Category Archives: poetry


The yards were flower filled and big,

The dusty roads were narrow,

Shady beneath gnarled old neem trees

Where nested crow and sparrow.

We preferred to play on the road,

It was unfenced,uncultivated, free.

(Seldom did a car pass through)

We played with sticks, and stones and mud,

Creating worlds, stretching minds,as we grew.

Learning to cycle,learning to fall,

Grownups interfered rarely, if at all.

We grew up and the world somersaulted—

Imagination was straight jacketed in plastic,

Instead of play yards,there are play dates indoors,

For the road is now six-laned

And what cannot be depicted on an electronic screen

Can never be explained!



Primordial ocean,primordial land,

Evolving a human, shaping his mind.

A single, undifferentiated landmass,

And blue -green flowing waters.

How slowly the continents split apart

Like the humans who lived on their surface.

And ,maybe,someday,floating on the magma,

They could come together again—

Can we ??


Features that are amorphous,unformed, at birth

Become, when mature,softer,rounded,
of greater girth.

And outbursts, all fiery and unrestrained,

Have their energies banked down,balance regained.

I am talking of planet formation in space,

But, come to think of it, the human race —

Also takes on spherical contours when old,

Not just the physical, also -the mental mould.

For the sphere is the most developed shape of all

With maximum inner worth for a surface so small.

I hope to develop maturity of thought and mind

Smooth my abrasiveness, not run behind

Another, or become an unthinking satellite

And definitely not snuff out my own inner light!

Survival of the fittest

The survival of the fittest( say whatever you will),

Calls , in every age, for a different kind of skill.

The brawniest, fittest, cavemen excelled at hunt-and-kill,

The early farmers who survived were best at plough-and-till.

The fittest herders were nomads , who roamed the earth at will.

The Industrial Age hero was a miner or worker-in-a-mill.

Later , the scientific strongmen could think, synthesize, distil.

And sheer violence led to conquest ,  by armies accustomed to drill.

But now the bottom line is just money, e-purchase or the cash-till,

And at the head of the list of the fittest is he who can foot any bill!


I am a series of selves on the string of time,

I change with every experience and thought,

I’m constantly growing, changing, evolving,

But this is the definition of reincarnation I was taught!

At every stage of life I’ve reinvented myself,

All personas linked by memories of who I’ve been–

The child who I was, was a different person

From who I became as a teen.

Death strips the layers of accreted memories,

It cuts the string of time,

And the series of selves of who I was

Is scattered, lost in the sublime.

So where is the core that you say must reincarnate,

Is it the changeless, the pure, the soul?

Why go through these transient experiences –

This series of different – even warring selves–

And discard them to become once more whole?




Where does the blind mole think he is going,

Digging his little tunnels under the earth?

Should I be sneering when I am randomly steering

My physical progress zigzagging, veering,

To and fro as I go,

My spiritual journey, too, is wobbly from birth,

Do I seem to my Creator an object of pity or mirth?