Oh, Mother,Stop crying!Your children are no longer fighting,Some are dead,Some are still alive,It is a ceasefireFor counting bodies,So rejoice!Everything is going to be alright.They are all big now,You have done your job well,They can take care of themselves now,They know what it means to get
The book is witty and quite entertaining. Lets you in on what went inside the locker room of the then Indian Cricket Team. Comes from a perspective of a wannabe cricketer Vikram Sathaye, the book sticks mostly to the dressing room chortles and tries to
Painted poetic,Brushed artistic,Close up of your eyes,Golden brownAnd searchingAnswers to my quests,At my behests,They dare to look into mine.Arrests my gaze,What a mazeOf loony talks!That happen when We are inches from each other,And I can’t stop myselfFrom venturing forward –My daring towardSoft edges of your
The door is open,All my insecurities walk inWhen you talk about leaving.Think it must be my faceThat tries to effaceYour very existence from my life,Or could it be my hairThat goes nowhereNear to complement my style?Or is it my voiceThat makes a weird noiseWhenever it
Matted with my mess,You fit me like a glove,Pressed against my body,As we try to become one,Fighting everything the world hauls,Biting everything that it calls for,Plucking weeds that stop usFrom going back to our origin story –We were the same rockBefore we parted ways,And splayed
Mornings laced with the taste of you,A memory stoned in time,Arms biting your body inWith a promise to hold you tight.Marveling at every tiny featureThat composes your ethereal form,Consuming you with my razor eyes,So you never get forgotten,Unlike a past that feels all hazy now,I