crab scurries to the rushing waves in mock bravado and the runs backwards as the waves advances.

the night heals, with its silence, peace and stillness. the grey bird has long flown away. did it reach where it was headed, or was stranded midway? does it matter?

a wave crashes and whimpers to the shore. it carries a ragged piece of a newspaper, perhaps borrowed in the day. the ink should have smudged but the bold letters of the headlines just about survive the darkness.

breaking news, like every other day. has it ever been any different amongst men or other animals? does anything ever change? yes. the means, the tools, the power. the people, the intentions, the dreams and compensations remain the same ... from alexander and aurangzeb

the moon is a glowing copper mass tonight. the craters bold patterns in brown and grey. it hangs low, balanced delicately on a mist of grey cloud. there's gentle fire in the moon today.

the moon river is a quivering straight line from the edge of the waves to the horizon. a path highlighted.

the sands, otherwise wet and cold, hold back some warmth: an echo of sunshine, when you dig your hands in just below the surface

even in the deep indigo of the skies and the seas, there are glimmers of light shining carelessly and bravely.

the yellow backed crab dances with the waves one final time and scurries into the sand in panic when a big one rushes at him. he looks at it and laughs quietly in the darkness.

the dark and the light, the laughter and silence complement each other and dance together, down the ages, each making the other possible, and more beautiful.

life comes to you in a dream and asks if your enjoying the show. he gets up and dusts the sand off his palms. maybe there was no other way.

Originally Posted at Prerona.


words bubble up inside
they bed release and make run for it
at the gate, in the mob of rushing thoughts,
they are stall and die

like a square of wet cloth,
the soul dries from the edges in
it had nowhere reached the center,
when the rain starts again.

once more, its out in the cold and rain
the wind, sweeps it away from the storm
torn and ragged now,
it will never be sown to purpose.

there's a rythmn in the wind,
the rain. in dead days, in which
destiny is followed blind
if everything was planned and set ...

little joys and little smiles and little tears
dwarfed, life will march on
the grand symphony will drowns in the lethe
sometimes a head floats out in a dream

this is life as it was meant to be
ordinary. not bad. not great
for other minds, soaring.
for some, it is just to live.

live out the time allotted
each moment, each day, savour as it passes
hold on to the happy middle
why then, does sleep draw such dreams in the head

walk with both eyes shut
sleep with both eyes open
cry silent & dry
hold straight as the dream escapes

life is sad, the world is sadder
headlines are not to weep for
learn to take it like they do
lightly, for unlike the other, words will choke

deaf and dumb beyond the scribe
emotion, feelings, passions dead
there's nothing that can be shaped or shared
inside the desert, inside the head

half dead, half living
half numb, half feeling
half empty, half aching
half singing, half crying

yet these things cannot be said in words
nor understood, second hand
nor shared, for no vision has its twin

the dead weigh down the arms, though departed
the ghosts walk, talk and laugh
fading, receding, the pain changes
more permanent more pale in colour


its not just words that i seem to have run out of. every now and then i think of what to do next, and whatever comes to mind feels like a repeat show. time is drenched in deja vu. in my stomach, a hunger gnaws its way out from within. for what? i dont know. like the elusive word on the tip of your tongue, i almost recognise it, then dont. and life goes on, endlessly eating its track in drunken circles.

otherwise, its just soothingly slow days. drenched in the sunshine, the sea and the mountain stars. and mountain mohitos. and lazy laughter.

every evening we go to the hotel, where my dad swims and we walk down to the sea. but before that we sit and yap over a drink or two, with the fingers of smoke trailing a dome over our heads. a hug and we part. the familiar, reassuring dad smell. india kings and whiskey and anteus. the 'coming home' smell. the 'safe now' smell. the 'just made it back behind the lines' smell.

2 down, its strangely mesmerising, watching the rythmn of the waves rising & running to the shore. behind me, the hajaar mountains stand in order of fading black. the sea is nestled between its outstretched arms. the sun a perfect bloody circle, balnace atop the horizon.

the mist makes the mountains fade to blue shadows in the distance; each row paler than the one before. much like most people. do we ever really know anyone?

i stand in the water. sometimes ankle deep, sometimes swelling to the waist. as all that foam breaks around me, i imagine it will tickle, but it just feels warm and soft. what would it be like to drown in that foam? would it hold. it looks so think but breaks so thin around my skin.

then i sit and look at the sun as it sinks. how brave; to drown so gracefully, gallantly, gloriously, every evening; to sit out the night, so patient and calm, knowing and believing that the day he threw away will give way to another ... equal and more. that this is not the end. just a restart. would i dare.

the sande feels grainy under my feet. it tuck my toes into it as it dances wetly between and around. i love the light and shadow, shiney and matt, the dancing light and the contrasts, of freshly wetting sand.

i could sit for hours staring at the waves like this. the silence soothingly sorrounds me; the wave songs dont break it, just underline it. my mind drifts and i think of nothing and everything. but mostly, i wonder, would i ever dare? every wave coming in teases me. each one is like an invitation. but when i am waist deep and the cold and dark plays in my mind, i panic and run away. so i am never born again.

at night, we sit on the old swing, the wood now bleached and faded, the eucalptus overhead, smells floating in the night air. the moon and the stars look different here. just like everywhere else. but here they seem almost more swollen, more yellow ... ripe, pregnant, tempting.

our talk meanders aimlessly from topic to the next. at our feet, rex pants as always. 2 small red circles swing in the dark. we kick ourselves in the air for one last go and go in for the night.

there's so much fire. and so much promise in the fire. and yet so much futility. as often before i remember the last line from a 1000 acres.

as the end approaches, i find myself shying back. i almost know what i want, but i would never dare to reach out and get it. and who knows how badly the singed hands would burn? who says we this is the age of female freedom? we have just exchanged one prison for another. once if you wanted, they looked at you in horror. now if you dont, ur as much a freak.

watched a lot of new movies in the annual catch-up-with-bollywood-a-thon: krish, my brother nikhil, corporate, golmaal, gangster ... gangster still haunts me. such a beautifully painted picture of a perfect love, a perfect guy, a perfect end ... or was it? life and fancies are so far apart. do we ever know what we want? i dont even try.

Originally Posted at Prerona.